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. 

All My Single Ladies

Recently I read a book recommended to me from my friend Megan, titled What I was Doing While You Were Breeding. In it, the author, suitably named Kristin (Newman) talks all about her travels and adventures that she has been up to, while her friends began nesting and building their white picket fences as part of their married lives.   While I didn't always find Kristin completely likeable, I did find her overwhelmingly relate-able and couldn't help but see myself in various scenarios and share many of her fears, thoughts, and dreams.  In it, Kristin struggles openly with the desire to be engaged or married but not having come across the right person that she would chose to commit her life to yet.  Rather than living her life on the sidelines and waiting around for "Mr. Right," Kristin dives into a life of travel, adventure, and fulfillment on her own terms and creates a life for herself, without a man.  What a concept.  There's a line that I wrote down from the book that struck a chord with me: "I haven't found true love, but I had stumbled onto the people who were going to make my life happier without it." I loved that, as she found other people and things to give her joy outside of what society told her would make her happy.

Like most people these days, it's easy for me to get caught up with the future, and the "bigger, better, best."  I find myself often preoccupied with plans for next month or week rather than the now and happenings of today.  Wouldn't it be nice if I had more money?  I wish I had 'blah' 'blah' 'blah' that she had.  Sweet Lord, if only my body looked like that.  But being the basic betch that I am, I have found a nice quote on Pinterest (apparently a Mumford and Son's Lyric) that I've hung on my wall to stop thinking like this and that "I will learn to love the skies I'm under."  Is it working?  Stay tuned... 

It recently occurred to me that six out of the nine girls I grew up with and have known since I was about 4 or 5 years old are now married (about 67%.)  Two of them have procreated--on purpose (about 22%.)  At age 25, this revelation came as a bit of a shock to the system and I took a second to step back and review the stats.

Let me start by saying that I couldn't be more happy to support them in their new stages of life.  These friends of mine had started a new chapter, one of which in the future I too hope to begin, as well.  They have made the decision to get married at the time that felt right and appropriate for them, and for that I give them my overwhelming support and well wishes.  I respect their life choices and will stand (and have stood beside them) on their special days, walking down the isle with the awkward guy I am paired with, and wearing uncomfortable shoes, so that I can visibly show I love them, and I'm genuinely happy to do it.  

However, as much as I can be happy for my friends who have decided to get married or have children, there is nothing I dread more than a bridal or baby shower.  Why you ask? If you yourself are a single 25 year-old girl, you know EXACTLY why.  Contrary to popular belief, it isn't watching my friend open hand towels and CUTCO knifes while I pretend to feign interest in the corresponding bingo game I have played a thousand times before to win a warm vanilla sugar candle.  No, the reason I hate bridal/baby showers is why every unattached girl my age does: The relentless interrogation from middle aged and old women* who abound at said events.  The litany of passive aggressive remarks that middle aged women and the grey-hairs have become masters of and the witch trials they lead are the reasons why I dread bridal showers.  

"So, Kristen, tell me all about your boyfriend..."

When I tell them I don't have a boyfriend they start to squirm and get uncomfortable and writhe around in their chairs, as if I just told them that I have months to live.  They quickly change the subject and get a sad, empathetic look on their faces, taking pity on me.  I told them I was single, not that my puppy just died.  I'm confused..... did I do something wrong here??

And here's the thing:  These women, as much as they would never publicly admit it or even recognize it outside of their own subconscious, actually do think I am doing something wrong.  They're feeling sad for me, because they think I'm missing out, and that I'm not living my life.   They can't relate at all to me, because they were already married with a baby on the way by my age.  After all, what can you possibly be doing of value if not for getting married after college?!  And as everyone knows within the definition of a fearful or ignorant person:  That individual will always dislike something they do not know/understand or to which they can relate.  Rather than asking me about the positive things I could possibly be doing in my life while not currently planning a wedding, these women sit sadly and infer that I must go home every night and knit like a depressed spinster, waiting to be saved by a knight in shining armor.

Make no mistake: me writing this article is not and argument stating that I am right and that my friends who marry young are wrong. Quite the contrary, really.  I believe that there really is no definitive right or wrong, but rather only choices that an individual can make that is right or wrong for themselves on a personal basis.  I think it is equally wrong for me to argue that you shouldn't get married young, just as I think it is completely ignorant of you to suggest I should get married young.  No, the purpose of me writing this article is to give you, my fellow single girl, ammunition to empower yourself and educate the pack of middle aged to old women at the next bridal shower you attend of the kind of life you are living by not having a spouse.  That your life still holds EQUAL--not less or more-- value to your married BFF.  And so, the next time some old lady winks at you and says "I bet you're next" you can rightfully rebuke that ignorant bitch lady who barely knows you with how kick-ass your life currently is by talking about some things you have been up to that you could only (or more easily) do as a single adult.

And while I'm sure you could find a strikingly similar list on a site like buzzfeed or Elite Daily, here's:

What I Have Personally Learned and Achieved by Not Being Married at Age 25.

1.  I have become a master of navigation and public transport.
Ask me how long it takes to get from Eisenhower to McPherson metro stop (in DC) and I can give you a precise figure down to the minute depending on if any of the lines are down, if there's a Nats game, or if it's after rush hour.  I know that I will always be out of breath as if I ran the rocky steps while getting out of Tribunal and that one should NEVER attempt to walk the stairs in La Latina, as those stairs were surely the inspiration for Stairway to Heaven (Madrid.)  I know at least three airports like the back of my hand, and can tell you which ones allow you to use Passbook on your phone and which require you to physically print your ticket before going through security.  I know all these things personally because rather than buying a house with my husband right out of college, I've moved around a lot and thus have learned the importance of public transportation in large cities. 

2.  I have developed a palate for what I like or don't like in a city I want to live in.
Post college I have lived in four different cities and have started to acquire a taste in what I appreciate in a permanent long term home.  I know I rather dislike Austin's climate, but if I happen to go back for a visit, I won't leave before getting mac and cheese at Lambert's or having a drink on Rainey Street. While eternal PowerPoint presentations and Atlanta traffic would be my perfect hell, I know that nothing beat's Atlanta's music and dance scene and a fall night out on a patio in Buckhead is something dreams are made of.  DC Kickball is something for the books, and looking at the lit-up monuments late at night gives me chills and sometimes honestly brings tears to my eyes.  Spanish bureaucracy is something that could cause me to pack my bags this second, but I'll change my mind instantly after walking through Retiro with a chocolate croissant.  Rather than buying a long term home right away, wherever my husband or I found work, I've been lucky to test out a bunch of cities so that when I'm ready to purchase a place it's not arbitrary but rather intentional.  It's been fun getting to know different places independently and learning more about myself in the process.      

3. I make opinions for myself based on personal experience, not by what the media tells me.
There is a middle aged woman I know who won't go to the gigantic country of Mexico because it is "far too dangerous."  The drug cartels and kidnappings are terrifying.  I would agree, but I also know that saying you won't go to the entire country of Mexico is the equivalent of a foreigner saying they will never go to the US because of Detroit.  And how do I know for a fact that Mexico is not one gigantic war zone?  Because I've been there.  Because I was busy soaking up Margaritas and swimming with dolphins and all the while I never got shot.  Because I talked to the locals about their country and learned from their experiences.  Because I didn't take what Nancy Grace said one time as gospel and actually learned for myself.  Has said woman ever been to Mexico?  Not at all.  I'm not saying that she couldn't have traveled substantially from ages 22-fifty something if she wanted to, but the point is, she didn't.  She got married right out of school, and life got in the way.  Saving money for a home, not being able to take a trip one week because of Cara's dance recital, etc.  Travel is certainly something that is easier to do when you are younger and unattached.  That said, being single and responsible for only me, I have been fortunate to travel extensively for someone my age.  I'm currently on my third tour of Europe and have been to over ten countries and probably over 30 international cities with more trips planned this year. I'm taking this time to learn and grow from my experiences so that one day when I'm 56 I don't say something like 'the Mexico comment' for which a 25 year-old girl will roll her eyes at me (I'm sure I'll give her other reasons to do so.)  


4.  I have strengthened life-long relationships with my girlfriends.
Many of the married ladies I know still have a lot of girlfriends and make them a priority.  In no way do I find marriage and other friendships mutually exclusive.  However, I will say, I did have a few friends who got so consumed with their significant others and future spouses that they lost a large amount of friends along the way.  At one point, a friend was going through a difficult time with her then boyfriend and future spouse.  She confided in me, saying she didn't know if she should still be with him or where the relationship was headed.  I shrugged and said, "I don't know, if you are having all these doubts, maybe you should break up with him."  Then she uttered the chilling line I hope I never hear again: "But Kris, I don't really have any friends."
Staying with someone because you don't really have any other friends is not a decision I want anyone to make.  It's so important to remain close to your friends no matter if you are in a relationship or not.  Being single has provided me the time to really get closer to my friends, and take trips and build lasting memories with them.  Moving so often has allotted me the opportunity to make new friends, while staying in touch with long time friends.  A husband is great and all, but he's not an end all to beat all.  Plus, I'm pretty sure my future husband won't tell me if I should get an oxblood or forest green mani whereas my friends will absolutely have an opinion.

5.  I can live on my own and handle life tasks independently.
Living on my own since 18, I have learned to look after myself in basic ways without relying on another individual.  I learned how to do my laundry unlike Schmidt from New Girl, and can trick society into thinking I'm a normal functioning adult.  If I want to eat Bagel Bites naked in bed (who doesn't?!) that's my prerogative.  While I don't have the responsibility to cook meals for others, this in turn means I have no one to cook for me.  I've learned to make at least eight or ten meals decently (even if I don't cook often) but the point is, I can take care of myself.  Otherwise, if I don't feel like cooking, I can take the money I've made to use it to pay for dinner.  I have filed my own taxes, and even did what many single people my age haven't done: opened bank accounts and found housing and negotiated housing contracts in a foreign country and language.  I have balanced my own budget and renewed my own car's registration.  I don't have a husband to rely on telling me when to get my oil checked or the amount of money I'm allowed to spend on the grocery store.  Now, let's not get it twisted.  I'm not saying that those that get married young don't do these things themselves or can't do these things.  What I am saying is that I've personally seen a classic example where a woman got married right out of school to a man, and allowed him to manage many aspects of their lives while she remained blissfully disengaged from it all.  When he was no longer part of her life, there was brief panic, as she then had to learn how to balance a budget, manage finances, do her taxes, and handle car problems alone for the first time as a full grown adult.  Being single and independent at age 25 means I've been forced to learn all these things on my own without help.  I'm secure with or without a man helping me problem solve, and that is incredibly liberating.  

6.  I spend holidays the way in which I want.
Never have I ever had the following conversation:
"No honey, we did Thanksgiving with your parents last year.  We told my folks we'd have Thanksgiving with my family this year."

"Ummmm I don't know babe, Christmas last year at my house didn't really count after all of that drama with Uncle John in the hospital throughout all of it, plus I don't think we can afford the flights to your parents place twice this year."  

This Christmas break I will be traveling to Berlin, Prague, and Sevilla, and spending New Years in Madrid eating the traditional 12 grapes.   And why?  Because I don't have a marriage certificate. 


7. I spend money on things that are important to me.
When I lived in Texas and was completely miserable, I self medicated with purchasing two Michael Kors watches within one month.  Was that the most fiscally responsible thing to do?  100% not.  Were my $300 Atlanta shopping sprees healthy?  Nope.  But was I a 22 year-old kid making more money than I knew what to do with?  Yes.  Did I have a husband telling me how to spend it?  No.  How do you think I'm able to afford all the extensive travel I'll be doing this year (other than some loans I may be taking out?)  Well, the money I make is mine to spend.  I'm not sharing a budget with another person, and my travel is not coming at the expense of my kids getting diapers.  I'm selfish and that's okay-- because I don't have my own family yet.    


As you can see, just because I don't have a diamond on my left hand, it doesn't mean I've been hanging out knitting (Netflix maybeeeee.)  Life is all about trade-offs.  The friends of mine who are getting married young are going to be the hot moms.  They will probably have 401k's and Retirement funds because they weren't living life like a gypsy.  They have advantages that I don't have and that's okay.  It's not a constant contest of "who's better?!" so let's stop viewing it that way.  Let's all learn to love the skies we're under, single or married.

So in closing, here's my advice for the single ladies:  Have a bit of pride and stand up for yourself.  You are living a wonderful life that YOU are choosing, and everyone around you should be respectful of that.  Walk with your heads high, so the haters can see that beautiful statement necklace you bought with your own money they could never afford at your age.

And to the select middle aged and older women whom have been the inspiration for this article?  Get your head out of your ass and stop being mean girls.  We don't have time for you.




*Before all my mom's friends and the like become personally offended, know that I am not referring to every individual middle aged or older woman, only the women who are guilty of such heinous crimes.  I would dare to imagine if you haven't partook in such conversations, you would not be feeling offended right now.  However, I am looking at the woman at the baby shower who asked me about my engagement and fiancé when I wasn't even wearing a ring... use your head, lady....

A Hostage Situation

As any expat who has lived in Spain longer than a few months will tell you, there are just some things about this beautiful country that just won't make sense no matter how you slice it.  If you have been out of the European game for a while like me, your foreign eyes will be much more astute to these oddities being fresh on the scene than for someone who has been here a considerable amount of time.  You will notice these bizarre happenings everywhere and every day:  The way my yesterday morning bus' rear-view mirror was being held up by Dixie cups and packaging tape was a prime example-- I apologize in advance for not taking a picture.  Another thing I will never understand is the way that the Spanish find it completely abhorrent to walk around one's own apartment barefoot, but don't bat an eye at the fact that there are no sterilizing wipes at the gym (because people rubbing their pools of sweat into the machines with towels is completely kosher and sanitary.)

Seeing as I will be going to Stockholm, Sweden in a few weeks (Dec. 5) I find it timely to tell you the tale of how I personally grew to experience Stockholm syndrome within my own Spanish backyard (read: Dominoes) in a story that is surely the pinnacle example of how Spain just doesn't make sense.  I will begin said story now.

It all started with a common goal and desire between my friends and me to eat as much good food as possible, as cheaply as possible.  Mind you, this is before the days of me completely ripping a pair of jeans total Eat, Pray, Love style, so currently, I'm trying to reel it in a bit with the hotdog contest competition eating.  For those of you whom are becoming super attracted to me now, just wait, the feelings will most assuredly grow stronger over future entries.  However, this story takes place in a much more liberal time, where I would join any binge eating session with reckless abandon and without any hesitation.     

All my friends and I have our vices of things we miss from home (Allyson's jalapenos, my Frank's Red Hot Sauce, everyone's love for Hidden Valley Ranch dressing etc.) so striking a good deal on some American food from time to time is obviously a solid win for everyone.  Compound all of these desires in knowing you can get unlimited pizza somewhere for only €6,50 and it's obviously a done deal--thanks so much for the tip-off, Dillon.   

 
With this new discovery in mind, we did what any starving group of American ladies would do: strategically plot our plan of attack for our day in the sun with Dominos.  We all agreed that Sunday would be a great day to go, and that we should try to refrain as much as possible from eating prior to, in order for maximum pizza consumption to be had.  Mid-day around 3:30 pm would be a prime time to go, so that the food could sustain us long into the night, a la Thanksgiving dinner style.  An extensive whatsapp group chat was exchanged about what the proper attire was for this event and everyone agreed there was no other acceptable clothing apart from flowly tops and maternity pants that could allow for full utilitarian stretching and give for our future food babies.  We were prepared, and ready to go full American on some American dining.

We arrived a little past 3:30 pm- myself, Luisa, Megan, Brittany, Allyson, Kelly, and our two patient and loving Spaniard accomplices of this endeavor, Jaime (Kelly's fiancé ) and Tito (Jaime's BFF.)  I tell you that Jaime and Tito are Spanish now, not because it is currently relevant, but will become very important later on in the story.

We began ordering our first round of pizzas: pepperoni, barbeque, a meat lovers, and something like supreme. Some of us indulged in the unlimited and copious amount of free fountain soda, while others refrained from drinking too much, afraid that consumption would limit their pizza intake.  We originally wanted to come prepared with a bottle of ranch from the American store, but seeing as it was the end of the month and some of us had run out of cash, we sadly didn't have the funds to pay for it-- but what a great idea.

I took a look around the restaurant and assessed the scene.  Small tables of meek families minding their own.  A few guys together wearing Abercrombie and Fitch.  A man in KHAKI PANTS.  KHAKI PANTS IN A DOMINOS!!!!   My bleeding eyes!!!!  Having seen enough rat-pack movies and general teenage flicks to realize, I could tell that we were the "it" group of the restaurant that day.  Americans, boisterous and commanding, to the front of the restaurant, rolling eight deep, all dressed in clothing suitable for the event.  The envious stares were obvious.  My, my, my, how the tables had turned.  On the outside of those doors I was another blonde, clueless American.  But inside these doors? Inside these sacred doors of Dominoes, I was once again home in my American element.  My friends and I were a wolf pack.  We WERE The Plastics, or the Pink Ladies of Dominos, if you will.  The pride swelled within me.  I gave khaki boy a "yeah you wish you were us" type look.  #1776. 

At one point, a Dominos employee walked out of the kitchen with two hot pizzas and began taking them to the back of the restaurant.  With zero hesitation, Jaime immediately raised his voice and his hand and flagged the lady down alerting her that those pizzas were ours.  I told Kelly how proud I was of her man for taking such charge of flagging down our pizzas and that she is lucky to be marrying a man of such sustenance.  She agreed and proceeded to tell me that they are the lone members of a "pizza club" and get pizza every week.  I admired the pillars of their relationship.  Some may say this pairing go together like peas and carrots, but I know better: cheese and pepperoni.

After about two or three rounds and roughly six or seven pizzas total (can anyone remember the precise figure?) we decided we had consumed our maximum allowance for the day.  The girls and I gave Jaime and Tito our money, and they went to the front to settle up and pay.  We sat there talking amongst ourselves, and after about four minutes, the boys came back to the table.  We started to grab our purses ready to leave, but the boys stopped us.   

"Okay, so here's the thing," Jaime calmly explained, "we can't go yet, we have to order another pizza."

The girls and I laughed at them and how adorable Jaime and Tito looked so somber and 'in character' as they tried to trick us that we weren't allowed to leave.  We told them that they were funny and began to stand up ready for the door.  With more fervor, Jaime stopped us again.  "No, really, we can't leave.  It's part of the deal, we have to stay!"  He shrugged his shoulders in solidarity with Dominos, our captor, as if he truly agreed in the principle.  We had accepted a challenge after all, and if we fell short, he agreed we served to suffer the consequences.  Our Spanish boys admitted defeat and started asking us which pizza should be our last.

Meanwhile, my American comrades  and I could not believe a)what bogus line we had just been told but moreover, b) that our men accepted it and gave it no question.  Here we were at an "unlimited pizza" deal, with no restrictions, or should I say minimum requirements displayed on signage.  We were perplexed and squabbled amongst ourselves.  Some snip-its of our diatribe looked like this:

"How could this be?!  We are trying to actually save them money by eating less for the same price. This makes LITERALLY ZERO sense.  Why won't they won't let us leave?!"  

"No wonder Spain's economy is a complete s***show right now"

"I seriously can't comprehend the words I'm hearing right now."

And there we remained, trapped in the stagnant yet fragrant air of a Dominos.  My future flashed before my eyes, as I thought about what would be.  Surely this wasn't grounds for an Argo type of rescue scenario.... or was it?   All the while our men stood silently, heads down ready to eat our final pizza.  Growing up their entire lives in Spain and knowing nothing different, they found nothing weird with this idea Dominos shared that day and were content with the fact that we would be held prisoner inside a fast food institution.    

Slowly but steadily, the chorus from the popular Les Miserables song started to swell within my crew--sans gentlemen.

"Do you hear the people sing?  Singing the song of angry (wo)men.  It is the music of a people who will not be slaves again!  When the beating of your heart echos the beating of the drums, there is a life about to start when tomorrow comes..."

So Kelly politely asked Jaime "will you join in our crusade? Who will  be strong and stand with me?" brashly demanded, "Jaime, please just fix this and tell them that we aren't eating any more.  If we really need to eat something else, make them give us one of those Ben and Jerry's behind the counter to go!"

Yes that actually happened, we bargained with our captors.

Finally, after what seemed like close to two full days but was actually more like 4 minutes, the Dominos employees let us go.  We must have confused them with our differing correct logic to the point that they didn't want to fight it any longer.

Stepping out of the door and towards the outside world, things seemed to happen in slow motion.  The glances we swapped with each other silently seemed to say "you can breathe easy now, the worst is behind us."  As our grins grew wider, I felt the sunshine warmly caress my face.  The sun felt warmer than it did before we went to Dominos.  Surely, colors were now brighter, and the air had a certain freshness that the smoke-polluted air of Madrid never had previously.  High-fives abounded amongst ourselves.  It was a happy time, and a time to be cherished.  I thought about giving my earring to Luisa for her to remember me by like I had seen at the end of The Breakfast Club, but I reconsidered knowing I only brought a few pairs to Spain.    

They say when you come back from war, you will always share a comradery with those that fought alongside you.  There's a deep connection, an unexplainable bond that you share that no one else can quite understand.  Walking out of that Dominos that day, I thought of my seven unique friends differently, with a heightened sense of respect, love and loyalty.  Stockholm syndrome may be for the weak of heart, but it is also for the pizza lovers.

 

Leggo My Diego

Once upon a time in Madrid, I dated a guy named Diego for about two or three weeks.  The what, when, and why are really of no importance, as you can see I wrote datED as we are no longer together. (As I tell my kids at school, past tense ends in -ed.)  Mom, your heart rate can start returning to normal--I am not in love with a Spaniard, yet.

While I will write future entries of funny things that happened while Diego and I were dating, this entry is focused on the build up of our "relationship" if you can call it that, our abrupt ending, and why we are no longer "en pareja" if you will.

But first, a bit about our dynamic:  Diego and I were a funny duo.  He was attractive (like most Spanish men) and tall (unlike most Spanish men) and most importantly adored every aspect of my being which was obviously my favorite thing about him.  Diego spoke next to no English, which was terrible because he couldn't fully conceptualize how truly amazing I can be when I'm witty or sarcastic but also amazing for him because I talk significantly less in Spanish.  During our dates together, I would teach him very important phrases like "butterface" and "turnt up," and in turn, he would teach me phrases like "no tienes un abuela" ( an expression basically meaning "you are full of yourself")  and gently tell me I shouldn't be so loud in public: clearly a perfect match.  He would tell me I was "pija" (posh) because I wore Michael Kors watches and I would freak him out over the amount of times I would abruptly stop our conversations in order to point to a cute dog walking down the street.  He amused me by getting Mexican with me one night even though Spanish people don't like spicy foods* and even learned to play flip cup with my friends one night pre-gaming.

On our first date, I assumed that I would probably only be able to talk to him for about fifteen minutes total due to my completely insufficient Spanish speaking abilities. However, as our boy Jason reminds us, "been around the world don't speak the language, but that booty don't need explainin'."  Diego and I were able to fake it til we made it and surprisingly found out a lot about each other amidst  numerous que?'s and charades that night.  We started out sharing sangria in a cave bar with a piano player, and next thing I know ten minutes turned into four hours.  We went to two different bars and he took me on a tour of various important sites throughout the city.  Sidenote: I felt I really killed it, as I was able to make a few jokes in Spanish.  For example, when he took me to the ruins of the Egyptian temple I asked him if he was going to swim for me in the moat.

When we walked over to the The Palacio Real (the royal palace) I asked him if he lived there.  Listen, you may not think those things are funny, but trying to be quick witted like that in a different language, I thought I did alright.  Finally after about four hours, Diego and I shared a "traditional Spanish goodbye" inside the metro in front of various on lookers.  Try as hard as you may, but MAC Lady Danger does not always stay in tact even if you wear lip liner, as was obvious to multiple passerby's. (I see you cringing, mom and Adam, and I apologize.  However, for the sake of the story...)

At the culmination of that date, Diego and I talked a lot.  He would always whatsapp me throughout my day, calling me guapa (beautiful) and asking about my day or telling me to tranquila whenever I overreacted--aka always.  He knew my roommate was creepy, (more on that in future entries,) and said he would come over sometime to assess him which I found chivalrous.  Diego said he would help me get my internet set up and ordered.  Being a computer engineer,  I figured he could set up my password for my internet too, along with dealing with the internet company.  Fun and also functional.  I learned that he was from the North of Spain from a cold city just like me, and I found it adorable that he looked up where Rochester was on a map and told me later what he learned.  He had two younger siblings that lived near home and his birthday was April 14, meaning that he would have to get me a birthday present first.  As you can see, I was obviously focusing on the right things.

One night before my first day of school he insisted we did something special to kick off my new job.  I just went to a dance studio that night and when I got out I was sweaty and gross. I told him fine, but I would need to go home and shower first. I agreed to meet him and that we would walk to where we were going together.  I finally showed up about 45 minutes late--whoops--and he just laughed at me.  I assumed we were just going to a typical bar wherever to tomar algo (have a drink or something small to eat) but instead he actually had a particular place in mind.  A Spaniard with a plan? I still don't believe it.

We got to Circulo de Bellas Artes probably around 11 or 11:30 pm which was still enough time for a drink or so before the 1 pm close of that night.  We walked into the marble entrance, and Diego paid our admission to get inside.  Marble everywhere.  Void.  A lone elevator to the top.  HOW. FANCE.  Then we got into the elevator which took us to the roof from which you could see the whole city.  There were photos of modern art all around the perimeter of the building.  Covering the roof there were high-top tables for having drinks with friends and large beds with canopies that overlooked the city for couples to be couples.  Now, although I have never been to Vegas, I have seen enough movies to know that this was the Spanish version of a rooftop pool bar, and I was most certainly deserving of this life.

Diego and I picked a canopy bed to hang out in so he could dame mimos, claro (cuddle with me, obviously) and we ordered drinks.  I attempted to be independent and order a vodka limon which due to my accent was a complete fail, so Diego saw my panic and stepped in to order my €9 drink for me.  We had great conversations that eventually lead to American football--why wouldn't they?--and I told him my team was the Buffalo Bills.  I told him that if he was going to want to continue seeing me, he would have to pick an American football team to follow as I could only talk about Real Madrid for so many hours of the day.  Diego obliged and picked the Pats which I promptly and vehemently opposed.  No prospective future boyfriend of mine would ever agree to liking the Pats.  (My ex had and it was a battle that was perpetually fought.)   I pulled up an NFL division listing on my phone and pointed out the teams that were miserable and told him he could only choose those select few.  Without hesitation, he arbitrarily chose the Oakland Raiders.  PERFECT.  I would have no competition and this pleased me.  The following photo is an actual screen shot of a conversation we had the next day or so during which he trash talks me on pretty much no statistical grounds (but so proud of his English!!)

A day or so later would be the last time I ever saw Diego.  It started usual, going out for tapas and getting a few drinks.  We met up with my friends, and he sat there attentively while we spoke in American slang and abbreviations like basic American girls, making it nearly impossible for him to understand anything that was happening.  When it was getting late, my friends and I decided it was time to go home.  I asked Diego if he wanted to get one more drink somewhere or do something else, but he explained that the bars were now closing and that the clubs were starting to open.  I didn't really feel like going to a club, so I politely declined and told him I'd probably see him tomorrow anyway.  We walked into the metro and were about to branch off and say goodbye before we each took our separate trains home to perspective places.  It was then that Diego was able to do what few people in the history of the world have been able to do: render me speechless.

Diego asked me if we could sit down.  As in, right there, in the middle of the metro station on the steps.  I figured this couldn't be good, but in no way did I anticipate what was about to unfold.  He sat there nervous for a second, and I took his hand and told him it was okay, and encouraged him to speak.  I thought maybe he was going to tell me that he didn't really want to see me anymore or basically anything other than what actually came out of his mouth.  The following phrase will be burned into my mind forever:
"YO SOY UN PAPA."                      "I am a dad."

Ummmmmmmmmmmm, whattttttttt, Diego?!?!?  I'm sorry I hallucinated for a second and thought you told me that you were a father.  Maybe you mean to tell me you are gay?  Surely you mean you are gay, as it is a repeating pattern in my life where men of whom I'm interested in will come out to me.

This is the part of the movie where colors fade and the person talking starts to sound like Charlie Brown's teacher.  I was so completely caught off guard and clearly confused.  He continued to tell me about how he wished he could tell me earlier but the timing didn't feel right.  I agreed: the steps of the metro just before it closed was certainly the best time and the place for this.  I asked him about the babymamma, and he said they were never truly together, but just liked to enjoy eachother's company from time to time, if you will.  Fantastic.  She was now with someone new so it was completely 'ok' if he was dating someone else.  I asked if we could please switch to speaking English.  My brain was blowing up and Spanish words were not computing.  He said no, but he would speak in Spanish slower instead.  I was not comprehending anything.  At a loss for words, I asked how old the kid was--8 months old.

WHAT?!?!  I couldn't even do the math in my head but what I did know was that wasn't a lot of time and the baby was in diapers.

TOO. MANY. SHOCKS. TO. THE. SYSTEM.  I sat there in stunned silence.  He looked at me genuinely concerned, as he had never seen me pause more than three seconds between words before.   I didn't know what else to say.  Hating awkward silences myself, I staggered to the next logical, yet not helpful question:  "What is his name?"

"NO, Kristen.  Hay dos!  SON GEMELOS!!"

And that, ladies and gentleman, is how I learned the Spanish word for twins.


Diego asked me, "Estoy enfadada conmigo?" ("Are you mad at me?")
"No"-- I wasn't just shocked -- and "Estas flipando?" ("Are you flipping out?")  "No"-- A total lie because I was.  He said he was so relieved and that he swore he had no more secrets.  Well, I sure as hell hope not, Diego.  He went on to tell me that one  of the kid's infant's was named Edgar, after some famous soccer player.  Yes, they named their kid after a famous goalie or something.  The stereotype was so glaring that I felt like I was reading a page out of a Chelsea Handler autobiography.  We said goodbye as normal, but somehow that time the kiss felt stale and lifeless--I can't quite put my finger on why. 

The next day, I ate a chocolate bar the size of my face (ok, bigger,) and a bag of Cheetos.  I felt bamboozled, and utterly confused.  Diego was fun and I enjoyed spending time with him. However, I couldn't shake the thought that I didn't want to love spending time with him because at age 25 I was not ready to be a step-mom. Of infants. Twin infants. In a foreign country.

I went out with some girlfriends for Sangria the next day or so later.  When I told the girls that Diego had to tell me something, and he sat me down on the steps, I asked them to guess what they thought he said.  Some of the guesses included "he's gay" or "he has herpes or AIDS."  Everyone agreed that the reality was worse.   

Throughout the day he kept texting me, wanting to get together to talk it out.  I told him I needed more time, and that I could maybe meet him in a few days.  I didn't know what my game plan was.  "YOU AREN'T SEEING HIM AGAIN" chorused my friends.  Apparently that was the game plan.  Of course they were right.  Over a string of probably six full paragraphs back and forth to each other, he would beg to see me again "at the very least to say goodbye."  I got frustrated, stressed, and sweaty, and passed the phone to my darling friend Allyson to handle the text exchange.  I had tagged out, and now this was her personal telanovela, and man did she love the drama.  

He told me (but really Allyson) that it wasn't really a big deal that he has twin babys because he only sees them a few times a month and that I won't even realize he has kids.  They live in a different city, after all.  Gentlemen, if ever you are trying to win over a girl, make sure that you tell her you would like to see your kids as little as possible, and would definitely put her over your children.  Watch the ladies come running.  Finally, after a few more glasses of Sangria and a few more sappy exchanges, Allyson past the phone back to me and pretty much was all, "Consider it handled," Olivia Pope style.  At some point throughout the course of this mellow drama, and my various "I can't EVEN with Diego right now" my friend Brittany exclaimed what we were all thinking:  "LEGGO MY DIEGO."  

Diego and I share one picture together, and it is the only picture that will ever be had of us.  It was at a pregame at his place, and it is just the two of us.  Contrary to his wishes, there will be no picture of him, me, Edgar, and the other child's whose name I had promptly forgotten.  Although I know many of you would like to see an image of the guy who would be so intelligent as to date a foreigner while having infant twins, I am not Taylor Swift and therefore do not feel comfortable providing the internet population with his stereotypical Spanish last name nor his image.

EPILOGUE:  A few weeks later, after all communication with Diego and I had come to a full stop, I was out shoe shopping with my friend, Megan.**  I was at the register when I read a text from Diego that read something to the effect that he still wanted to be friends.  Um, okay, yeahhhhh, Diego. As I got my bag and Megan and I walked out the door, repeating phrases such as "whatttttt" and "like really?!" to each other we stepped into the sunshine.  Walking out of the boutique, the first store we saw across from us was called HOUSE OF DIEGO.  Well played, universe, well played.  



*when will you all learn that Spain is not Mexico?!

**Yes I bought them, they are brown cognac leather booties, and very Euro chic.  Message me privately if you want a picture.