Breakfast, errands, lunch

This is going to creep you out, but I'm 80 percent sure I wrote the last post while sleeping. I don't remember writing those things. I'm definitely not joshing wishuuu. [Wish I was.]

So, Friday. Get this--I actually showered and wore normal clothes! I think this is a skirt that either my mom or I found at a local thrift shop. I miss thrift stores. Anyways, it was an odd feeling to be dressed normally. I know that there are some people reading this who see me on a daily basis, so this is slightlyreally embarrassing to admit, but I wore what I slept in to class more than once this week. The other times I looked just as haggardly, but I'm going to attempt to use midterms as an excuse [laaaame]. Since today was class-less, I slept in till nine, organized my room, got ready, and went to the bank to exchange some more money into Euro (gotta love how they munch my dollars away!). For anyone in Valencia, the hard candies they give out at Bancaja are really very tasty. Tangy and sweet, especially the green ones. I lunched, worked on my take-home midterm, went out for cafe con leche with some friends including a very energetic pair of twins, and came back home to attend a birthday party for my host sister.

While at the party, I met this guy who wanted to tell me his story. He told me that he used to be a vagabond, a dweller of the streets [I gave him the wow-you're-a-survivor look]. Then he said my host family helped him get back on his feet. He said that he's now a member of the Freemasonry and that there are some secrets he must keep until his death cause they're that crazily guarded. How interesting, I thought.

Then he told me that this was all a lie. My face dimmed, and he asked if I was upset about the lie. But I was just disappointed that he was normal because I love non-normal people.

The contents of my inner-most being

I got this bag as a just-because gift a couple years ago from a great aunt who lives in Virginia. At first I didn't really use it because I thought the gorilla keychain gave the bag a very creepy and manly aura. Why didn'tja just take the keychain off, Dum-dum? I'm not sure. But while packing up my apartment room in Virginia to go to Mexico for Christmas, the practical section of my brain must have taken over without my knowing because the only bag that made it across the border was this one. And so I brought it with me to Spain, all the while planning to use my backpack for the majority of the time. But for some reason, I can't stop using this bag. Its waterproof exterior (and interior) has proven its dependability in the rainiest of weathers. There are so many pockets of all sizes, and they're very useful. I keep my keys in one, coins in another. It doesn't seem like a large bag, but it's like one of those minivans in the commercials where they emphasize how spacious it is by having a football team's worth of people come out of its doors. Plus, the gorilla keeps me company when I'm waiting for the bus or elevator. I like having it suck its thumb since its puckered mouth is practically begging for it. Anyways, this is a good bag.

In no reasonable order: metro ticket stubs, student id, corn chip snacks, museum tickets, pens and highlighters, leisure reading, receipts from Mercadona, my red umbrella, my little Gideon Bible, bottled water, post cards, keys, study flash cards, textbooks, an orange, coins, and lots and lots of maps.

Perhaps I should have studied French instead

I love everything about this blog
I know it´s not about Spain
And Spanish people think the French are rude
Plus there are so many food-photography-life blogs out there
But just take a look and try to tell me you don´t love it too

I collect moments

You know when something goes so wonderfully well, that you know you'll always be comparing all your future experiences to this one? I have a few of those. When it comes to concerts, the Dave Barnes concert I went to last semester could never be outdone: the music was perfect, I was surrounded by so many great friends, and I don't know--it was just magical. When it comes to meals, the Korean picnics my mom used to pack on day trips when I was a little girl even makes my tummy nostalgic. It wasn't just the food--it was about eating ssam with bulgogi right after swimming in the creek. And being eight years old. That situation could never be replicated.

And neither could this one. One girl had the idea to go on an adventure, asked another girl to join her, who asked one of her friends and so on until eight of us were on a train to visit some of Spain's only remaining Roman ruins. We had no tour guide or schedule. We just got off the train, looked up, saw a castle, and started hiking towards it. When we got to the top, we found a labyrinth of ruins that seriously stunned us.

But it wasn't the beauty of this place alone that made this day so fantastic. It was the way our crusty baguette lunches tasted after hiking to the perfect picnicking spot. The wind was present but polite, blowing sweet breezes that delicately brought the earthy scent of rocks and grass to our noses. And the company was lovely--just the right combination of chitter-chatter, serious-chatter, and comfortable silence.

Towards the end of the trip, I knew that my collection containing Dave Barnes and Korean picnics had just grown, and I love it when that happens.

Danny is sick

My little two year old host brother's name is Danny but he calls himself Nanny.

Could you please pray for him? His fever hasn't been going down, and it's been three days.

I just fed him some kiwi and banana because he prefers fruits to sweets. What a kid huh?

My feet have more adventures than I do

Full head-on collision

[epic fail]

Nathan (he goes by this now) came for a visit! It's the bizarrest thing to have the past meet the present. A high school friend eating lunch with my new-found friends in Spain. Talking about tortas with someone who really knows what they should be referring to. Who also can't bring himself to seriously speak Spanish with a lisp because Mexico has claimed the way we understand linguistics. And shares embarrassing stories about me to people who would otherwise, I would like to think, assume that my life is without embarrassment (like the time when we were in junior high and I supposedly fuh-reaked out when, upon finding one of those huge doctor scales in some hospital we were painting, it was determined that I was indeed three pounds heavier than he was.)

But seriously, it was such an encouragement to listen to what Nate has learned during his European travels. His faith is so clear and honest and unafraid.

There was a time when the only world we really knew was Mexico. That has changed and so have we.

What happened last Saturday

So what happened is that we went to visit a palace in a town called Gandia. It was pouring, which made the trip quite dreary. And then las tapas decided to go to MTV's Arctic Monkey concert, for it was entirely free. Good thing money was not involved because I realized that this type of music stings my soul. Just kidding, but I definitely am not their number one or one thousandth fan. The night still claimed its worth in the encounter of interesting people and their insistence that foreigners get lessons [between songs] on all the Spanish profanity there is, the indeliberate state of being in a mosh pit and having to mosh just to survive, and the last thing deserves some sentences all its own. When our stomachs started threatening the AM drummer's thunderous beats with its grumbles, we definitely got the message and treaded the dark wet streets of Valencia in search of victuals. What we found was a small Argentenian cafe that played music from Coldplay and the Beatles (Which led to Rebecca's conundrum: Which Spanish guy wins most cool award, musically classy Waiter guy or artsy conversation partner? Dee-lemma.), lighted its cozy room with warm candles, and served delicious pasta. Waiter guy even has the same camera that I do. Next time we eat there, I plan to ask him for some tips on how to improve my lacking skittles.

[Some opening band; the Arctic Monkeys looked very stoned that night and pleaded with me not to exploit this.]

I am mapilliterate

It's pouring outside and I'm about to take my red umbrella, put on my boots, and get lost.

On a happier note...

[Hello, mumzies and daughters]

Today was just a really good day.

I had classes till 7 PM, but afterwards I went to a poetry recital, and it was surprisingly enjoyable for the most part.

Then some of us took a chilly walk to the chocolateria for some warm treats.

I came back to the apartment and chitter-chatted with my host mom and sisters while we ate popcorn, pizza, cheese, and tomato slices.

I'd like to write more, but I am egg-zahs-ted.

Suicide machine

Yesterday my professor introduced us to the idea of Vanguardia, a term you might know as "avant-garde." Someone defined it as being a new style. No, the professor said, because it is above the concept of style. Style is too cheap to contain this.

He kept on talking, but I don't remember what he said because just then, I realized that

Avant-garde is dying, and it is killing itself.

And I'm not even talking about how its everyday reference by non-elite thinkers such as myself has cheapened the mysterious and provocative nature of this idea.

Sure there's avant-garde fashion, art, architecture--but these expressions of avant-garde stem from the same thing: avant-garde thought. Dangerous and daring thought. Thoughts that challenge and question with the intent of challenging and questioning without receiving resolutions or answers. Avant-garde thoughts defy boundaries. And boundaries need to exist in order to defy them.

I think it's safe to say that (at least in this day and age) postmodernism is the ultimate fruit of avant-garde thought. There is no longer right or wrong, there is right and wrong (or carrots and a green winter dress), because these don't matter anyway. Postmodernism does to moral absolutes what the Euro did to the Spanish peseta--their value in currency is obsolete. Now I'm not claiming to understand the exact tenets of postmodernism (which is sort of a paradox if you think about it), and I'm also not denouncing its rationality. But postmodernism, the most avant-garde of movements, is getting rid of boundaries (reconstructing them into one chaotic and fascinating meta-narrative), which is why avant-garde is on a slow but steady path towards self-destruction. Postmodernism is Vanguardia's Frankenstein.

Non-essential little things to say

The other day my art history professor told us that if he wasn't such a happy person, he would commit suicide.

Another one of my professors told us that although he is married, he can't wear a ring because he would feel like Frodo Baggins.

Some real heart-to-hearts going on in these classes; they're odd and this keeps me awake.

---

I decided to grab an apple from the kitchen before I went to class and saw that each of the apples in the basket had one tiny bite mark in it.

And then I remembered that I live with a two-year-old.

Things I strangely miss

• Thai food
• Carpet
• Marco and Luca's dumplings
• Alderman Library (or any library that doesn't close at 7:10 pm sharp)
• My sandwich maker
• Fields
• Free bus and trolley rides
• The absence of canines at UVA
• The red frame with a postcard in it that hung on my wall
• Sriracha

I never learned the rule for why it's not "an uniform"

The night before my flight, my mom convinced me that I wouldn't need half the clothes I was taking. At that moment, I forgot that my mom could have been biffles (Parents, you might need to urban dictionary this one.) with Mother Teresa on the basis of minimalism alone. My mother thrives on this concept. I'd like to think her lifestyle is rubbing off on me, plus or minus a box of clothes that is laying on a closet shelf in Mexico right now. So I have concocted an outfit recipe in order to look presentable, be comfortable, and not have to think about what not to wear. And also so that I won't be tempted to wear my sweatshirt and sweatpants to class errrrday, which I was told by my host mom to be kind of an awkward thing to do here in Stylish Spain. A shirt, a sweater, tights, and a skirt--this would be my uniform, as you've probably noticed from previous pictures. The elastic skirts are theee best; so comfortable, especially with pockets. I wonder if Gymboree carries XXXXL sizes.

And I'm not really a shoes girl, but the other day when I was out with Las Tapas, I saw/tried on a pair of shoes that were just lovely. I know it's kind of a blurry picture, which might intensify its masculine-ness, but I thought they were whimsical and just right to go on adventures in. And so amazingly comfy. I don't think I'd find a pair of shoes like this one in the USA. But they did not have my size. Having elven feet prompts me to be all too familiar with this ending.

Sunday church

I found myself in a little town church today. The minister was a mid-fifties German fellow with graying hair that reached the nape of his neck. He not only gave the sermon, but he also led the songs with some very simple yet melodic guitar strumming. It was Tanya's 7th birthday, so he called her from the upstairs Sunday school room so we could all sing her a happy birthday. She was trying her hardest to be serious as we sang to her, but her eyes were smiling I could tell. The sermon was about passover, and the pastor's wife even baked some unleavened bread for communion. We partook of it and then a cup of mosto (the state of grape juice right before fermentation) was passed around so that we could all drink from it. The experience was very organic; I have never had a more clear visualization of this ancient and traditional practice.

Afterwards, we came back to the apartment, and my host dad made arroz al horno, which was delicious. We talked about old people and tummy reductions and why the former would do the latter. All in all, a good day. Now I must write some essays about Spanish art.

Medieval Market

Today I went to the medieval market (they're only here for one more day till they pack up their ancient things and go to their next stop). While I was wandering by myself, a man behind a booth offered me a sliver of cheese. He said it won the award for being the best cheese in Spain. I tasted it, and asked if this was from goat's milk. He said yes. I said that I thought it tasted very strong. He did not agree. If I wanted sharp cheese, he said, then I should try sheep cheese. He started opening up the wax paper that contained such a cheese, but I said no thank-you, and walked away.

Cheese selling-man, I wish we could have continued our conversation about cheese because I think the topic's very interesting. But I was afraid that I'd accidentally hurt your feelings by not liking your cheese. You see, my favorite cheese is so un-cheesy that it almost tastes like thick cream. It's not very tart nor very sharp. And I'm such a cheese novice that I don't even know what my favorite cheese is called; I just tasted it atop a salad once. So I'm sorry I hastily ended our conversation but it was for the best.

Friday lunch and dinner

I bet you think I'm weird for posting so many pictures of what I eat, huh? But I'd rather share the little details like lunch rather than talk about general things that you could easily find described [more sophisticatedly] in a travel brochure. Plus, most of my favorite parts of being in Spain happen while sitting around a table that's small or big but always graced with food or at least a little cup of thick hot chocolate.

I just finished helping Jazmín [one of my host sisters] make a quiche. And now I can smell it crisping and cooking in the oven. The weather outside is entertaining a bit of cool wind, the moisture-less version of waves that gracefully crash salty fields of sand, an interaction that happens merely miles from here in a pool of water called the Mediterranean Sea.

The quiche is out of the oven, and it smells cheesy and delicious. Perfect comfort food on a chilly day like this.

Lunch

Some kind of fresh fish, zesty salad, and a fat potato.

Trouble [Ray LaMontagne]

An English major I am

It's kind of pity-full when I look up a Spanish word that's in a story for my Latin American literature class, only to find that it's defined by a word in English that I don't quite know the meaning of. When I was in my let's-conquer-the-world stage of life (which lasted a little longer than it should have), I would sort of start reading the dictionary, determined to learn every word. Of course this endeavor lasted three minutes. Three and not two only because it took that much time just to pronounce something inside those phonetics brackets. Oh, and I hope I'm not leading you to believe that I was some ambitious, intellectual girl all throughout my childhood because really, I played with Barbies until I was thirteen. Really. Thirteen and not fourteen only because I think my mom hid them [out of concern?] or gave them away one day.

Chirp, chirp.

Awkward ending for an awkward post.

Tuesdays

I spent most of today alone, and I think I'm gonna generally spend Tuesdays like this, in solitude.
Right now it seems as though every day is full of time time time, but once my internship starts, and once schoolwork becomes its usual demanding self, I think I'll need Tuesdays to just think, write people e-mails, and clip my finger nails.

The internet flip flops after midnight, so I wonder if this will actually post.

I got two e-mails today that reminded me of how scary things such as car accidents happen, but miracles happen as well. I'm so grateful that you guys are alive and well.

Are you reading this, Dad? Because I think I sent you the link [accidentally], haha. If you are, then hello and welcome. This is called a blog : ]

I'm not into economics at all, but these days I've been thinking a lot about art/culture, mass consumerism, and how we have this idea that the two are at odds with each other. If we hear this really indie Indie band, it suddenly becomes cheapened once it starts selling songs on iTunes. Now the girl who sits in front of you in class, the one who says "like" like every other word and wears Uggs during the winter and Rainbows when it's sunny, is listening to a once obscure band that finds itself in the company of commercialized artists like Britney and the Jonas Brothers in a very crammed playlist. Suddenly you feel like the band has lost its original quality of artistic genius and lyrical thought. "Oh they went mainstream," as if they sold their souls and hopped on the bandwagon of wealth and fame and all the stuff that "true" artists would not really care about.

But wait a second here--aren't we giving too much credit to the market? I mean, should we really yield to the idea that the market can affect the pith of an artist's work?

This is how I see things: we can argue forever about the artist versus the market. We can maintain some elitest perspective on how true art, music, literature etc. could never reach authentic existence with the influence of commercialism and marketing and labels and contracts and money. Or we can recognize that yes, sometimes the market ruins the art, but not always; it doesn't have to. We as a society, culture, generation what have you--need to think less of money. It doesn't have that much power, guys. It can make us feel all comfortable and stuff, but we don't have to let it ruin art. In fact, the market should be thought of as an instrument, a means to bring art to the mass. I think it's time we shed this notion that true art never reaches the mass, that it needs to remain obscure and secret and only enjoyed by classy, jazzy people. We need to stop thinking we are better than people.

This little piggie went to the mercado.

[I think flowers like these should be described as being sold in little shoppes and not shops]

This blog is getting kind of dusty.
My favorite class happens to be at 5:20 PM, which is kind of a blegh time, but we talk about postmodernism when we're really supposed to be studying modern literature, and we start the class with our eyes at needle-point with the sun's rays and end the class way after dusk, which is convenient because whenever the conversation gets the slightest bit dull (which is rare), I just look out the window and watch the sky act all dramatic.

Anyways, this past weekend a group of us (I secretly refer to my new circle of friends as Las Tapas, silly right?) went to the morning market, which consists of a huge array of fruit stands, veggie stands, and meat stands. I bought a tuna and olive bocadillo, which is actually just a sub. I normally don't really like tuna sandwiches, but this tuna tasted very fresh and not fishy. The bread was a little dry though. Hm, I am half-heartedly describing bread, which is kind of a sign that this post needs to tie its ends and call itself a Tootsie Roll.

[I try to amuse myself during the 35.6 seconds of awkwardness...or I secretly like taking pictures of myself in the elevator, I'm not sure which]

[I ordered paella for dinner at a smoky little tapas place on Saturday night. The toothless owner gave us free oranges for a palate-cleansing treat.]

Celebration Guns [Stars]