True Life: Little Miss Potato Feet does Feria

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times."  ~Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities  ~Kristen, Ruminations on Feria de Abril, 2015.


Feria de Abril in Sevilla is a festival I had been looking forward to attending, even before I made the decision to move back to Spain.  Originally I tried to get placed in Sevilla, this being one of the many reasons why, however based on availability with my program was put in Madrid instead.  When I was considering coming back to Spain, I consulted with one of my study abroad friends Sarah, and after being in love with her lifestyle and looking at all her pictures that year from Feria, I knew it was a bucket list item for me.

Upon return to Madrid from my Feria trip, a friend from home asked me what tradition Feria celebrates.  I was honestly perplexed, and all I could respond was a confused "....April???"  Sure, behind this computer screen I can take all the time in the world and look up the history, pretending like I knew the origin (a livestock fair.)  However, if I were being honest, to me Feria was my excuse to dress up in a pretty dress, look like an emoji, learn fake traditional dances, eat a ton of salty meats, and drink jarra after jarra de rebujito.  Feria IS about all that.  And it's amazing.  I stayed three long nights, and before even arriving I knew it was going to be mind-blowingly great.  Feria did not disappoint and we ended up having an amazing time.  That being said, I would in fact be remiss if I didn't tell you of some of the upsets along the way, and although no matter how hard I try, sometimes rubias don't have the Sevillana in their sangre in order to gracefully keep up.

This is that story:

Monday:  Doe-eyed and excited, I arrive to the train station (seemingly) ready for our grand adventure.  My friend Kelly and her husband Jaime (you may remember them from A Hostage Situation) were already in Sevilla, and Brittany and I would be meeting up with them and many others later.  Pulling into the Sevilla station around 9:30 pm, we are warmly greeted by alcohol vendors who not only give us free glasses of Manzanilla, but also take our picture with our faces in a sterotypical and I'm sure borderline offensive Spanish cut-out and won't take no for an answer when they want to give us print-outs of the photo.  Great start.

Soon we hop into a cab to our very awkwardly shaped and incredibly inefficient Air B and B, meet up with Kelly, change into heels, and head off to our first rooftop Lunes Pescaito (Fish Monday.)  We go to Kelly and Jaime's friend Sergio's rooftop which overlooks the cathedral, and while sipping on rebujitos I sample all kinds of fish such as an alleged fried shark (pictured below) which tastes surprisingly amazing.

After, we head to the casetas (tents) of a friend where we dance, drink more rebujito, and in general goof around until the wee hours of the morning before heading home.  Monday is off to a good start, and with a cocky #1776 attitude, I start to grow overconfident thinking I for sure can handle Feria.  I have NO IDEA of the challenges that lay ahead of me.

Tuesday:  The next morning, the girls and I get up early enough, despite little sleep in order to have breakfast before I pick up my dress.  Seeing that most girls wear their trajes on Tuesday, I am going to pick mine up at 12:00 pm so that I can have it to get ready before heading to the tents by 3:00 pm.  After a quick breakfast at noon (not unusual by Sevillan Feria standards) we arrive at the dress shop at 12:30 pm and not a minute earlier.  As we approach the door, an ominous feeling set over me, as I can see the lights are out.  Just then, we see a tiny figure scurrying to the front of the shop, coming from the back sewing room.  The shop owner opens the door and with a frantic look on her face says something to the effect of "We have a tiny problem.  The dress isn't ready yet."  This is where I publicly warn any guiri to steer clear of Vivianalorio or whatever it's name is, Calle Feria, n4.  "Ummmm, I'm sorry what?"  "Yes, there was a problem with the lights last night.  What's the latest you need it by?"  "Uhhhhhh..... now?  I needed it now.  I'm confused."  Kelly, me and Britt stare at each other in disbelief.  Honestly, how could the lights being out ONE DAY affect my alterations from being done when I had ordered the dress nearly 3.5 months previously, and had planned an appointment with her in advance to assure everything would be handled?  Olivia Pope, I need you.

In a weird state of flustered confusion, I agree to come back to her shop in an hour.  The girls and I go back to the apartment, shower, do our makeup, and I continue to fume.  When I go back to the shop, sans girlfriends, she still isn't finished and has a few touches to do.  Prior to entering, I already made up my mind that I would be paying the rest of the balance of the dress, but due to the fact that she highly inconvenienced me, I would not be paying for the accessory shawl (60 euro value.)  I put on the dress, fake contentment, and she takes it from me and I go out ready to pay.

When I hand her the rest of the money I owed her for the dress, I tell her that due to breaching contract I would be getting "mis complementos" for free.  She is quite dissatisfied with this answer, and in her Argentinian accent, explains to me that this is a one of a kind dress made by hand and I would definitely be paying full value.  After some interior dressing room phone calls to Kelly throwing a fit, I am ready to address my new arch-nemesis.  Now, not one to typically pull the American card, I am really sick of it at this point.  Knowing I could use the additional customers in the store to my advantage, I bumble through my Spanish expressing that this is not fair, and we had an agreement from over 3 months prior that the dress would be wearing ready by said date.  I tell her I feel taken advantage of, and it's not fair to treat me in this manner just because "I'm American, and I'm too nice and have too much patience.  If this was happening to a Spanish girl at Feria, she wouldn't be as tolerant or calm as I am being.  The fact that the lights were out for one day out of 3.5 months is not my fault, it's yours.  This is your business, you should know that the purpose for the trajes is for Feria."  Thinking she doesn't want to scare off other customers, she defeatedly drops her argument and passed me the dress for the agreed upon cost AND the shawl for free as mandated.  I am really really thankful to have received this shawl as you will find it becomes really clutch later on in this story.  

So we head off to the casetas, roughly around 2:30 or 3pm, taking copious selfies and full body phots along the way.  Considering that Feria is basically adult prom, and especially for a guiri, I have no shame in my photo game.

A few hours and a couple jarras of rebujito later, Kelly wants to show me and Brittany Calle de Infierno, or what would directly translate as ¨Hell Street¨.  While we should heed warning given the name alone, Britt and I being adventurous yet ignorant spirits agree, and decide we will go there with Kelly.  Calle de Infierno is the true Carnival section of the Feria, segregated from the tents, trajes, and normal feria activities, and pretty much reserved for children and gypsies.  This very much intrigues us, so on we go.  Upon arrival to the make-shift carnival, we spot several rides.  While being in pretty much any form of transport besides planes makes me sick, I tell the girls the only rides I can do are roller-coaster type rides, or something that flips, but anything spinning is out of the question.  Kelly spots a prize of a ride titled the Flip Fly and after watching it take off for about 20 seconds, we all agree this would be a good selection.  The Flip Fly does spin slightly, but is more hammer in shape and rotates top over bottom like on a pendulum.  I have confidence my weak stomach can handle this, so Kelly steps up to the booth, purchases three tickets, and on we go.  Upon loading to the platform, Britt and I are giddy and laughing about how our trajes will barely tuck into the seats.  I have a very difficult time reaching over my ruffles to belt myself in, and Kelly assures me that the man running the ride will obviously come over here to ensure we are secure.  I hear what I think to be a click from my seatbelt but I'm not quite positive it's in. (insert 'That's what she said' joke here.)  Finally, the disillusioned carnival employee comes over to us, looks at our vests and with ONE FINGER, flicks our seatbelts to make sure we are in properly.  You couldn't find a more disengaged individual if you tried.  So I find this all to be quite comforting.

Before we know it, the ride takes off.  Things start out jovial and fun and we are giggling and chatting amongst ourselves.  A word of advice to anyone at a carnival: don´t just watch the first 20 seconds of a ride before committing to it.  What starts off fun quickly turns to aggressive and not enjoyable.  The rickety ride gets faster and faster.  What we didn't realize before was that there would be periods of complete upside-down aerial suspension at the top of the ride, where we would dangle high into the air, held up only by the life vest, our backs and butts completely off the back of the chair.  Thank God that ride operator lackadaisically flicked his one finger over our seat belt to ensure we are secure.  

At one point I scream, "This isn't fun anymore!" as my giant hoop earring starts whipping out of my ear and I try to catch it with my mouth, all the while holding my large flower in place.  I think to myself, this is where it ends as my rubia lifeless body gets splattered on the blacktop below, traje and all.  As morbid as it would be, at least I'd be going out with a bang.  How much international attention would we get should one to three american girls fall out of a ride in Sevilla?  More importantly, what possessed us to ride on a ride in Spain, where we had no idea what the safety standards were, let alone a pop-up makeshift carnival in Sevilla?   Guiris were out of their damn minds.  The result of said trauma looked something like the following:

Feeling defeated, and yet lucky to be alive, we wander back to the caseta with the boys, ready for some good ol´ R and R-- Rebujito and Raciones of course.  Something about crisp alcohol and salty meats/potatoes just seems to make the world right.  This continues for several more hours, only to be broken up with bitching about the heat, and practicing Sevillana dancing.  Jaime's sister, Laura, who is an absolute peach, takes me under her wing and tries to teach me several of the verses.  While nowhere near native status, I am told I am fairly good for a beginner (and a guiri) so maybe Rubia can fake it till she makes it.  Thank God they can't see my feet.  

Somewhere between hour about 5 or 7, my foot pain grows to a new level.  After all, I had been in heels (well wedges, let´s call a spade a spade here) the whole previous night, and proceeded to wear them again today.  Kelly, being the gracious spirit that she is, offers to swap shoes with me because as she puts it "sometimes swapping out one pain for another makes it feel better."  We will be changing shoes on and off the rest of the night, regardless of the fact that her size 8 shoes don't remotely fit my size 9 feet.

Remember how I told you that whole part about the shawl accessory becoming very important later in the story?  Well, here is that part.  Around about 2 am, after several hours of dancing Sevillana and eating copious Spanish dishes and even dancing to my fair share of what I will refer to Spanish Linedancing, the DJ at our last castea decides to appeal to the Americans and drop some American Top 40.  For any of you that know me remotely, you know that I love dancing, watching hip-hop choreography online, and love dropping it low at any opportunity, especially after a few (million) drinks.  Throw in some Jason Derulo, which every song he releases is utter fire, and you have got yourself a perfect storm. As soon as I heard the opening hook of "ay yo, Jace" from Snoop, I completely lose it.  Getting low is not an option; it's a necessity.  Jason Derulo's Wiggle can not be played, especially on a day void of any music of which I know how to dance to, without me going 100% white girl guiri on everyone.  Well it happens.  On one fateful bounce down, I hear it, but more over, I feel it.  Suddenly, my backside feels cooler than it should. This may or may not be due to the fact that I HAVE JUST COMPLETELY SPLIT MY DRESS OPEN IN THE ASS.  For those of you that find me highly dramatic, let it be said that this is not a little tear, and that I am not blowing (excuse the pun) things out of proportion.  Witnesses present can attest to the fact that the hole is about the length of my forearm, and in a panic, I have literally no idea what to do as I quickly grab each side holding it together and sit down. 

Also, remember me telling you how the dress shop owner was still frantically sewing my dress when I got there?  Yeah.  She did a crap job. How do I know this?  Because when my entire ass ripped out of my dress you can see she only tacked a few stitches along the whole part that bust open, rather than down the entire seam.  So there I am, butt completely exposed, panicking in a tent full of people.  Luckily, among people, there are also angels present, and a doll by the name of Marta comes to my aid, and quickly helps me hide it.  She grabs my shawl from my shoulders and ties it around my waist.  I don't look particularly cute, but it is better than flashing everyone.  I'll pick sweatshirt around-the-waist early 90s DJ Tanner over sexual deviant any day.  I honestly can't imagine what I would do had I didn't have that shawl with me.  Bartering with that shop owner was one of the better decisions I've ever made for myself in life.  Here below is a picture that I beg Kelly to take, to ensure you can't see my entire right ass cheek.

Now, if one would have told me ahead of time that when I went to Feria I would bust my ass open dropping it low to Jason Derulo, I wouldn't necessarily be surprised.  These are the things that are fairly common place for me, so after a solid four to five minutes of wallowing, I press on and continue to participate in the fiesta, this time without dancing.  Maybe sensing my defeat, Tito's precious parents buy me and Kelly caldo (broth) that is supposed to have magic heeling powers and save you from getting too drunk or hungover.  Sitting down and drinking my caldo, I soon bounce up to remain social and hang out for another few hours.  

A few hours later, with a bruised ego, sore feet, and tired body, I finally coerce the girls to head back to our Air B and B.  We are able to hop a ride with a gem of a woman, Maria, (Jaime´s family friend) which was amazing because we don't have to walk far, yet tragic because we aren't able to stop for food. No one knows for sure, but we are probably in bed around 6 am.  

Wednesday:  Rebujito is the best drink ever, in that you can drink it for about 16 hours casually and wake up feeling refreshed and ready to run a marathon the next day (not that I would know because I would never run a marathon.)  The girls and I slowly get ready, and Britt and I decide to ditch the trajes.  They were fun while they lasted, but hot, high maintenance, and I don't feel like getting mine fixed before the day's celebrations.  We opt for more breezy fashions for today-- after all, who can tell if more Jason would be playing tonight?  We head over to a restaurant to fuel up before going to the casetas.  We eat a smorgasbord of food, including what I affectionately describe as ¨Meat sushi¨ solely for the fact that it is meat, wrapped in more meat, and cut to look like sushi.  Shout out to my Sevillanas if you can remind me of the actual term. After a few cañas and claras, we are ready to take on Feria part tres.

We arrive over to the casetas mid-day, around 4 pm.  While the boys are already full steam ahead in their Rebujitos, we just aren't ready for that step yet so Britt, Kelly, and I do the next logical thing: go get ice coffee at a local shop and then proceed to have two mixed drinks or glasses of Manzanilla immediately on the heels of the coffee.  Now, finally feeling energized with the most appropriate subtle buzz, we are ready to once again join the troops and commence day 3.

Jaime, jarra in hand, immediately fills up our Rebuijto glasses.  He then puts the jarra in his pocket and takes the most epic picture known to man:

During the next several hours, we stretch out our empty glasses and demand Jaime to "Rebujitome!" as making up fake verbs is something I do across all languages.  Jaime Kim Kardashian finds this lull in activity the perfect opportunity to take selfie after group selfie of us outside the casetas.

Later during the night, our troop braves what might be the grossest thing I've ever walked through in my life.  Because Feria is a festival with a lot of horse drawn carriages, horses are constantly walking up and down the streets.  With horses, comes horse poop--and lots of it.  When there is excess excrement in the street, the festival keepers find the best solution to get rid of it is to not really get rid of it at all, but rather dilute it.  They take hoses and spray down the street, but since the run off has no where to go, the poop remains in water form.  What will forever be known as "poop swamp", we bravely wade the puddles with various screams of disgust and horror until approaching new tents.  Deep into the night, Kelly and I find it appropriate (read: certainly not at all) to take a vulgar photo which will not be shown here in front of a police van. Giggling and running away after the police started to yell after us, it is later discovered that the only way we do not get in trouble with the law is that Tito stood up for us and said something to the effect of "they are just Guiris." As always, God Bless Tito.    

This night goes off without a hitch, and there is plenty of eating and dancing.  At one point, I remember commenting that my feet are very swollen and getting useless, and I might as well have potato feet (reference to an earlier trip to Sevilla where at the end of the night I drunkenly claimed my hands were potatoes-- more of that probably never to come.)  I do what any good guiri would do, continue to eat more meats and potatoes like a champ, and join in on my favorite Spanish line dancing.  El Taxi plays probably 70493249587 times at the end of the night, but my personal favorite is the song that the DJ let me help lead (the one with the sawing motion-- friends, do you remember that one?)

Before we know it, Kelly and Jaime peace out, and I am walking home with Britt, Pepe, and their newly acquired gypsy-purchased child, Pepe Olof.

Things are really contained, sober, and responsible.  I am at my prettiest, having spilled chocolate from my chocolate and churros on my dress, which quite nicely compliments the poop swap stains that have crawled up to a foot up the dress. We do have the broad daylight working for us, however, as we walk home around 7:30 or 8 am.  Upon entry to the Air B and B, I immediately try to wash off my feet in the sink, which I have since found out is a thing I compulsively try to do while under the influence.  Brittany makes me wash in the bidet, while she sets an alarm so we "don't miss our train."

Thursday:  WE MISS OUR TRAIN.  Britt frantically wakes me up to "Oh my God, Kris, we missed the train!" to which I think I just giggle, say something like "so?" and roll over: A future educator, ladies and gentleman.  Finally, Britt morales me to get my ish together, and together we stagger out of the apartment walking all the way to the train station.  Because I´m no longer joven (young enough for a youth pass) I have to drop about 70 Euros on a new return trip which isn't necessarily exciting, but the pain is dulled by the McDonalds snack wrap I now have in my hands.  Somewhere on my journey home, I realize that my feet really hurt in my espadrilles and that they are still swollen, an unfortunate side effect from the wild three days we just experienced.  This might also be a good point to mention that the three days of non-stop Feria-ing has made me void of any voice, and talking anything above a scratchy and crackling whisper is impossible.  I cancel the lesson I am supposed to give later today and instead spend that afternoon in bed with my two boyfriends--Netflix and Dominos.  As physically destroyed as I am, I honestly feel in my heart I can recover in time for school tomorrow.

Friday:  But recover I can't.  I wake up Friday morning barely able to make any sound, and my feet are so bad that I can't bend my toes or see my ankle bones, and my toes are almost completely numb.  I have to call into school and go to the doctor instead.  I´m sure my boss feels I am hungover, which honestly, I´d rather have him think that over the truth-- that I am a sad little guiri who just can't hang.  Staggering into the clinic, I tell them "Fui a Feria en Sevilla" ("I went to Feria in Sevilla") and just sort of laugh and throw up my hands as if to say what do you want me to do about it?  The doctor touches my feet and through the help of the translator, tells me that it is possible that I could have a stress fracture from standing and walking so long.  It is calculated that I wore wedges for over 24 hours during a 36 hour period, which is obviously obscene and completely unacceptable. Compound that with the hot heat and all the drinking and salty meats, no wonder I am currently sitting there helpless.

They order me to get an X ray and I go downstairs to get it done. My biggest fears are that 1) my feet will have to be amputated or if not 2) I'll have to use those weird polio crutches everyone uses here.

Luckily neither will be the case, as it is discovered that I don't have any stress fractures. However, I am diagnosed with tendinitis in both feet, and am prescribed a foot cream, and a special almost steroid pill for the inflammation, as well as a stomach protector when taking the steroid medicine.  Because honestly, why wouldn't this happen to me?  I laugh and the doctor tells me if I rest I can go back to Feria in a few days.  Obviously he is joking, but I tell him that won't be happening this year.  As I am exiting the building, I ask the translator if this is the weirdest thing she'll probably see all day.  She laughs with me, shakes my hand, and says "absolutely."

I am a fool.
I am a potato.
I am living my life.
I am Mrs. Iglesias.  

The Tallest of Branches-A Dedication

The Tallest of Branches

Prologue: I realize that for my loyal following I've really let you down with the extreme lack of entries lately. I sincerely apologize, and rest assured it is not due to lack of material. On the contrary, I have a few really great stories to write about, but in true Witkop-writer fashion, I will not haphazardly produce entries for the sake of releasing them and want to make the time to write, create, and edit in various sessions as to maximize your enjoyment. To put it bluntly, I've been busy recently being productive, applying to grad schools, studying Spanish, traveling, and living my life: so you're going to have to get over that. I promise I will try to put some quality entries to paper in the next few weeks. That being said, in the meantime, I have an entry of dedication which is serious in nature, but far more important than my whimsical previous entries of humorous content.

I know for my viewers in DC, the weather has been crazy lately with off and on snow. Here in Madrid, we got a fleeting taste of beautiful Spring weather, and this past week it's been shifting back and forth from Winter and back to Spring again. However, in the midst of all of this, our cherry blossom trees have budded and blossomed, a true signal that good things are yet to come. As some of you may know, Spring is one of my favorite times of year, as it is the season I feel closest to my father who passed away in 2013. With that in mind, I want to take the time to keep his memory alive, and commemorate the good memories I have of him here with you, my readers.

The following is the last entry I had written for his Carepages account a few days after he passed away, and edited slightly here to make it current for the present timeline.

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My dad and I shared a number of things in common.  We both had an affinity for our favorite comfort food of Mac and Cheese and Hotdogs, we each enjoyed writing, and appreciate “stupid” humor.  One thing in particular that was unique to our relationship was our love of travel and different cultures. We could talk for hours about places we wanted to travel together, or tell stories about certain about experiences within countries the other had not yet ventured.  Dad would frequently recount various stories about his travels in his early career to Brazil, or his frequent trips to China and Japan with his company.  I remember looking back as a young child anxiously waiting in expectation for him to return from these business trips and see what little memento he would bring back for me from his travels.  Even as a high school student I knew that I would want to peruse the world of business as a career, so I could be like him, and maybe I too would one day get to travel to various countries and see and know the things my dad had seen.  

           

One central theme that was always brought up in these conversations surrounding travel was his conviction in wanting to take my mother and me on a trip to Japan someday.  He told us all about the team there and the incredible people he worked with, and would go into detail about how nice the locals were, and spoke all about their culture.  As he frequently went over to Japan during their Spring, one thing he never ceased to mention was how beautiful the cherry blossoms were.  He would go on and on about how big the trees were, the sheer volume of trees, and how beautiful the blossoms made the city.  I recall being on webcam calls during my high school and early college years and having the cherry trees consume the bulk of our conversations with our chats ending in Dad repetitively saying “I wish you were here, I wish you could see this.”

Upon graduating college, I was ready for my next frontier.  I could travel anywhere, and live anywhere in the US where I could land a job. One of the things that allured me to DC was the knowledge of the beautiful landscaping and the annual Cherry Blossom Festival held in DC each year.  Based on the images my father painted for me of the cherry trees in Japan, I figured that living in DC would allow me to first-hand experience a bit of the feeling my dad felt while visiting Japan in the spring during full-bloom.

I packed my bags and relocated to the DC area at the end of January, 2012. I had just moved into my apartment in Arlington, and was excited to embrace the new city I called home.  I even bought a large canvas to hang over my bed of the Washington monument at night, with a patch of cherry trees in bloom in the foreground. I was ready for my new adventure, and I was ready for DC.  

Unfortunately, at the end of March that year, mere months after moving to the area, I received a phone call that would change my life forever.  I got the news that my dad had cancer, and the outlook was not good.  Dad had esophageal cancer, a disease that was very aggressive, and had a small rate of recovery and survival.  Our family rallied around him, and my life changed drastically in ways I had not foreseen.  Trips back home to upstate New York became more and more frequent, and I was forced to give up my retail management job and switch careers in order to have a more accommodating schedule.  The father I had always known to be faded away, and each visit home was a devastating reminder that we could never go back to the care-free past. Through the discovery of brain tumors and multiple scans, my father fought the disease with a vengeance.  Watching him transform from upbeat and jovial to lethargic and drained was not an easy transition.  I remember witnessing my exhausted mother turn over the labels of over 18 bottles on our kitchen table, trying to locate the medicine my father needed at that moment, desperately trying to keep up with his medication schedule and do her part to keep him comfortable.  

One Sunday afternoon at the end of June 2013, my mother called.  My dad was in the hospital and things were not good.   She strongly urged me to come home.  I drove the grueling 9 hours in traffic home to New York, which considering the circumstances and unknowns was no easy feat.  While driving up there, I was under the impression that I would be there for the weekend, until my dad was able to be stabilized and get back home.  I didn’t realize that I would be home for nearly whole month and that this would be an instance where he would not have a lasting improved condition.  

I stayed in the hospital with him day and night for a few days.  Finally his condition was stabilizing to the point he could return home, but this time on an oxygen machine and more worn down than before.  We started to get ready to leave the hospital and move him back to our home.  

For those whom may not be aware, it is very common for those whom are transitioning from this world to the next to speak metaphorically, and use verbiage of things that are important to their lives here to explain their transition to from this world to heaven.  Often if we are not clear, they can be interpreted by family and friends as thoughts spoken in “confusion” or said under medication, and become quickly dismissed.  Luckily for me, I was blessed to not miss this gift.  

During the final days of my dad’s time here on this earth, there’s one sentence he said that will forever be etched into my memory. The day he was being discharged from the hospital, my mom and I were busy with getting the oxygen tank ready, and prepping for the trip home. As we were collecting his items and bustling about, my dad calmly said, “This is the time of year in Japan where they cut down the tallest branches of the cherry blossoms and bury them under the ground.”  It was said matter-of-fact like, and out of nowhere, and caught my mother and me off guard.  We dismissed it at first, and continued on, taking inventory of medication and gathering objects.  

Later that evening, I kept reciting that statement over and over, fairly perplexed as to what he could have meant or if it was just the medicine talking.   “This is the time of year in Japan where they cut down the tallest branches of the cherry blossoms and bury them under the ground.” Having lived in Washington, DC, I knew that we Washingtonians share a Cherry Blossom Festival much like that of the Japanese.  During the two seasons of watching the Cherry Blossom Festival in DC, I couldn’t recall seeing anyone planting any branches underground afterward, like one would do for a tulip bulb.  I searched various phrases about this subject online and came up with nothing.  A few days later, when Dad was in good spirits at home, I asked him about this and inquired if he could elaborate more on the process of the cutting of the tallest branches and burying them underground.  Looking confused, he responded, “well I don’t know anything about a time of year when they cut down the branches and plant them underground, but I do know they have a big festival where…” and on he went.

Right then and there, I kind of laughed, and knew it was a sign.  “This is the time of year in Japan where they cut down the tallest branches of the cherry blossoms and bury them under the ground.”  How beautiful and metaphoric!  My dad knew the end was close, he knew that this was the time of year when he would be transitioning to as he put it “from the land of the dead to the land of the truly living!”  For those that knew my father, all could agree that he was a very, very tall branch.  From the stories I read that his co-workers have written on Facebook, to my own personal memories, my dad Jeff was the most humble, selfless man you could meet, always going out of his way to benefit others, sometimes at his expense.  Just like any good fertilizer, sometimes you must trim the strong, best branches, and recycle into the ground for the benefit of the garden.  Dad certainly enriched those around us here, and left a legacy lasting far beyond his years on earth.  I know that I am a “blossom” and a more beautiful, and strong one at that, having him as a father, and having gone through this blessing we call cancer.

My father past away on July 7, 2013; fifteen months after his diagnosis.  Today, a year and eight months later, I continue to mourn his loss.  As the trees here in Madrid begin to bud, and as the flowers bloom, I feel his presence the most strongly during springtime.  Now more than ever, the cherry blossoms hold special meaning in my heart, as these days of full blossom remain sacred for me.  I think of Dad being buried in the ground, knowing that he is with me as the new life springs up from the dirt every year this time.  As the flowery fragrance of the blossoms fills the European air, I take solace in knowing that that same smell once gave my father so much joy, and that we will always share the love for the majestic cherry trees, whether at home, or in a foreign land.  This year, I rejoice in the blossoms that have bloomed from knowing Dad, and his life that touched so many.

Potato, Patata

Prologue:  Something needs to be addressed.  Recently it's been brought to my attention that some of my readers former readers have discontinued their viewership on the basis that my content is "ungodly" and it makes them "uncomfortable."  Although which specific segments or elements of my writing they are referring to remains unknown,  I have to admit I was not only a bit taken aback, but frankly offended by their hypocrisy.  After all, the people making such lofty remarks I have known quite well, as I have personally been witness to a bounty of their 'ungodly' moments.  While it would be easy to rebuttal with the "thee without sin cast the first stone" Bible story, I must think of my current audience, and therefore feel it more appropriate to quote some of my favorite bold, unapologetic, and empowered women of today's pop culture in response.

Equipped with the mantra provided to me from my main girl, Stefani, I can't help but think "I'm beautiful in my way, 'Cause God makes no mistakes, I'm on the right track, baby, I was born this way." To steal the words of  bad-ass country star Miranda, "'I heard Jesus he drank wine, and I bet we'd get along just fine.  He can calm the storm and heal the blind, and I bet he'd understand a heart like mine."  Sara has spot-on and relatable justified sass, and although I could literally paste her entire song here, but will restrict myself to the chorus:  "Who cares if you disagree? You are not me.  Who made you king of anything?  So you dare tell me who to be?  Who died and made you king of anything?"

So let the haters hate.  Let them be sad and lonely on the outside, getting fat on their hater-tots and haterade.  I've got a loyal following to serve, and my friends are counting on my articles to help them kill 20 minutes at work.  And as my boy Jesse likes to remind me, "I want you and your beautiful soul." So, heathens, let us continue the dance.  I have shit to blog about.

Potato, Patata:  The Battle Royale Between the Land of the Free and the Nation of Jamón

Upon arrival to a new country, it´s very easy to see striking differences between your country of origin and new home, within minutes of touching down on the tarmac.  There are things that I much prefer about America over Spain, and on the contrary, Spain to America.  After having months to reflect on some differences, I will now share my opinions with you, my loyal readers, as my two favorite countries duke it out in fight for the title of the Baddest Country in the World.


Dining
Hidden Valley Ranch Dressing.  Franks Red Hot Sauce.  Skillet Fries.  Chicken Fingers.  Flaming Cheetos, and Crunchy Cheetos.  Mexican food in general (or anything remotely spicy.) My American brothers and sisters, please stop taking the life you live for granted; you are blessed with a beautiful bounty of food you can choose from every day.  Feeling lazy? Relish in the fact that you can basically order food for delivery from essentially any restaurant, at any time, and that you can pretty much always pay with credit card whenever you feel like it. When our founding fathers were dreaming of the utopia they were trying to achieve, this was the life they were envisioning.  #1776. Hallelujah, amen.

While the variety of food in America (full of condiments, grease, and general amazingness) is to be applauded, Spain is also pretty on point when it comes to food.  After you get over the fact that you will pretty much be eating potatoes and jamón in some form every day, there is a lot to appreciate.  Take their level of clean eating, comparatively to America for example.  While the majority of food we have in the States is chalk full of preservatives, chemicals, pesticides, and over processed, the food here is significantly less altered.  The result is a more pure, natural version of what should be.  I remember buying salad here and seeing my fruits and vegetables perish much quicker in my fridge than they do state-side, as there are less chemicals to make them last longer.  Now, knowing that it is much easier and cheaper to eat more naturally here, you could infer that it is easier to stay in shape, and perhaps lose weight.  While many would find this an opportunity to get in the best shape of their lives, I have viewed this as an opportunity to eat significantly way more food, and even unhealthy food, and remain at the same weight as I was in America.  I´m not judging your life choices, so stop judging mine.  I drink wine more than in America, and I probably have a chocolate croissant once a week. I cook more than I have in the past (which really isn't saying much) because I have more time, and I never really worry about what I eat, because overall it´s way easier to eat healthier here than in America, even if it´s by accident.

Another amazing thing about food in Spain-- you traditionally get tapas with every drink you order, and who doesn't like free snacks?? Goat cheese abounds here, so if you love goat cheese like me, this is a definite plus.

So really, this is a challenging one.  Eating way more and even dropping a few pounds while getting free snacks in the process?  You would think Spain would win.  But then:  Spicy food.  Chipotle's every 5 miles.  Condiments.  You just can't put a price tag on some things.

America vs. Spain Round One: TIE.



Bureaucracy
Every American who has lived or will ever live will always hate the DMV.  While we may disagree on political vantage points or religion, one common thread that seems to bond all Americans is our hatred for the Department of Motor Vehicles.  Perhaps that is the purpose of the DMV, to unite us together in solidarity and strengthen us as a nation.  While I myself have waited a few hours in line and endured the overall incompetence and inefficiency that our US government is able to provide, nothing I mean NOTHING could prepare me for the bureaucracy of Spain.  Please take a second to watch the video as I hope it gives you a fraction of a glimpse of what the bureaucratic system of Spain is like.  

Here in Spain, the phrase "hurry up and wait" has never rung more true.  While some people list obtaining their PhD, winning a Nobel Prize, or competing in the Olympics one of their proudest life accomplishments, I would probably say that getting my NIE (government issued ID card) would be one of mine.  There's so much paperwork to be filled out, and unlike the US, you must go to over four or five offices to get everything taken care of, rather than one building or site to streamline things.  At one point, you have to go to a police station to pick up a payment form, then go to a bank to pay the €15, and later bring that stamped form to the government office on your appointment date, to prove you paid for the process.  Why you must go to the bank and police first kills me... couldn't we just pay with card or handle that part online?

Yes the DMV sucks, but fortunately, that is one of America's worst forms of inefficient bureaucracy.  I can tell you from experience that other things work much more proficiently in America when dealing with Bureaucratic processes.

For example, let's chat about healthcare.  When you are sick in America, you as a grown adult, have the choice of how you want to carry out that specific day.  If you feel well enough to work, you can suck it up and go in and complete your day, or maybe work from home.  If you are feeling truly awful, you can take a vacation or sick day, and stay home to recover. No one cares if you use your vacation days to go to Disney or if you have the flu--the point is, you have a certain number of allotted days of freedom to use in a year, and you can use them as you so see fit.  Your employer and boss see you as the adult that you are, and think you should be able to manage your illness or vacation schedule as a responsible adult.

However, in Spain, whether you are 18 or 99, in the eyes of the government, you are still a four-year-old child.  You can not be trusted to look after your own health, and God forbid you call in sick from work one day, knowing that you only need one day of rest to recover. No, Spanish big brother must ensure that you actually were truly sick beyond a shadow of a doubt, and will make sure that you do your due diligence to go to the doctor and get a doctor's note for that day off in order to be paid.

Now let me tell you a true story.  Within the second or third week into my job here in Spain, I came down with a sinus infection.  I was taking my normal cocktail of sinus medication in order to prevent it, but with the combination of more germs than normal from the kids, a different schedule than I was used to, and the change of the seasons, I just wasn't able to shake it.  Now, realizing that I usually always get one or two sinus infections a year, I came to Spain prepared with antibiotics from my doctor in America, that I was only to take prior to being cleared by her via phone triage.  Well, it came the day that it wasn't working anymore.  I called the doctor and she told me to start my antibiotic that afternoon, on a Wednesday.  I felt terrible, and knew I would certainly need a full day of rest to recover before I started to turn the corner.  I would normally have been able to be back up and running two days later on Friday, because the antibiotic would have taken strong enough effect by that point.  However, working Thursday was just not an option what-so-ever as I couldn't spend a day with kids, let alone could barely get out of bed.  The worst thing was, even though I already had the treatment my doctor would prescribe and was currently on the road to recovery, I knew I had to go into the doctor's the next day, strictly as a formality, in order to obtain the doctor's note I needed to be in good standing for my school.  I needed to go to the doctor, to tell him I was sick, already had my medicine, and honestly tell him I was only there to get a signed piece of paper saying I was sick.

I will pause here so you can collect the pieces from your exploding head.

As ridiculous as it was, it didn't stop there.  Because I´m on minimal and private insurance, I had to pay for my doctor´s visit upfront.  I ended up paying €125 (about $155 USD) for the doctor to write me a sick note, that still has yet to be reimbursed by the insurance company.  That is the most expensive piece of paper I have ever purchased in my entire life.  And to think, how all of this could have been avoided if I were to be treated like an adult as I would have been in America, and just been allowed one sick day.

America vs. Spain Round Two:  America wins by a landslide


Cost of Living
So I'll be honest: I'm pretty poor this month.  But who wouldn't be after booking flights/travel for Paris, Dublin, Prague, Berlin, Sevilla, Stockholm, and corresponding hotels for most of those trips?  My travel habit is the reason sometimes I live a bit hand-to-mouth, but then again, it's one of the reasons I moved to Spain in the first place, so I really can't complain.

The thing is though, considering the amount of work I do and my job, I get compensated really well here.  On top of what the Spanish government pays me, I'm able to make nearly half of what I get paid in my salary for extra spending money per month by giving private lessons.  In theory, if I manage my money efficiently, (which let's be honest, rarely happens) I should be able to live comfortably and travel from time to time.  Sure I have dipped into my savings a bit, but considering I'd be going to four different cities in December alone, I knew this would happen.  The fact still remains, that cost of living in Madrid is overwhelmingly cheaper than living in DC.

To further drive the point home, I have consulted various sources to help me figure out the math (pathetic, I know) and have come up with the following examples for you:

Average cup of coffee in Madrid vs. DC- 62.5% cheaper
My rent in Madrid vs. Alexandria - 66% cheaper
Gel manicures in Madrid vs. Alexandria- 65.3% cheaper 
An average cost of dinner at a mid-range restaurant in Madrid vs. DC-about 33% cheaper

Essentially, although I make around the poverty line if I converted my salary to USD in the States, here I make good money, especially considering everything is so cheap.  

America vs. Spain Round Three:  Spain wins



Partying and Going Out
One think that honestly worried me about moving back to Spain for my "second tour" if you will, was if I was prepared once again for the party lifestyle that this country offers.  Sure, I did it before, but did my now 25-year-old body have it in me to keep up with the Garcia's another time?  But the human body is an incredible thing, and we are more resilient than we realize.  Sure I can't rage three nights in a weekend, but usually at least one of the nights I stay out until 7 am.  We don't begin even pre-gaming here until at least 12 pm, after all.  And another thing I was forgetting:  when I came here back in 2010, I was a college student who had an inability to say 'no,' pretty much whenever presented with any opportunity.  Now, although still pressingly difficult, I have made giant strides in looking after my general well-being, and can even behave as a young professional.  This allows me to say no to going out more than I ever would have in Alicante, or when I go out now, I don't have to rage every night.

Here in Spain, because we drink over larger stretches of time, there is no rush to down a bunch of alcohol in mass quantity.  They don't play Flip Cup urgently and with a vengeance here like my American counterparts.  As such, you can take your time and pace yourself, even if you do stay out until 4 am or later.  Although cover charges at discotecas can be quite expensive, they sometimes pay for themselves when they include one or two free drinks.  Basically what I am telling you is that Spain takes partying to a whole new level, and your average American party just can't hang.  It's true, if you try hard enough, you can snap back to "the old days" and keep up.  Also, now that you are older and allegedly more mature, maybe you will look and act less like a dick than you did in public four years ago.  Maybe.

America vs. Spain Round Four:  Spain wins
  

Festivals and Holidays
Spain seems to have holidays and celebrations every month. To set the stage, there are holidays that exist in this country that even Spanish citizens don't know about.  For example, my school celebrated this fall festival called Castañeda, that the majority of Spaniards I poled had no idea existed.   

Sure, one of our American holidays (and one of my most favorite) is the birthday of our great nation, where we set off fireworks, eat tubed meats, have pool parties, and deck ourselves from head to toe in American flags-- and I could not be happier. #1776.  However, there's a holiday in Valencia that takes flames and fire and pyro behavior to epic proportions: A week long celebration called las Fallas.  I went to Fallas in 2010.  During Fallas, the people of Valencia compete to build giant paper mache effigies they build all over the city.  People go out and drink in the streets every night, and even little children set off their own fireworks for no rhyme or reason at various parts of the day.  I remember after about the 15th explosion I randomly heard on my third day or so around 3 pm I had a mild freak-out as it felt like I was in a war zone, constantly on edge waiting for the next explosion (similarly to how we all get when a balloon is going to pop.)

On the last night of the festival, they light all the effigies on fire, and the entire city goes crazy, and the streets are utter mayhem.  As you can imagine, it's really safe.  At one point, I remember being really scared trapped in an archway as fireworks exploded into the tunnel from each side.  I'm just not cut out for a life of GI Jane, people.  My friend Jenni got pick-pocketed that night while we were partaking in a drum circle.  But the advantage of Fallas and other similar holidays like Carnival, is you can do whatever you want.  During Fallas, I threw yogurt at a group of guys off our apartment balcony.  Because I could.  Because you always can in Spain.  And as the fiery blaze illuminated most of the city in the night sky, we looked down from our balcony of our apartment, and screamed down at the bomberos (firefighters) to spray us.  They flooded the little apartment, and as my friend Steph picked up her muddy, wet, limp bra off the floor in the morning before heading back to Alicante, we had a discussion on what was the best approach to explain it to her madre, who would be doing her laundry.

Let's not forget Carnival, which again is about a week long.  I'll stop here to emphasize that every holiday we seemingly have in the States that lasts a day, Spain usually manages to stretch it into a week-long celebration.  During Carnival, basically all inhibitions (if they ever existed,) are thrown to the wayside.  I remember getting up on stage with a band, and unapologetically trying to sing with them.  We got thrown up into the air by a group of guys dressed like ninja turtles, and played American football in the street with a makeshift group of Spaniards dressed up as American football players.  These are just some of the things that stuck with me 4 years later.  Book your trip to Spain now.

Also, one holiday I just learned of this year is Reyes Magos.  Yes, Spaniards celebrate Christmas, just like us, but it is on a smaller scale. Rather than receiving a mountain of presents like our children do in the States, kids may receive a few gifts, and the emphasis is more on the shared feast.  However, why have one day of celebration?  No, Spaniards view the birth of Jesus as a way to basically extend their vacations and time off work for another few weeks until Reyes Magos, or Three Kings Day, which is January 6th.  As such, my holiday break this year is Dec 19th- Jan 7th...obscene.  On this day, kids get way more gifts, and the family eats a dessert called Roscón de Reyes in which there is a toy hidden inside the cream of this essentially giant cake/donut.  Whoever gets the toy in their piece gets to be king for a day, and boss their family around.  Seems very Christmas-spirited to me.          

Spain has a festival in La Rioja every summer, where people just pour wine on each other in buckets.  POUR. WINE. ON. ME. WITH. A. BUCKET.  Yessssssssssssss.
  
America vs. Spain Round Five:  Spain wins


Obsession over Animals
In America, we love our pets.  Doggie spas, doggie day cares, and I'm not even kidding I once saw a "cat safari" as a cat daycare in San Francisco.  Gourmet dog treats and custom made clothes for our pets exist.  Here in the US, dogs are just part of the family.

I mean, I'm just that person that needs to bring up dogs into conversation at least once every day.  It's just who I am, and I feel that this quality is not one that is always fully embraced in America, but at least is more readily accepted/tolerated than it is here in Spain.  In the States, I will cross the street solely in order to pet a cute dog (and have done it many times.)  However, when I've asked someone in Spain to pet their dog, in my personal experience, I've received really weird looks. 

One time I shared the following photo with a Spanish guy:

The following is literally word-for-word copied from our conversation.
He commented:  "I can't believe you were squatting to kiss a dog."
I said: "What do you mean? I'm obsessed with dogs."
Him: "But a picture kissing one?  Mental hospital, please come to Kristen's place."
Me: "You don't kiss puppies?"
Him: "Puppies yes, but that is an adult dog."
Me: (*thinking* IDGAF) "Excuse me for being American.  You are allowed to kiss all kinds of dogs."

I'll never understand his weird puppy vs. dog rule.  That's just not living your best life.  I just want to live in a land that encourages me to be my complete self.  And that complete version of myself is one where I am constantly petting and loving dogs.  Without judgment.

America vs. Spain Round Six:  America wins


Comfy Gym Clothes Being Accepted as Reasonable Attire for Public
Hey, girls in America: Remember how you woke up last Saturday or Sunday morning and went grocery shopping for your fruit and cereal wearing yoga pants to Giant?  Yeah.  I don't have those days anymore. #rip

America vs. Spain Round Seven:  America wins


Spatial Awareness
If there's one thing I hope to instill on the youth of this fantastic country, it is a hefty dose of spatial awareness.  No one, I mean NO ONE has it here.  And the worst offenders? Little old ladies!  Yes, the precision they possess to seemingly box you off on the sidewalk to prevent you from passing them is astounding.  It's almost as if they know the exact amount they need to shift on the sidewalk one way or the other in order to inconvenience your day, and keep you regulated at a snail's pace longing to knock them off their path and accelerate forward.  Now, sometimes a Spaniard's lack of urgency is almost endearing.  They are soaking in life, and not always rushing for the future.  I think this is charming and idealistic, and I wish I could embrace that sort of mentality.  However, I'm also a fan of personal freedom.  Just because you elect that life for yourself, don't imprison me into your hellish, slower than death walk.  I may actually have something to accomplish today.

Lost in the metro and confused of which way to go?  Certainly, don't get off the escalator and pull off to the side of the wall to re-collect and examine a map.  No,  the best place to stop and think is probably right after you get off the escalator in the middle of the hallway, blocking all traffic behind you.  Sense people behind you coming in hot on your left hand side?  You're right, probably wise to shift over to the left, too.   

Some things and infuriate me, and some things I will never understand.  Unfortunately Spain's lack of spatial awareness really does both to me.  Let's get it together, guys, and have some damn courtesy for those that share the road with you. 

America vs. Spain Round Eight:  America wins


Terms of Endearment
Guapa!  
Guapisima!  
Guapitona!

How many ways can you call one woman beautiful?  Answer?  Infinite.
But before your ego shoots through the roof over all the guapas you will get on a daily basis, evaluate who all these GQ models say this to other than you. Here, guapa does mean beautiful, but really it's more of just a general greeting for a female.  That busted neighbor of yours?  Yes, she got called guapa from the doorman, too.  But don't lose heart.  At least the men in Spain try.  You won't take an hour or more getting ready and dressed to the nines to go out only to hear "yo, you look hot."  American men: STEP UP YOUR GAME!  Us well-traveled women just won't take that shit any more.  Here in Spain, men get creative with their compliments, and I can appreciate that.

In a memorable moment shared with my favorite Spanish pilot, he once touched my skin and called it dulce.  DULCE. He thought my skin was sweet.  I don't know about you, but I found that to be the most beautiful alternative to pasty or pale.  Ever since, I have and will continue to refer to my own transparent skin as dulce.

Sweetie, no pasa nada about those thick thighs or all your obvious and glaring flaws.  You may be "run of the mill" in America, but in Spain you are a total 10, supermodel.   Move over, Adriana Lima, your basic betch American rubias reign queen here.  ¡Viva España! 

America vs. Spain Round Nine:  Spain wins


What have we learned today?
So clearly, I could go on and on (and obviously I have) with many more categories in which to compare my top favorite countries.  However, in the instance of my sanity writing this, and your sanity reading this, I shall stop at nine.  Here are the results:
America: Bureaucracy, Obsession over Animals, Spatial Awareness, Comfy clothes (4)
Spain: Cost of Living, Partying and Going Out, Festivals and Holidays, Terms of Endearment (4)
Tie: Dining  (1)

I know this is the way you would expect a little bitch to close out an entry like this.  "Nobody wins?! Everyone gets a trophy?! This is crap."  And you are a 100% right.  But I am a little bitch.  The fact is, Spain and America each have their pros and cons.  However, at the end of the day, I am 100% head-over-heels in love with each of them.  I am in love with my birth country and I am in love with my current home.  I get butterflies thinking about each of them.  My heart skips a beat passing all the suits in DC walking to a happy hour, in the same way my grin widens when I walk through Retiro Park.  So today, we appreciate the good, bad and the ugly of each of these fine nations.  Rest assured though, at least the title didn't go to North Korea...

¨Hay Guiris Aqui¨

Being a white, blond haired, blue eyed female living in the United States, I've never felt as if I've truly been discriminated against due to my race or ethnicity.  I've had a pretty privileged go of it, and short of the occasional sexist remarks I've received over the years, society has been pretty kind to me.  I have been lucky to get accepted to a decent university, had no problems getting job offers upon graduation, and my local Starbucks on the corner of 15th and I (DC) always anticipated my order (or is that a pathetic frequency thing rather than white privilege?)  I've gotten out of driving tickets 2/3 of the times I've been pulled over and know that I've received extra perks for being a 'cute girl' which depending on how you look at it, could be a bit demeaning.  Still, the point is I go through the motions of the day to day without much push back or resistance from those around me, which makes it easy for me to forget the experiences others go through on the regular just for their background or color of their skin.

That being said, here in Spain, I don't feel as comfortable as I do in the US.  It´s hard to explain the heightened level of vulnerability I often feel, and it´s incredible how much power one person can hold over me and how much they can make me anxious if they so choose.  Most interactions are very pleasant, as Spanish people are known for their kindness and hospitality over all.  However, there are a few specific occasions where I have felt specifically attacked, or criticized solely because I was an 'extranjero',  or foreigner and judged because they thought they could take advantage of the assumed 'dumb blonde girl.'

To highlight this, let me give you a few examples:

The Shame of the Breakfast Casserole aka "Kill the Beast"

Two weeks ago I was walking home from school and decided I wanted to make a breakfast casserole, one of my favorite comfort foods.  In order to make this, I knew I would need to stop by a Chino* in order to get a pan in which to bake it.  I bought the pan and a loaf of bread for €2 Euros total.  Yes, for those of you that understand Spanish, I bough pan and pan.... I´m such a literary delight.

Then, remembering I still had other grocery shopping to do, I decided to go right from there to the supermarket to grab some additional ingredients I needed like eggs, cheese, and the rest of my groceries.  Before you knew it, I was checking out, purchasing about €26 worth of items.  Let me highlight the fact that one of the items I purchased was about a €8 bottle of wine.  Now, for those of you currently in the land of milk and honey, you will think: oh eight euros, that´s only about $10 or so, not bad.  A normal or low-mid range bottle of wine.  What you are forgetting is that in Spain, wine is basically cheaper than water.  That €8 bottle of wine had a sensor on it, and was the equivalent of our top shelf wine. It was one of the pricier bottles they sold, and in these economic times, me purchasing this wine pretty much solidified my baller status.  Please keep this fact in mind as I continue the rest of the story.

So there I was, checking out, and beginning to bag my own groceries, Aldi´s style.  It was then the lady individual ringing up my items at the check out saw my bag from the Chino.  For the sake of ease of your reading, I will now translate the dialogue exchanged to English.

Puta: ¨You can´t bring that bag in here.  Show me what is in your bag.¨
Me:  ¨Oh, I´m sorry, I didn't know.¨ Showed contents of bag, the baking pan being an item that couldn't even be bought at this grocery store.
Puta: ¨But you can´t bring that in here.  Who saw you come in with it?¨
Me: ¨I´m sorry, I didn't know.  I won´t do it again.  He saw me.¨ Pointing to a guy lingering in the doorway.
Puta: ¨But he doesn't work here.¨
Generous other foreigner whom I pointed at: ¨Yes, ma'am but she doesn't speak Spanish well.¨

At this point, I´m was truly flustered.  If she had a stake she would have surely hanged me for the town´s people to see as an example.  Tar and feather me?  As long as it didn't make a mess that she would have had to clean up.

A line of about eight people were watching this saga unfold.  I was sweating, and my language skills were decreasing by the second, as my frustration caused tears to well within my eyes.  Her voice was loud and pointed, and her body language was closed off and cold.  If ever someone had a vendetta against another individual, it was she against me, and man, was she out for blood.
She flagged over another coworker to yell at me.

Me: ¨No I understand, and I won´t do it again.  But it´s not my fault, no one told me I couldn't bring this bag in, so what do you want me to do about it now?!?¨

All I kept thinking was of my €8 bottle of wine and the rest of my €26 purchase.  If I was going to steal something and put it in the bag from the Chino, wouldn't I have tried to steal something of higher value than a €1 loaf of bread?!

I almost start crying right there.  The whole exchange was probably no more than three or four minutes, but it felt like twenty.  The way she tried to shame and publicly humiliate me was unnecessary, as she could tell that I wasn't used to the customs that the locals shared.  How was I instinctively supposed to know these cultural norms if I was never taught them?

¨She´s having a bad day¨ I said to the lady next to me checking out.
´Today?  No, not today, always.¨  That made me feel slightly better, but I still felt like I was being rushed and kicked out of the grocery store that day for a wrong I didn't even know I had committed.  That woman was trying to make me small and insignificant, and whether true or not, I believed it was because she viewed me as an ignorant foreigner and wanted me to feel unwelcome.  My blue eyes, blonde hair, and broken language skills made me an easy target.

The next time I went to the store, my bag knocked over and broke a jar of mayonnaise while I was passing through the isles.  I told someone about the shattered glass, but felt little remorse.

Epilogue:  Sadly, me standing up for myself and fighting the good fight against the big bad wolf  grocery store clerk didn't reap the tasty benefits for which one would have hoped.  Regretfully, after laboring over my savory dish during the day Friday, I found it a good idea to pop it in the oven around 6 am Saturday morning after a night of partying.  I promptly forgot about it, and let the casserole bake for 5 hours straight.  The final product was slightly more done than the photo pictured in the recipe. ("And she's a Michelin chef?!" you say?!  I told you I'd get more charming/attractive as the entries went on...)

¨Kitchen's Closed¨
Two weekends ago, my friend Luisa had some of her friends from her town in Galicia visiting (the North West part of Spain.)  We decided to get together mid day for some drinks and tapas and I tagged along, wanting to get to know her friends.  It was a group of seven of us, three Spanish three pure American, and our common thread Luisa whom is Spanish and American.  We were enjoying our drinks and ordered a spread of tapas to enjoy for lunch.  Most of the food at Lamiak is great, and in the past, Megan, Laura, and Luisa had great experiences there.  I was looking forward to trying some of the pintxos they raved about.

We all placed our order, and waited for our food to arrive.  After a bit of time, the majority of food was presented and we were busy eating, laughing, and exchanging stories. There was only one server in the establishment that day, so when Luisa and I were each lacking something we ordered, we decided to be patient and give it a little more time.

Finally about a half hour into eating our food, Luisa summoned the waitress to let her know that we were still missing two items.  The waitress was snippy and harsh, and replied that the kitchen was closed for the day and that we would not be getting those items.  She hurriedly walked away.  I was very confused, and rather annoyed.  If in fact that even was true, at what point was she going to tell us that we weren't getting our food?  Did it ever cross her mind to apologize for the shortcomings and offer us something else, on the house?  Her callous attitude was something I despised, and coming from a sales and customer service background, was something  I found abhorrent and quite frankly couldn't tolerate.  I started getting angry and told Luisa this was unacceptable.

We summoned her over again about ten minutes later, and asked her what was going on.  To be honest, because I was so annoyed I don´t remember much of the dialogue that she and Luisa exchanged, but somehow it culminated in her walking away without even acknowledging Luisa at all.  During the entire exchange, Luisa was polite, collected, and respectful.  The fact that the waitress did not do anything to correct the injustice disgusted me.  Then, being factual or not, I took some of my observances into consideration.  Luisa and I are both blonde, blue eyed, and look very American.  Of all of us in the group, we stood out as maybe looking more foreign than the others.  Whether true or not, it was easy to dismiss this as another example of foreigner discrimination.  This didn´t happen to Luisa´s Spanish friends, after-all, but to the two American blondes.

I know, I know, the plight of a privileged, white American girl.  I realize you barely have time to listen to my complaints, and quite frankly, I barely have time to listen to myself complain about these things.  However, these situations stick out, because outside my element, it is possible for me as a blonde, white American girl to feel uncomfortable, or dare I say it, discriminated against based on what I look like or the ideals others believe I represent.

One of Luisa´s friends spoke up and said ¨oh that´s just how things are in Spain, that´s just our customer service.¨ I disagreed, as I don´t think that treating people in a rude manner or ignoring their requests is an inherent quality of a Spaniard vs. American, German, Brit, etc.  I think treating people with a lack of respect is an inherent quality of an asshole, and nothing more.  Using a cultural or ethnic group stereotype to hide behind a shortcoming is cowardly, and something that I think every culture should fight hard against to break.  Every society, race, or ethnic group (black, white, American, Spanish, Asian etc.) has their lazy, rude, and racist, but we as mutual members should not rush to defend the bad qualities of isolated individuals and say that we condone them.  

In light of these two presented scenarios, maybe you can understand that sometimes I have my guard up in public situations while abroad.  One such event occurred when Diego and I were still hanging out.  (For those of you not aware of who said Diego character is, take a reprieve and educate yourself here.)  Diego and I were walking around near the center of the city one night, looking to sit out on a terrace and tomar algo like normal and chat it up for a few hours.  As any native Spaniard or foreigner can tell you, it doesn't matter who you are: if you are living, breathing, and human, you will constantly be accosted by club promoters and waiters to patron their establishment if you are in the Sol/Gran Via area of the city.  Therefore, on this specific occasion, at least four or so promoters had already approached us to see what we were up to and tells us of the deals they had going on that specific night.  It was always funny to see who they would talk to.  If they came up to me they would always speak in English, and if they looked at Diego first, the whole conversation would happen in Spanish.  Nine times out of  ten you say "no, gracias," and continue walking, but every now and then you might actually be interested in what one of them has to offer.

Ok, so here we were back to that particular night.  One such waiter/promoter approached Diego, and started to engage in the litany of specials they had taking place at that venue.  Diego pulled me back to stop me from brushing the guy off like we usually did, and grabbed my hand as if to say hold on, I'm listening to this guy.  I stopped and re-directed, and started listening to the spiel.  The waiter mentioned the shot prices, some of the food they had, and gestured to the terrace where we could sit. It's then where he dropped the bomb; "Hay guiris, aqui."         

Hay guiris, aqui?!?! Who the HELL does that guy think he is?!   

Let me take a second to explain the word guiri to those of you whom are unfamiliar.   Guiri is a word that my friends and I here use regularly amongst ourselves.  It means a foreigner within Spain, and usually applied to the white, clueless, and unaware.  It's become a term of endearment amongst my group and we use it with love for each other.  Guiri, it's Sunday, good luck finding an opened grocery store.  Guiri, you just told her you were pregnant, not that you are embarrassed. Silly guiri!  However, just like any slang used to describe a particular ethnic group, it can be used from people who don't belong to that group in a derogatory manner.  In this particular situation, I was offended and outraged that the waiter would use the fact that other white Brits or Americans were patroning his establishment as if to say, Look here!  She will feel comfortable, we let foreigners eat here, too-- just look at that other blonde girl over there!

I was angry and felt that this was out of line.  Here I was clearly with a Spaniard, trying my best to assimilate, and this chump had the audacity to think that I needed to be in a guiri-friendly zone?!

I tugged on Diego´s sleeve aggressively.  ¨Did he just say Hay guiris aqui?!?!¨

Diego laughed at me and patted my head quickly as if the say, shhhh silly little girl, you have no idea what is going on.  Soon the waiter escorted us over to the terrace and sat us down.  Still in a huff, I look at Diego another time and pointedly asked, ¨En serio, ha dicho hay guiris aqui?!¨  (¨Wait, really did he just say ´there are guiris here´?¨)

Diego chuckled again and grabbed the menu and pointed at the drinks.  ¨No, guapa, hay DA-quiris aqui.¨

My anger and frustration quickly dissipated as my embarrassment level rose rapidly. I felt my cheeks grow flush. Here I was getting so defensive at this poor waiter thinking he was trying to single me out based on ethnicity, when really he was just trying to show me their drink specials and tell us they sold Sex on the Beach and Tequila Sunrise... WHAT a classic guiri mix-up.  I was on the defense and assuming things, and we all know what happens when you assume...

As you can see, my slightly discomforting/angering experiences here in Spain have been nothing compared to the everyday experiences that people of color go through on a regular basis.  While living as a white person in the same city and experiencing life with people of color that I am close with (friends, coworkers, ex-boyfriends, etc.)  it´s easy not to see some of the injustices that they experience for just looking a certain way, even when I´m next to them while something happens.  Now, I know you are smart readers, and I can see you already know where I´m taking this.  But before you get mad thinking, so your food didn´t come at a restaurant, or you got yelled at in a grocery store--big deal.  Even if that actually was because of your ethnicity, it in no way compares to getting called the N word or not being able to go to prom with the person I wanted to take because her dad didn´t approve (true story.) To these statements I would 100% agree.  I´m sure the level of ´discrimination´ I have experienced as a foreigner in my three months in Spain is nothing next to the discrimination that you as a person of color in America have faced even in a normal day.  That being said, let me tell you one important thing I have learned recently.

In college (2008-2011,) I was an active participant in Penn State´s Dance Marathon affectionately referred to as THON.  This group is the biggest reason why I am proud to be a Penn Stater, as THON is the largest student run philanthropy in the world, helping to fight for a cure for pediatric cancer.  During my years in THON, I heard many stories about the four-diamond families, and learned a lot about their struggles with cancer.  I got to know some of the kids, and even had a few tours of the children´s hospital we supported and met some of the kids and families personally.  Sharing with their experiences I felt as if I knew what they were going through and could relate.  Maybe I didn´t have cancer, or wasn´t in a cancer family, but I understood their plight (or so I thought.)

Most of you are probably aware that my father was diagnosed with esophageal cancer at the end of March, 2012.  His disease was aggressive and relentless, and he fought hard until the disease took him July 7, 2013.  From a first hand account, I then could see the difference.  How different it was to support and have empathy for cancer families, than to be one yourself.  It was then that I realized I never truly understood when I really thought I had all along.  Even to my fellow THON captain´s or friends that came to my aid-- if you have never had a sick father you will NEVER know.  As much as you try to relate, you will never know what it feels like to watch your father transform from upbeat and energetic, to a sad, shell of a man.  Watching someone whom had genius level intelligence go from philosophical to forgetting basic words like ´chair´ or ´table´ is not something you will understand. As much as you can try to help or sympathize, if your father hasn´t passed away, you won´t understand why I always walk away during the father/daughter dance at weddings because I experience intense pain and jealousy over an experience I will never have.  As hard as you try to relate, you can´t because you haven´t experienced it first hand.

However, the most important thing to realize, is that it doesn´t stop at not knowing or being able to fully relate.  Sometimes, while going through the grieving process or coping with the illness of my father, some friends would approach me and say something truly off-putting or offensive.  They said these things not because they were trying to attack or hurt but because they were trying to show they cared and understood, and in their ignorance, came up short.  The best example I have of this comes from the HBO series Girls.
Shoshanna is in a vulnerable state and admits to Marnie that she is still a virgin.  Marnie completely can´t identify, so she tries to comfort Shoshanna with the most upsetting thing she can think of that happened to her: ¨I don´t know what to say.  I hit a puppy once with my car.¨ Watch the clip here at 1:20.  As ridiculous and funny as this clip is, it hit pretty close to home to me when I was experiencing my dad´s illness.  That being said, the fact still remains, their comments or ignorant remarks came from love.  Even when my friends ´messed up´ I appreciated their idiocy, because I knew they meant well, and were trying their best to relate.  To me, it was enough.

I will never be a person of color.  I know that one day, I won´t miraculously wake up with darker skin, or become a part of a different group.  It´s true, my friends and people of color, that I won´t ever TRULY KNOW what you are going through.  As much as I try to relate, I will certainly come up short.  I will (and most likely have-- even in this article) say things to you that are meant to be in solidarity but are interpreted as offensive and ignorant.  However, please know, that I am trying.  It´s impossible for me to know, but please let my support and misplaced comments be enough.
  



*a corner store or grocery store-- I could talk all day about how racist that is, but the Spanish honest to God call them this.