Dear blog,
I've taken you for granted. You've been so good to me and I've neglected you. I hope we can start over. I promise never to leave you again. At least not for more than a week.
Love always,
Jean
Writing this blog really keeps me grounded, after all, and I'll be quite unamused with myself if I drop the ball again, so depend on some weekly Thursday writing action. That's right. Mark your calendars. Get psyched.
Sometimes I can't believe how quickly time has gone by, and other times I can't believe I've only been in Spain for three months. I imagined that by January I would be a Spanish ace, maneuvering Spanish conversation with unparalleled aplomb. Or at least something like it. Yet I still sound like a small, confused child when I speak Spanish, plus I make embarrassing mistakes like saying polla instead of pollo when I talk too fast (for those who do not know just how humiliating this particular error is, look it up. Or maybe don't. Maybe it's best not to know). At the same time, I really do feel like I'm leading a three dimensional, honest-to-God life here, a life more full and complex than I thought I could construct in such a short time.
Since I last wrote, December and January came and went, and with them the Christmas holidays, my mom's amazing visit, the burial of a mammoth papier-mache sardine thing, two trips to Barcelona, a beautiful weekend in Andalucia, some giant bonfire-BBQs, and a whirlwind tour of Madrid with the one-and-only Michael Rooney. All this was mixed with a lot of coffee, Spanish swear words, and tintos de verano, not to mention quite a bit of air-dried laundry. In recent news, the application for renewal of my position just opened, so I'm working on figuring out my life to decide whether Jean In Spean: Year Two is in the cards.
First things first: Momma. I can't articulate how good it was to see my mom come through the doors of customs in Madrid-Barajas Airport on December 22. This woman is one of my favorite people on the planet. Besides that, she was also carrying some rather mutilated but still very delicious gingerbread men, which she'd been clinging to in a little paper bag since she left Lost Angeles. That's real saintliness, people.
I'd been looking forward to the trip ever since she told me she'd bought the ticket -- I couldn't wait to show her Alcázar and my apartment and jamón ibérico and Gaudí and Madrid, and I couldn't wait to be around her to talk and argue and eat together -- and the trip more than delivered. After a Christmas with my godmother and her family and an entire cured pig leg, Mom and I spent several days exploring Alcázar, with the help of some of the Spaniards and Americans that have made my time in Spain so great. The Alcázareños took us to the torreón and the windmills, and provided us with an entire wheel of delicious Manchego cheese. A few days later, the Americans reveled with us in the traditional Carneval parade of the Entierro de La Sardina ("The Burial of the Sardine"), which takes place in nearly all Spanish towns and consists of a crowd of black-clad "mourners" following a giant fake sardine through the city while music plays and onlookers cheer. The "mourners" come armed with Silly String and confetti and the mock-funeral looks like more of a nomad party, a sensation compounded by the fact that the sad looking sardine and its pallbearers stop at every bar to pick up drinks and tapas before heading on. This particular parade finally came to an end in the town's bull ring, where the sardine was set on fire.
Nobody understands exactly why this happens. Not even Google.
After Alcázar, Murray and Jean traveled to Barcelona, where we spent New Year's eating grapes and making resolutions in front of Gaudí's Casa Batlló. It was the perfect way to ring in 2012.
Finally, we made our way back to Madrid, where Mom met María Victoria, my study abroad host mother, who immediately fell in love with her and offered her all of her Spanish recipes. Although neither woman spoke the same language, they understood each other on a level that transcended small-talk. Meeting in María Victoria's special living room (I was never allowed into the living room when I stayed in her house -- it was meant for guests and special occasions, which only highlighted the surreality and uniqueness of the visit), the Spanish Momma and the American Momma seemed like buddies destined by the cosmos. Plus, María Victoria had a stock of some really delicious turrón.
The next morning, Murray headed back across the pond and I haven't stopped missing her yet. There's nothing like a piece of home to remind you how grateful you are for where you come from.
Love always,
Jean
Writing this blog really keeps me grounded, after all, and I'll be quite unamused with myself if I drop the ball again, so depend on some weekly Thursday writing action. That's right. Mark your calendars. Get psyched.
Sometimes I can't believe how quickly time has gone by, and other times I can't believe I've only been in Spain for three months. I imagined that by January I would be a Spanish ace, maneuvering Spanish conversation with unparalleled aplomb. Or at least something like it. Yet I still sound like a small, confused child when I speak Spanish, plus I make embarrassing mistakes like saying polla instead of pollo when I talk too fast (for those who do not know just how humiliating this particular error is, look it up. Or maybe don't. Maybe it's best not to know). At the same time, I really do feel like I'm leading a three dimensional, honest-to-God life here, a life more full and complex than I thought I could construct in such a short time.
Since I last wrote, December and January came and went, and with them the Christmas holidays, my mom's amazing visit, the burial of a mammoth papier-mache sardine thing, two trips to Barcelona, a beautiful weekend in Andalucia, some giant bonfire-BBQs, and a whirlwind tour of Madrid with the one-and-only Michael Rooney. All this was mixed with a lot of coffee, Spanish swear words, and tintos de verano, not to mention quite a bit of air-dried laundry. In recent news, the application for renewal of my position just opened, so I'm working on figuring out my life to decide whether Jean In Spean: Year Two is in the cards.
 |
| Wernicke, the stuffed brain who will be making regular appearances, gazes out a train window at La Mancha and the future. What he is thinking, we can only guess. |
I'd been looking forward to the trip ever since she told me she'd bought the ticket -- I couldn't wait to show her Alcázar and my apartment and jamón ibérico and Gaudí and Madrid, and I couldn't wait to be around her to talk and argue and eat together -- and the trip more than delivered. After a Christmas with my godmother and her family and an entire cured pig leg, Mom and I spent several days exploring Alcázar, with the help of some of the Spaniards and Americans that have made my time in Spain so great. The Alcázareños took us to the torreón and the windmills, and provided us with an entire wheel of delicious Manchego cheese. A few days later, the Americans reveled with us in the traditional Carneval parade of the Entierro de La Sardina ("The Burial of the Sardine"), which takes place in nearly all Spanish towns and consists of a crowd of black-clad "mourners" following a giant fake sardine through the city while music plays and onlookers cheer. The "mourners" come armed with Silly String and confetti and the mock-funeral looks like more of a nomad party, a sensation compounded by the fact that the sad looking sardine and its pallbearers stop at every bar to pick up drinks and tapas before heading on. This particular parade finally came to an end in the town's bull ring, where the sardine was set on fire.
Nobody understands exactly why this happens. Not even Google.
After Alcázar, Murray and Jean traveled to Barcelona, where we spent New Year's eating grapes and making resolutions in front of Gaudí's Casa Batlló. It was the perfect way to ring in 2012.
Finally, we made our way back to Madrid, where Mom met María Victoria, my study abroad host mother, who immediately fell in love with her and offered her all of her Spanish recipes. Although neither woman spoke the same language, they understood each other on a level that transcended small-talk. Meeting in María Victoria's special living room (I was never allowed into the living room when I stayed in her house -- it was meant for guests and special occasions, which only highlighted the surreality and uniqueness of the visit), the Spanish Momma and the American Momma seemed like buddies destined by the cosmos. Plus, María Victoria had a stock of some really delicious turrón.
The next morning, Murray headed back across the pond and I haven't stopped missing her yet. There's nothing like a piece of home to remind you how grateful you are for where you come from.
 |
| Read on, friend! Someday I'll learn to make grown-up faces in pictures. That day is not today. |
Blog moar plz.
ReplyDeleteLet's chat soon about your thoughts on doing a 2nd year! The topic only came up at the end of our last conversation, and you need to elaborate, so I can start flailing about the possibility of hanging out next year (since our cities would probably much easier to commute between than they are this year). ¡Te echo de menos!
Murray was grateful for every part of her visit to Spain and for the the time she spent with her unique and beautiful daughter.
ReplyDeleteNow, about that sardine. It just has to be an ancient -- neolithic even -- remnant of a communal procession to burn and bury the old and dying and make way for the new. A bonfire in the middle of a bull ring is exciting, in a primordial way. Kinda focuses the attention. The particular traditional spin I most enjoyed, however, was the ripping music and dancing through the streets with the crowd carrying the Big Fish. Made you want to dance along and stop at each eatery for wine and tapas! The only one I saw with a glum expression was the Sardine!