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.