Finals - the finale

Gen has completed her finals! At last! After 10 months of struggle, blood, sweat, tears, frustration, perseverance, unusual english, and higher level math, it's over.

Congradulations to Genevieve and all the Barcelona Graduate School of Economics.

Next stop: Graduation on Thursday, June 27.

Unusual Sundry Items

An interesting name choice. In Argentina we came upon "Barfy" hamburger patties, but I think this is just as good.

Strange TV - vol. 2

This a photo of a commercial we saw here on TV. And yes, that's a giant chicken. I have no idea what it was advertising. Mostly we were just staring in awe.

Warning

Don't smoke.

Strange TV

Eurovision.

Most Americans would wrinkle their face and ask what that is. Well, I’ll tell you, it’s odd. Part talent contest, part geo-politics, part social satire. Ostensibly, it’s a talent competition, with each country in “Europe” sending one singing act to compete. The finals were on while we were up in the Pyrenees, and we watched (and howled) in our comfy bedroom snacking. We loved it. Now, I don’t watch American Idol, so I can’t compare, but if you can imagine the difference between an Greek wanna-be Britney, a Swedish drag queen, a Finnish heavy-metal band (of the medieval variety), and a Portuguese traditional folk song, you have some idea. The Spanish entry was mostly satire, because the Spanish know they never win (more later), and a function of the method of choosing their representative (via Myspace). The entry of Chikilicuatre, a parody-act that plays on the equivalent of the John Stewart show here. The winner is selected by public voting per country, not a total popular vote, so like the US presidential elections, skews the election by giving more power to smaller, less populated countries. Thus Serbia has the same number of votes as France, even though their populations differ by a factor of 10. Thus the acts from the big five countries (UK, Germany, Spain, France, and Italy) never win, but since they provide the vast majority of revenue, they are always in the finals. Since a country’s citizens can’t vote for themselves they typically vote for a neighbor or ally, thus the geopolitics.

We loved the Spanish announcer/commentator. The show was in English, but the Spanish channel had their own commentator. After the acts have performed the second part of the show is the voting. They take us to each country, all 43 (apparently to a marketing professional there are 43 countries in Europe), and a representative from that country tells us who their citizens have voted for. During this part the commentator was on a roll – guessing which countries would vote for whom or making wry comments. When one country, I think it was Sweden, was taking too long to tell us their votes (these are second or third tier entertainers who like to enjoy their 90 seconds on air), the commentator would say “Vamos, hombre, vamos….” [“Okay, let’s go, come one, out with it…”] We would also hear comments regarding the voting like “Ehhhhso es” [“Thaaaaat’s it”] meaning the country is voting exactly as predicted. For example: Serbia always votes for Russia, Andorra always votes for Spain, Norway typically votes for Sweden, etc.

Chikilicuatre
http://www.eurovision.tv/event/artistdetail?song=23994&event=1469

Weekend Trip

For our Memorial Day holiday we rented a car and took a little weekend trip north to the Pyrenees. We drove through the countryside, trying to find unusually-named towns (see above) and talking to the animals mostly cows but a few horses, which either didn’t understand an American “mooo” or “whinnee” or, being French, simply refused to acknowledge tourists. Gen and I have very different methods for calling to the animals; I’d consider it different dialects (Ohio versus….Queens…okay not so many cows in Queens). Being in a car again was nice and the country was beautiful.

Along our way we saw people hunting through the grass fields. Regular people, not farmers or laborers. Turns out it’s mushroom season and they were picking mushrooms. We saw families, older people (one man was picking from a prone position, pipe in his mouth) – and it appeared they would just walk onto a property and start staring at the grass for the ‘shrooms.

We also found the most peaceful place on earth. Because I don’t want it spoiled I’m not going to give out written driving directions. Honestly Gen was directing so I probably couldn’t anyway. We just drove until we found the end of the road. It’s a little town in France called Valcebollere just down the hill from Spain. (If you look up the top of the mountain is the border.) Stone buildings, steep sloping hills, babbling creek, and we had tea in a quiet little place (appropriately enough part of the “Silence Hotel” chain). And actually it’s probably only 3 hours from Barcelona.
We drove by this interesting site. I didn’t know exactly what it was, only that it involved solar energy. Some quick research revealed to be a solar furnace – by reflecting the suns rays via panels on the hill to the building and then focusing them on a single point, this array can provide temperatures up to 2,000degrees. Without electricity or oil. Not too shabby.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Solar_furnace

On our way back to Barcelona we stopped to see Montserrat, a monastery built up in the craggy mountains North of the city. Below are some photos. The mountains there are dotted with small churches and monasteries, with trails for hikers. We were just there for the day (or afternoon) so we didn't hike at all. Next life.

First Annual Mixer a Success!

We had a little mixer last week up on our roof. We mixed language exchange people with economists. (Who knew what could happen!) As it turns out, a lovely little party with perhaps a bit too much sun. We asked the franceses to bring cheese, the spanish bread and olives, the italians wine, and we had dessert and an argentine baby!

My wife is awesome!

This is a photo of our African Violet, which has recently bloomed with vibrant color (like gangbusters!). Beautiful. She's a genius.

Gernika and Forua

We had a fantastic time in El Pais Basco. We visited Elizabeth’s family (her aunts, uncles, and cousins) in Forua, which is about 10 minutes North of Gernika, which is about 30 minutes East of Bilbao, all of which are in Vizcaya, the basque country. Actually, we stayed with her aunt and uncle who live in the hills just outside of Forua. Because we drove (by “we” I mean Gen) we were escorted around town by her cousins who were the nicest people you could ever meet, especially to two complete strangers like Gen and I. Our guide consisted of an escort in our car, a lead car ahead of us, and a chase car behind us, typically a van filled with cousins and some adorable babies. The only thing missing were an ambulance and secret service escort, though I’m pretty sure I saw that two-year-old talk into his rattle to call in back-up. It takes a entire village to guide the foreigners. We loved being the tourists and we spoke more spanish in a day and a half there than we did in a month here in Barcelona.

Gernika is a nice little town, very walkable. Made famous (infamous really) by the bombing in 1938 and Picasso’s subsequent painting, which now hangs in Madrid. Forua is a quaint, quiet town where we saw some traditional dancing at a wedding. Outside the church, a group of dancers (Elizabeth’s cousin was one) performed a traditional dance in front of the happy couple, the bridal party, and onlookers walking by such as us.

We made a visit to the church of San Juan de la Gaztelegatxe (if I spelled that correctly it’s only luck), which was built on an outcrop of rock off the spanish coast. I had visited this 10 years ago while I was in Bilbao and couldn’t wait to see it again. Also Bermeo, which we learned has a certain reputation for crazy people, kind of like Berkeley or the Lower East Side.

Pepe Sonrisas

Some interesting facts we’ve learned from Money, Money (our favorite game show here)

Guy Smiley = Pepe Sonrisas

Kermit T. Frog = Gustavo el Rano

dangerous food

They need warning labels for the bread here. The pan/bread/baguette is so crunchy on the outside (but oh-so soft on the inside) that I recently took some crust shrapnel to the eye while slicing. Not kidding.

The Door

At left is the “before” photo. Note the plastic accordion door. At right is the “after” photo. New door in place.

Some of you might know of our bathroom and its infamous portal. Our bathroom is rather small and it has a plastic accordion door which makes one feel when they are in situ as if they are in the middle of the living room. You can imagine how that makes those in the living room feel. Actually I should say living room/kitchen, because it is both in one. The handle/lock on the accordion door was missing when we moved in 6 months ago and our landlady assured us she would have it fixed. After a few weeks and some phone calls she let me call the guy who fixes things. I suggested to him why not replace the accordion door with a real door, he agreed, spoke to the landlady, she agreed, and for the next 5 months there were emails and phone messages. The fixer guy came to take measurements on two occasions and said the door would arrive in a few weeks each time. Fine. Meanwhile I bought a little metal eye hook so we could lock the door. Did someone say MacGyver? Yes.

Since Jeanne was coming this week I asked again two weeks ago to replace the door. Jeanne left this morning and yesterday they came to do the work. Here is what happened:

8:45am, the albanil (bricklayer, mason) and the guapo (the assistant, whose name we found out is Sergi) arrive. They just call him guapo, which means handsome. It’s not anything spanish or cultural. They take measurements and leave. Say they’ll be back in two hours with the door. [This is the third time measurements have been taken] The albanil, whose name I never got, has a thick accent, perhaps eastern European, perhaps Portuguese, perhaps catalan. Hard to place. He’s built like a mason, stocky, brick shaped. Very nice guy. The guapo we’ve met before on numerous occasions when other things had to be done (water heater, etc.). Super nice guy. Doesn’t say much.

11:30, the albanil and guapo return. Total tools: One iron mallet, two steel spikes/chisels, one plaster palette, one plaster palette knife, one sponge, one (manual) saw, one rubber bucket. Total materials: One wooden door and frame, one back masonry anchors, one bag mortar, one scrap piece of wood. First thing they do is ask me if I have a screwdriver to remove the plastic door. I do, thank god, or it might have been another two weeks. Off comes the plastic door. Now, I’m thinking, this thing better get done today or we’re in it deep. They bring the new door over to take measurements. They turn it this way, then that, upside down, backwards, finally they get the measurements. They need a ladder to make sure of something (I don’t know) and off goes the guapo to retrieve the ladder kept on the roof. The guapo brings the door up to the roof (huff, huff, huff) and we hear the tell-tale signs of the saw, as well as the scraping of plastic chairs, which I take to mean the makeshift saw-horse. Twenty-five minutes later the disfigured door returns. Meanwhile the albanil gets to work on the frame anchoring. Normally in the states we’d prep the door with a “rough” frame. Pieces of wood that are built up to the exact dimension of the finished frame – because many doors now some “pre-hung” on a wooden frame it makes it easy to slip the finished frame into the opening and then just attach the door assembly to the opening. In a wood frame house this is easy. In a situation where you have masonry or brick, it’s more difficult but you can usually find fasteners for the masonry. Not here. Because the wall was made of hollow brick masonry and plaster, the albanil goes at it with a hammer and the spikes/chisels, making 3 holes at each side of the door and one in the floor. They don’t put any protection on the floor so there’s dust, tile, plaster spraying everywhere. Next, with the door back, but not the guapo (he’s called away), the albanil places 7 anchors in the door frame – 4” steel serrated sticks that he nails into three places at each side of the door frame and one on the bottom of the frame. He has to hold with one hand and hammer with the other so I hold the door for him. After this he lays up the door to test if the anchor positions match the holes. Close enough, after a little adjustment with the mallet. Next the door is wedged in place and he mixes the grout/mortar. I’m wondering why he didn’t place mortar in the opening before the door is up but he’s got a plan, taking the palette knife, he flicks mortar into the holes a little bit at a time. It’s a slight backhanded motion, sort of like in ping-pong. There’s a distinct “splat” each time. Then he pushes more in to the gaps and smoothes it out. Next he starts to mortar the space between the finished frame and the plaster opening, but because this is a continuous slot he has to have something on the other side so that the mortar doesn’t just fall out. Here comes the scrap of wood. It’s straight but has some nails in it. No pliers, no claw hammer, so he uses the chisels to knock the nails back and forth, back and forth, then knocks them out. He goes inside the bathroom to place this piece of wood at the back of the gap but needs something to wedge it in place – the saw. But the saw is just not quite long enough so he takes some fragments of the plaster and tile and uses them to wedge the wood with the saw. More flinging and flicking, more mortar. Unfortunately, the scrap of wood is only about 3 feet long so he has to move it up because the gap between the door frame and the wall is as high as the door, about six and a half feet. Now here’s a conundrum, because there’s no way the saw and plaster shrapnel are going to wedge this thing in place four feet above the floor. I spot the leftover piece of wood from the door frame that was used to hold the frames stable (which was no longer necessary once the door was placed in the opening and grouted) and handed it to the albanil, for which he was grateful. Problem solved since this wood was the right length to wedge the other piece of wood at the opening. (Oh, the nails that held this strut wood to the door frame are not pulled out – no pliers – he just taps them back and forth until they bend enough and break and then taps the nib into the wood so they’ll rust with the water from the plaster). More plaster mixing (he mixes a new small batch with each step – I gave him a small plastic jug so he wouldn’t have to lift the plaster bucket into our 12” x 12” sink) and more flinging. The red tile floor is now looking pink and white where the mortar drops splatter and are rubbed into the floor. Okay, looking good. Door’s in, plaster’s in, now for the finish work while the guapo (who’s back) broom sweeps the floor. The albanil sponges the plaster to smooth it out, adds more plaster, feathering it over the existing, and in general does a very nice job. He’s a craftsman, there’s no doubt. They clean up as best they can (with a small dishtowel I gave them). It’s 3:45pm and they say they are going to get some lunch. Well deserved.

Of course, the door is not painted. Nor is there a door handle. You might recall that the reason this whole thing started was because our plastic accordion door was missing a handle/lock. Little bit of irony there.

The albanil fixes this by jamming in one of the extra serrated, 4-inch long masonry anchors into the little hole in the door where the door handle goes, tests it to see if the latch retracts when he twists the anchor. Voila! I come back with the stubby little flathead screwdriver and use that because the idea of a galvanized 4” piece of serrated metal sticking out of our bathroom door does not appeal to me. Seems to work fine, and it even covers the hole. Of course, we only have one screwdriver so you have to use it on one side to open the door, then bring it with you to the other side to close the door. Hey, it’s better than using your left big toe to jam closed a plastic accordion door, which is what I’ve been doing for the last 6 months.

They say they’ll call us to come back to install a door handle and paint, which makes sense because the plaster has to dry. It also has to crack because the wood door and frame will expand and contract differently from the plaster and brick wall. But this should match the Nile-shaped crack that runs in the adjoining wall so it’s all good. Gen and I have a wager going as to whether this door will actually get painted or receive a door handle.

Good times. Makes Aruba seem like high tech. There they had power tools. I wonder what would have happened here yesterday if it was the evening when it gets dark early. Might’ve lit a fire. That’s unfair, really, and a bit of cheap shot on my part. Because they really did a great job. It’s just that each step of the way caused more work – hollow masonry – chipping out for anchors - grout – flicking grout – filling cavities and gaps – feathering and sponging – massive clean up. I’ve seen guys in the states hang a door in 20 minutes.

Later that evening Gen and I are talking and she realizes as I describe the work that the tools they used were very similar to the ones we saw last Saturday when we visited El Escorial in the part of the museum dedicated to the history of the building. They had examples of the tools used to build this beautiful building 500 years ago. Iron mallets, chisels, spikes, saws. Not just similar – exactly the same.

Reminds me of a little story from Buenos Aires…
http://gs-sabbatical.blogspot.com/2007/01/construction.html

One-word movie reviews

“I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry”

I now prounounce this movie: Unwatchable

Which is amazing for me, considering that I enjoyed Happy Gilmore and the Waterboy so I don’t mind the idea of a stupid movie with Adam Sandler. But this was painful. Honestly as a guy I was disappointed. I’ve never seen such poor acting on all parts or such awkward writing. The phrase "phoning it in" comes to mind, but in this case it was a collect call. I really hope none of my friends in LA worked on this. I saw an interview with Jessica Biel recently where she spoke about choosing to do this movie because she really wanted to work with Adam Sandler because she admired his work; not because she thought he was funny but specifically his skills. Now THAT’S acting. I’m now waiting for the “Inside the Actor’s Studio” with Adam Sandler where he is portrayed as a demigod, right up there with Olivier and Rob Shneider.

Debates

They had charts, graphs, one guy (Rajoy) had a color coded, post-it’d file full of photocopies. The other had a 3-ring binder.
They haven’t had a presidential-level debate here in 15 years, so perhaps they were out of practice, or perhaps they truly despised one another. But we heard some forceful language. You’re lying. That’s a lie. You cheated the public. You deceived the country. Pretty forceful stuff. I thought they were going to go over the table at each other.

food, again

We've decided to conduct a series of experiments in restaurants here. We have been calculating what percentage of menu items contain pork. Of the few restaurants we've taken this poll, we are averaging in the 60%. 11/17. 5/8. That range. This doesn't seem that bad on the surface but it's a lot of ham.

Salamanca

We spent a few quiet days and nights in Salamanca, one of the oldest cities here in Spain. Home to the University of Salamanca and large numbers of students. Also decent Chinese food (who would have figured).

Wonderful honey-colored stone buildings, clear blue skies, warm weather, crisp and dry. It was a peaceful little rest from the barrio. At night, the city lights up the buildings so they sparkle and the whole town seems to gather in the Plaza Mayor, the main square. Each city has it's own Plaza Mayor, but according to the guide books, this is reputed to be the most beautiful Plaza Mayor in Spain. I'd agree. It's baroque-glamorous. Especially at night (photo above). Gen shot both of these photos and I think they're amazing.

el superbowl!

Ever try explaining the game of football to someone who knows nothing about the game? Not easy. Okay, so there’s two teams and the one with the most points wins. You score points by…. Yes, the general framework is easy, but what about the rules, and we get some odd questions such as : Why 11 men? Why 4 downs? Why are those men standing together and those separated? Why are they playing the nickel when they should be in cover-one? Isn’t man-to-man on Moss going overboard, I mean c’mon?

We had a little model UN assembly at our place yesterday for the superbowl, without the superbowl. The game started at midnight so we didn’t watch it – we’d have to find someplace that was broadcasting it and that would not be easy. So instead we started our little fiesta at normal game time, 4pm, and served standard superbowl fare (Mexican – Gen’s rightfully famous 7-layer dip and burritos), and watched a football movie. Mostly we talked and ate. I gave a burrito-making demonstration (see visual). The 7-layer dip lasted about 8 minutes. If we had any couches we would have had a ward full of food coma victims.

Admiration for our friend

We admire Gen’s friend from China. Her perseverance, her attitude.

We’ve been discussing how difficult it is for her here, culturally. For those who have traveled to another country, culture shock is easy to imagine. It’s a lack of familiarity, a necessity to “figure out” even the simplest things that causes fatigue and disorientation and a deep longing for a cheeseburger. But for Gen’s friend from China it’s magnified. Imagine each part of your life, each thing you do on a daily basis, and then imagine that it’s not only foreign, different, and strange but difficult to figure out.

Language: she knows English. Enough to get around, ask directions, listen to lectures, though she misses some things that Gen explains to here, typically idiomatic expressions. And the entire language system is different – letters and words rather than characters, so it’s more difficult for her to look at something and try to figure it out. But Spanish? Different. And Catalan? More different. But even with English: she has a hard time deciphering cursive writing when professors and students write in that form, rather than printing. And capital letters are new to her, so when words are in ALL CAPS they seem to her different words. That really made me think back to all the education we had in primary school for these subjects. Of course, no one thinks that capitalization might be a problem.

Food: Even if the menus were in Spanish, they would be difficult to decipher, but most are in Catalan. Moreso, the actual food items are different, as are the descriptions. Of course jamon is pork, but cocido? Like the Eskimos and their 100 words for snow, the Spanish have almost as many ways to describe their pork. And culturally the food they eat is very different. Lots of bread and cheese - not common in China. Imagine going to China and trying to figure out a menu that was only in Chinese. (Our friend Darren told us when he traveled in China he was so tired of this issue that at some point he went in to Kentucky Fried Chicken to eat for the only reason that he wanted to know exactly what he was ordering) Add the times of day they eat to the confusion. Then add the utensils. Of course she has used a knife, fork, and spoon before, but not everyday at every meal. And a lot of food here is to be eaten with the hands, which is definitely not typical for her. We had her over for hamburgers during her first few months here and she ate it with a spoon. I felt bad because I didn’t realize that eating with one’s hands would be so… unpalatable. She’s better now and accepts the difference in culture.

Calendar: the calendar is different as well. Not just the day and month, but the year. We asked her when her birthday was but she didn’t know the exact day because the calendars are so different. She knew approximately when but not exactly because of the time difference. (Sure, she could have just counted the days forward or backward from one calendar to another but she didn’t have a Chinese calendar or a Western calendar at the time so it took her a few days to tell us).

General Culture: the spanish are more laid back, they drink beer during lunch, they go to sleep at 2am and eat dinner at 11pm, they are animated (the Spanish more than the Catalans, but still).

And with all this, she just goes about her business with a smile on her face and doesn't get angry or yell. We salute her.

Back in Barcelona

We decided we needed a day out of the city. A little quiet. I found a hotel near Tarragona, about an hour south. It looked great on screen, modernly renovated 18th century building. They had a room with a bathtub (!). Heaven. And for the first few hours it was wonderful. Then 12:30pm rolled around and the dinner party with three kids decided to take up residence in the lobby. Hopped up on sugar, the kids were screaming. And of course the cloud of smoke filtered into our room. The hotel staff told me they couldn’t possibly ask them to be more quiet. Okay. We switched to another room.

We’ve come to realize the little cultural differences that come to mean a great deal. Smoking. Loud voices. Treating public spaces as one’s living room. The seeming inability to walk on a sidewalk in any semblance of a straight line (VDD, variable direction disorder, as Gen named it). Smoking and the loud voices have the most impact. We are sensitive to smoke, being from LA, so the problem is worse. But we haven’t gone a day here without it. Sometimes it’s a cloud of smoke in a café. Sometimes it’s just walking behind someone who holds a cigarette, seemingly for effect because we don’t see people actually smoking, just holding the cigarette. The strange thing about this restaurant is that normally high-end haute cuisine restaurants are very concerned about the dining environment, and discourage smoking because it interferes with the taste and overall experience of the food. Not in this place. To their credit the staff was patient with our mediocre spanish and attempted to explain some of the dishes, which needed explanation even though we were reading menus in English.

Yet with all the smoke, Spain, like so many other countries, has a greater life expectancy than the US.

The Magi are coming, the Magi are coming

We were stuck in a parade. Not stuck, really, but we couldn't get back to our apartment. More like...cornered. It was a traditional 12th day of christmas parade where the three kings/magi/wise men come to visit in floats, accompanied by camels, african masks, dancers, and flatbed trucks and shower the children with candy. In particular, we liked Balthazar. I'm not going to go into detail about the pronunciation of his name here in spain. We like the fact that the city here dedicates so much time, energy, and money for it's citizens. They take care of the city, yes, but moreso, they provide a lot of events for the inhabitants to take part. They seem to give back quite a bit.

Florence (the city, in Italy)

We spent a good few days in Florence, or Firenze, or Florencia. Great food. We say Italy has the best food anywhere. Even the average food was good. Hell, even the airport food was above average. And they had extra virgin olive oil and balsamic vinegar in glass bottles for your dressing. That would never happen in the US.

We had two fantastic dinners and one “Worst dinner ever.” The two fantastic dinners were very different experiences: a rowdy boisterous neighborhood restaurant famous for its beef, and rightly so, because it was one of the best we’ve eaten outside of Argentina. The other was a fancy, small, restaurant with Austrian-Italian fusion cuisine.

The best dinner we had was cooked by our friend Marta (“La Marta”) in her apartment. That was the highlight of our trip. Marta introduced us to the local extra virgin olive oil, which she argues is the best. She’s right. All others pale in comparison. And she cooks a fantastic fish.

Oh, and the sites were fun, too. We introduced George to David, and Venus, and the Ponte Vecchio. We exposed him to all the culture he could handle. (Better than the opposite)

Happy Thanksgiving!

We wish everyone had a wonderful and happy and food-comatose thanksgiving! We didn't do much on the Thursday since it's not a holiday here. But Friday we had friends over to celebrate: Marta, from Florence, Italy, and Jue, from China. So of course I made cheeseburgers and mashed potatoes. What else would we have? Turkey was not an option since we don't have an oven. The burgers were...not bad. Could have been better if we had a barbeque.

We did learn some interesting things during our dinner. Regarding chinese food and culture in the states: as many of us know, chop suey and chow mein are not chinese food and most chinese people have never heard of these things. They were invented for americans. Also the fortune cookie was invented by a Japanese-American man in Los Angeles or San Francisco (this must be true, I read it on the internet). We may need professional help on this from a librarian: Jean??? Yes, to our surprise and hers, Jue informed us of these cultural tidbits. She also told us that in fact chinese restaurants do NOT have red lanterns as decoration. Hmmm.

Jue also imparted a valuable lesson in rice cooking after we told her of our difficulties in this endeavor. Her secret recipe: bring a rice cooker from China. Of the people Gen has met in her school (from different countries), each seems to bring some food or cooking item from their own country that the don't want to do without. Elsa brings cheese back from France on a regular basis. Marta has her own little personal olive oil import business along with her personal coffee maker. Jue the rice cooker.

Marta told us that "Florentine" foods, such as Chicken Florentine (meaning "with spinach" I guess) were also not from florence. Florence is known for it's butchers, however. Our tenant in Santa Monica, Nancy, sent us an article she wrote about tracking down a famous Tuscan butcher, which reinforces this theory. According the Marta, there is a famous butcher near florence; famous because he can recite the Divine Comedy by memory. Well, that's something we have to see.

English Lessons: update

Addendum to Greg's post on what I'm teaching my friends to say in English:

Marta, my Italian classmate asked me the following question recently, with her charming Italian accent: "what is the word for the person who crushes the balls' ?" I stared at her blankly for a few moments before I hesitantly replied, "um, ballbuster?"

Paraiso

Today, Greg discovered a wonderful thing about living in a small apartment. While sitting on the couch, with TV remote in hand, he can open the refrigerator and withdraw a beverage by simply listing to port. (Although he could probably open the bathroom door by listing starboard, I'm hoping he doesn't get any ideas about using his...uh..."water cannon" long range).

The Economist

Now that the wife is in economist school, the magazine The Economist is hanging around. Actually, has been for years. When an architect is starved for English language...anything, well, The Economist always there. Of course I skip right over the sections on Parliamentary politics but I've grown to appreciate the magazine's wry wit in general. Example, from p. 94 of the latest issue, in an article regarding the recent Nobel Prize winners:

Mr. Maskin's breakthrough was "implementation theory", which clarifies when mechanisms can be designed that only produce equilibria that atare incentive efficient. He has also given his name to a statistical condition called "Maskin monotonicity", which might not be the sort of thing to mention at parties.

English Lessons Spanish Lessons

Gen has been providing impromptu English lessons to her friends at school. And we have been learning some new foreign interpretations of English (or American) phrases.

Here are some of Gen’s vocab lessons:

“knuckle sandwich”
“sleuthing”
"juice" (as in he's got juice, does this thing have any juice?)

And here are some interpretations of english phrases we've heard

“Le Sneekers” [snickers bar]
“Talkie walkie” [radio – walkie talkie]

In addition, Gen has witnessed a stimulating debate between Sergi (her friend from here in Barcelona) and Marta (another friend from Florence) regarding where the best olive oil originates. Southern Spain? Near Florence? She didn't vigorously defend California or New York or Ohio. The discussion was heated: fisticuffs almost broke out (next lesson for Gen for her pupils) in this disussion. Very heated. Or sautéed, in this instance.

Beta Sombrero

By osmosis I've been learning a thing or two about economics. Buy low! Sell high! Monopolies are good (for the monopolist) but bad (for the rest of us). It only stands to reason. Nature abhors a vacuum, so I imagine the vacuum of economic thought in my brain and the mountain of new economically-oriented brain cells in Gen's brain as we sleep and possibly a few little things slip over. I have an image of little bits of economic theory dancing over to my little slice of the bed like we see on our computers when transferring data from one file to another.

One of the things I've learned is what "Beta Hat" signifies. This hat-thing (the chevron over the greek symbol beta, or any symbol really, it the chevron that matters) indicates an approximation or an estimate of something, like a guess. In Gen's classes they refer to it as "beta hat" or in spanish "beta sombrero." We immediately extrapolated this description to other languages: "beta chapeau" (francais), "beta kipa" (hebrew), and "beta thong" (only in Brazil and only if the chevron is at the lower end of the greek symbol).

But I've learned about more than fashionable greek symbols and headgear. I've learned about the Prisoner's Dilemma (always, always, always ask for a lawyer, before the other guy gets to one first), asymmetrical information (better to have it than not), and all kinds of stuff that of course I can't remember. Soon Gen will be sponsoring a new blog contest to solve one of her economic problems (one that she's already completed so she knows the answer). So get your Greek dictionaries out.

Meanwhile I'm going to go read an architecture magazine and look at the pretty pictures.

rice

You'd think two reasonably educated people would be able to cook rice. You'd think. Apparently it's not as easy as one would think. Granted, we don't own a rice cooker, I wasn't raised on rice (it's not red meat) and I refuse to resort to Uncle Ben or Minute whatever. No, I'm a purist. However, after a few weeks (I can hear it now, "WEEKS?"), yes, weeks of trying different methods, I think I have something. Of course I wasn't in the kitchen 12 hours a day, 7 days a week for a few weeks; I was cooking it 2 or so times a week, so we are really only talking about 6 or 7 attempts. Still, I'm the first to admit, it's harder than just reading the directions. There was one recipe I found online (I hesitate to call it even a recipe, like describing the method for ice a recipe) that caught my attention for it's simplicity. I found it at Yahoo! Answers:

boil 2 cups of water. add 1 cup rice. reduce heat to low..cover tightly...set timer for 18 minutes..DO NOT OPEN COVER UNTIL TIME IS UP! bon appetit!
Source(s): chef/baker 40 years

I don't know who this chef/baker is but mister or lady, it's magic. Sheer unadulterated genius. Like the heavens opened up and a sunbeam shines right down on our hotplate with little angles dancing around. (too much?) Sure, now it's easy, like getting the comforter in the duvet cover, but in the beginning...not so much.

Next stop: re-making our recipe for Thai sweet chicken salad. I just have to find some Thai peanut sauce without ham.

The Library

This is where Gen studies. I love it. It's an old building from the mid-1800's that was built as a water storage facility. It was remodelled as a library for the university about 6-7 years ago. We call it the temple. It's soaring interior spaces and masonry arches give it a solemn feeling that the students seem to respect (meaning, they mostly keep quiet). It's a wonderful place to study. I go with Gen and write articles or blog or research.

the place

A few people have asked about the apartment. What's it like? Well, I've taken a few photos of the apartment and our street. It's very well lit. Good light. High ceilings. Top floor. No elevator (it's only 4 stories). It's quiet, mostly. We have an elderly neighbor who keeps his tv on whenever he's conscious, which is pretty much from 9am - 10pm. That's not a real problem because we're not here during the day that much. The brazilians on the other side, well, they seem to come and go at all hours. And they seem to rent two apartments, one on our floor and one on the floor below, and go up and down so much that we can't figure out the logic. We've tested a number of theories. None work.

We've noticed different sounds from the neighborhood than we're used to. It's part of the cultural difference. Each day, several times a day, I hear the gas can guys. They have small metal tanks of propane on a hand truck that they wheel around the neighborhood and bang on the cans with a stick to let people know they're around. The butane Mr. Softees. Along with the old ladies (viejas) that yell at everyone ("Every day with that dog!!! Enough!"), it feels like the old country. With internet.

We're In

We've moved in. Bit of a....bit of a piece of work, I'd say.
Our new apartment is in a very interesting part of Barcelona. It's called Sant Pere, which is a sub-barrio of La Ribera. Sant Pere is the nearby church. The streets are not really wide enough for cars (not that that stops anyone) so the taxi had to circle around the area to find a back way in. Literally. He backed in. He found the nearby cross street to our street, except it was a one-way street and he was at the wrong end. Like any good taxista he improvised. Turned the car around and backed it up 3/4 of a block to get us close to our cross street. We were, all at once, horrified (rule-breaking!), terrified (we were in the back seats), but thankful (we had a trunk full of luggage and well, see below). We shlepped the luggage to our building and then, yes, dragged it up to our apartment, on the 5th floor, without an elevator. Greg made 3 trips. This was after we had already been there an hour and a half before for the lease signing and inspection. It's a nice place, relatively large for Europe. And the internet worked right away (always a plus). After doing this for a few times (the moving in part) we've become accostomed to the pattern. We take the zone-coverage approach. Gen takes the contract and thoroughly reads it (in spanish). Greg handles the deep coverage (aka the inventory) and turns on everything that has a switch. It's clean, the furniture is new (Ikea, of course). It's light. And it seems to have a lot of storage space. Which we need.
So we're here. Email us if you want our address.

More carnival

Remember what I said about the carnival here? Not as bad as the Feast of St. Zeppolidunkingclown? Wrong. Very wrong. We've been living the dream (nightmare) of Catalan carnival for days on end. The obnoxious dunking clown has been replaced with (a) rapid gunfire of firecrackers thrown all over the place to celebrate Merce - the martyr of our little barrio, (b) thump-thump-thump of bad music and recordings of shouting voices to attract uninterested people to rides, (c) screeching voices shouting god-knows what, and (d) catalan speeches of independence accompanied by car horns. Funny thing - nobody seems interested in the carnival anymore. I've heard tonight is the last night.

We turn our fans on full blast for some white noise.

carnival

It's September and there's a carnival near our apartment. Late at night we hear the noise of people and the din of fireworks. Occasionally, we'll hear some strange sounds, of what we aren't sure. I'm reminded of the years Brad, John, Phil and I spent in Little Italy when the Feast of San Genaro appeared like a hurricane each September. The first 2 days of that feast were like having Disneyland at your doorstep. We ate zeppoli, sausage sandwiches (some more than others, ... John), laughed with the crowd and thought of ourselves as geniuses for having chosen such a fantastic place to live. That soon turned to despair. After 5 or 6 more nights of moving drunked people away to get in our building or stepping over the piles of trash to walk to work, we wanted that damn thing over with, but it's a 10-day feast, and we had another few days left. The worst was the dunking clown. You know him. He sits on a collapsable bench in a glass tank full of water below and tries to get people to spend $3 for 3 chances to throw a baseball at a target which, if hit, will drop him in the water. Unless he's your high school principal, it's not easy to convince people to spend the money, so typically these clowns resort to ridiculing people walking by ("Hey fatso, one more of those zeppoli and you may lift off"..."Does your wife know you're dating that dog?"... and it goes downhill from there). Fine if you're walking by. But our window was not more than 100 feet from the clown, and since he was in a glass tank, they gave this guy a microphone and speakers. And it was summer, so it was hot, and not that many apartments had air conditioning. We didn't for the first year or two. So the windows were open. Weekdays, he did his spiel until 11pm. Weekends, until 2 or 3am. And it's pretty quiet at 2:30am, except of course for mr. clown. Even after we bought an air conditioner we could still hear him through the window. (they gave this guy a speaker system!).

So no dunking clown here. Though it's early in the fiesta. We'll see. Gen and I have been playing around with some insults in Spanish ("Se veste estupido su mama!"o "Con una marido como el debe usar una correa!" o "Es su papa o se cepilla su perro"). We're trying to make do. We do, however, have a gypsy beggar who walks the streets of our neighborhood and sings her little gypsy song for people to please give her some money. And we've got the guy with the steel barrels of water that bangs on the barrels every two blocks or so to let people he's coming by. Like a spanish version of Mr. Softee.

Possible New Career Path

I recently found this in the newspaper and since I've been thinking of a possible career path, I thought I might be considering this. It adds a whole new image to the field of sustainable design.

Mr. Clean, International Man of Mystery

Mr. Clean, as it turns out, has multiple aliases.

Is he an Agent Disinfecteur or something worse? Here in Spain he goes by Don Limpio, however our preliminary intelligence reports state that he's been spotted in France traveling under the name "Monsieur Propre."

We've already alerted the Department of Homeland Cleanliness.

El Beisbol, parte 2

OK, OK, I think Greg left a few salient facts out of his account of our baseball excursion. First of all, so we are all on the same page, the baseball we saw was terrible. Terrible. At or below the level of play we saw on the recently televised Little League World Series. Dylan could easily win MVP in any position he wanted to play, including being a one-handed (left) pinch hitter. (In fact, we think Dylan could take the European league by storm).

Don't get me wrong, it was fantastically fun. Terrible baseball makes for interesting games. Lots of action, lots of "ohhhhh!"s and "oooooooo"s and "jeez, what was he thinking" (the latter were mostly reserved for large lumbering swedes failing to maintain appropriately small distances between themselves and first base).

But let's not get a head of ourselves. Shall we start at the beginning?

First, Greg and I were very proud of our ability to get to the baseball game. As Greg mentioned, baseball isn't so popular here in Spain. So, we not only had to figure out where the field was located, but also navigate not one, but two forms of public transportation to get there (subway then bus). Fortunately, Barcelona has an exemplary public transportation system that even the most dense of tourists (um, that's us) can figure out.

After taking the metro to Plaza Espana, we found the appropriate bus stop. There we waited for quite a long time. Believe it or not, in Barcelona, it is fairly unusual to wait for public transportation. Subway service runs slightly more frequently than once every five minutes. One could get spoiled here.

We figured we were in the right place, though, because we heard these two guys in their early twenties (who looked fairly unwashed and unkempt) waiting at the same bus stop talking about making it to the game in time for the first pitch.

One of them was English (we think) and the other was American. The American never actually spoke to us--there was something a little strange about him. He was also the lesser washed and lesser kempt of the two. As it turned out they played baseball in Germany. They told us that Americans that were either in college or who had been injured or who otherwise couldn't make the cut came to play ball in the European leagues. They were out to support some of their friends (Americans) who played on the Swedish team.

Anyway, I digress. So, finally our bus arrived and we got on. The first thing that Greg did was ask the bus driver if the bus went to the Baseball Field. It went something like this:

Greg: "Esta bus va al campo de beisbol?" Does this bus go to the Baseball Field?
Driver: "Que??????????" What (you crazy foreigner)????????????????
Greg: "El campo de beisbol. Vamos alla?" The Baseball Field. Are we going there?
Driver: "QUE? Beisbol? QUE?" WHAT? Baseball? WHAT? (stupid foreigner)
Me: "What are you doing? Stop talking to the driver!"

Um, yah. Baseball is so popular here (not), that the guy who drives by the field 10 times a day doesn't even know it.

Ok, so finally we find the field and the four us (2 of us washed and reasonably well-groomed, 2 not) walk in. As Greg mentioned (see supra) he then, much to my horror, tried to talk his way in. I was so embarrassed.

Me: "What are you doing? Pay the 5 Euros! Who's Johanson?"

Note that the two unwashed players from the German team actually were friends of the Swedish team and they had no problem ponying up the 5 euro entrance fee. Although, really, we shouldn't have paid. There were hardly any people in the stadium. They should have paid us. We were probably the only ones that really understand what was going on and why the baseball was so terrible.

Soooo, when Greg started shouting very loud, very American cheers and jeers during the game, it was also a bit embarrassing. It's OK though, because I got him back. After one of the Czech players hit a solid, albeit foul, fly ball down the third base line, I waited until the stadium grew quiet and yelled:

"OVER THE FENCE, NOT OVER THE FANS!"

That, apparently, he found embarrassing.

Here one week

I've been here one week. So far, so good. I think we're starting to get on a normal sleep schedule, though it's not easy.

We had dinner and drinks with some of Gen’s schoolmates last night. Elsa (France), Sansui (Hong Kong), Juey (Mainland China), Klaus (Germany), Sofia (Peru). [By the by, I could have butchered any of those names and spellings, and I'm sorry if I did.] We spoke English, slowly, and simply using our foreign speaker voice, which I perfected during my stint in Aruba and countless phone orders of chinese food and all my thousand or so Dell customer service calls. For a change of pace, I tried to use a contraction like shan't but couldn't think of a usage. There was much talk of the magazine The Economist. Much talk. I’ve never heard so much Economist talk. Like when architects get together and talk about deconstructivism and cladding.

Sansui told us about a friend who had a funny experience in Germany when he asked for a “dry martini, please” and the German bartender gives him 3 martinis (drei martini).

El beisbol

Baseball, in Spain. It’s bigger than Yahtzee, but not as big as, say, rock/paper/scissors. Maybe not as popular as bowling, but definitely more popular than curling. Gen and I went to the European Baseball League Olympic qualifying tournament here. No, really. Mostly there were American college kids or others not quite ready for single-A ball. We saw Sweden play the Czech republic. I tried to get us in at the door by telling the rather bored ticket vendors in the ticket shack that we were friends of the Swedish team (not true) and that I was invited by the outfielder named Johannson (not at all true but I figured I had a good chance). Nope. I had to pay my 5 euros like the other 8 spectators. It was like those old Mets games (in the 70’s when they were lousy) that my grandfather used to take to when we would call the stadium to ask when the game started and they would reply, “When can you make it?” Not that bad.

We were sitting on the Sweden side, with maybe 20 other fans. The Czech side has maybe 10 fans. The Czech team was thinner, faster, except for the first basemen, who was a giant. The Swedish team was beefier, slower (2 players were picked off at 1st base and the Czech team turned at least 2 double plays), and luckier. At the top of the ninth, Czech was leading 1-0, and Sweden was up at the plate. After 3 errors (1 passed ball, a throwing error, another passed ball, then a fielding error), Sweden pulled ahead 2-1. Czech could not rally in the bottom of the inning to tie it, sadly. We wanted extra innings.

The cheering from the dugouts was unintelligible. There was Czech chatter, Swedish chatter, and spanish chatter (from the stands). “Varish! Varish!!!!” So I started saying the same things. No idea what it meant.

The announcements were in Spanish and English. Most of them. They didn’t translate everything. Also, the names were a bit of a problem. We’d hear: “Now batting for the Czech team, (pause)…..(longer pause)….(a slight exhale as it to say ‘Oy, look at all those consonants’)….Myrkowtz, el first baseman.”

Oh, and the center fielder’s name was Johansson. But he didn’t know me. Also there was a pitcher named Johansson. He didn’t know me either.

All in all, a fun day. We got our Euros’ worth.

Greg Has Arrived!

Finally, after flying all night in an irish accent (Aer Lingus--the best deal to Barcelona), Greg has arrived! Yay!



He also had a bit of the Luck of the Irish in that his planes arrived on time and so did our copious luggage. He's a little tired, but insisted on cooking lentils, of all things for dinner.

Welcome to Barcelona Greg!

Classroom of Babel

I just love being in a room where I can hear at least 4 or 5 languages being spoken simultaneously. It's one of the aspects of living and studying abroad that I like most.

As I've mentioned, the "review" class I'm taking is pretty much Greek to me. I don't understand a thing that is going on. But, throughout the class I can hear groups of 2 and 3 students conferring amongst themselves, trying to sort out the details. I can hear Italian behind me, French next to me, German in front of me, Spanish across the aisle and occasionally Turkish in the far back.

Outside of class, I've fallen into a routine of hanging around with two of the French students. Elsa, who speaks an almost perfect American English and Baptiste whose heavily accented English is simply enchanting. I've come to observe that they, being French, have a routine as well. At least once a day (sometimes twice), they devolve into a heated discussion of......wine, cheese or both. It can go on for 30 minutes. Or more. During the course of all this, I've learned nothing about wine or cheese, except that, apparently, the only good products (of either type) come from France.

In fact, Baptiste takes his cheese so seriously, that he had a last meal of cheese before departing Paris. He described it as a cheese orgy. I told him that I thought perhaps a better description would be "cheese feast." He asked, "what does this word 'orgy' mean?" I obliged by explaining. He replied, "I am French, that is OK, too."

In the course of observing this debate, I learned something else rather interesting. It appears that in France, not only is the distinction between the love of cheese and, um, other earthly pleasures blurred, but also the distinction between studing Geography and Wine. As Baptiste recently explained, they are pretty much the same. "Why would you study Geography except to understand where the wine comes from, and how could you study wine without understanding Geography? You cannot study one without the other."

Excellent questions, don't you think?

The Buckeye State

So, as many of you know, I've spent a good portion of my life defending my homeland. I don't mean in an overly zealous, xenophobic, jingoistic, warrantless wiretap, constitution-violating kind of way.

It's more of a defensive, don't-think-my-parents-are-first-cousins kind of way. My brother Dylan understands. He's had to do the same thing.

After years of hearing comments like "doesn't it take 2 days to drive to Cleveland from DC" or "Isn't Ohio out there near Iowa?", I think the best one (until yesterday) was from my law school classmate Lisa Munoz (from San Diego) who repeatedly used Ohio as an example when referring to rural places. One day after making one such reference and realizing I was from Ohio, she apologized and said that she meant no offense and that she had previously thought I was from New Jersey. What???? What is it exactly about me that says "Jersey." How is that better? (Sorry to my sister-in-law Reina, a native Jersey-ite. Note the irony of my trashing New Jersey whilst trashing people who trash Ohio. Such hypocracy.)

As usual, I digress. Back to the point of the story.

Yesterday I met one of my fellow Americans (there are 5 of us) between classes. I politely introduced myself, informed her that I was THE Genevieve that had, in fact, yesterday responded to one of her posts on Facebook (see discussion re Facebook, supra) looking for a tennis partner.

She said "OK" and stared at me blankly.

Not one to be deterred by socially awkward situations, I pressed on.

Me: "Where are you from?"
Her: "New York."
Me: "Oh really?"
Her: "Well, no. Connecticut."
Me: "Oh."

[At this point in the conversation her eyes glazed over and she stared off into space. After what seemed like an eternity, she continued:]

Her: "Where are you from?"

[At this juncture, I had a decision to make. When speaking with non-Americans I usually say, "Oh, it's a little complicated since I've moved around a bit, but I lived most recently in Los Angeles," or just "Los Angeles" depending on the listener's attention span and capabilities in English. However, with Americans, I prefer to be more accurate and I usually say, "Well, I grew up in Cleveland, but I've lived most recently in Los Angeles" and depending on the circumstances, I give the whole spiel about how I lived in DC before LA, and about how I spent the last year in New York and Buenos Aires. Because you know, I like to be accurate.]

This time, however, I went off script:

Me: "I'm originally from Ohio. Cleveland."
Her: "Oh, Ohio." Silence. "I, like, call that a fly-over state."

[Silence, while I choose between a) walking away and b) punching her in the face.]

Again, I go off script:

Me: [insert friendly smiling tone] "Ah, yes, well you know, I just spent 3 months living in New York explaining that people from Ohio speak in complete sentences, wear shoes most of the time and don't walk around with corn husks hanging out of their mouths."
Her: "Yah, like, I mean, it's not like it's as bad as Missouri."
Me: [feeling like a cat with a mouse] "Um, actually, it is quite a lot like Missouri. Cleveland is fairly cosmopolitan, but the rest of the state is pretty much like Missouri."
Her: "My job almost transferred me to Ohio."
Me: "Really? Where?"
Her: "Mason."
Me: "I don't know where that is."
Her: [incredulous] "You don't know where that is??????? Really????"

[As if I know every town in Ohio. I can probably only name 5 of the 88 counties.]

Me: "Uh, yah. Where is it?"
Mer: "It's near the border with Tennessee."

There was silence as I cocked my head to the side and looked at her. I'm not sure exactly what kind of an expression was on my face, but I can only imagine it was somewhere in the neighborhood of smug and contemptuous because she started stammering.

Me: "I think you mean Kentucky."
Her: "Uh...um....yah...it's...uh...south."
Me: "Yes, because Tennessee doesn't border Ohio."

More silence.

Then she turned to the dear sweet Peruvian woman standing with us and said: "You're pretty tall for a Peruvian, huh?"

And thus, my long-standing theory that education and IQ have an inverse relationship to social skills was confirmed. I looked around for a reason to step back from this madness. Finding none, I quickly chugged my coffee and politely excused myself to throw away my now empty plastic cup. I ducked behind my Brazilian classmate who was standing near the trash can and hid out until it was time to go.

For those of you too embarrassed to admit that you also thought Tennesee and Ohio were contiguous, you can go to http://www.blogger.com/www.50states.com/us.htm for answers to all of your questions.

Facebook, Part II

For those of you old fogeys like me who are/were unfamiliar with Facebook, there is this function where you add people as "friends." So, imagine how sad it was (and how Les Mis) to see my lonely profile screaming at me "YOU HAVE NO FRIENDS."

That is until dear sweet Niels sent me a message asking if he could list me as a friend on his site. Woo Hoo! I have a friend! Niels is now my hero....rescuing me from my sad, lonely pre-Facebook, pre-friend existence.

Here's to Niels!!!!!!

Genevieve 2.0

Greetings from sunny Barcelona. At long last I have arrived!

My trip over here was the sort you only dream of. I flew the very green Aer Lingus without incident or delay. I arrived on time and in one piece (which if you know me is quite an accomplishment) and my bags also arrived on time and in one piece. There was a sea of yellow taxis waiting for me at the airport and I was whisked off without delay to my beachside (almost) apartment.

The only thing missing, of course, is Greg, who is scheduled to arrive on Monday.

For those of you who don't know, forgot or simply didn't pay attention to my incoherent ramblings, I am here to attend the Barcelona Graduate School of Economics and pursue an MSc in Competition and Market Regulation (see http://www.barcelonagse.eu/).

So far, things are going well. I showed up for my first day to find all kinds of nice people from all over the world in my program. Classes haven't officially started: the first two weeks are sort of a pre-season to give us all a refresher course in Advanced Math and Statistics. Take a look at my notes from the first day:

WHAT???????? The formulas contain more Greek letters than I have seen since Rush Week at AU. I have no idea what any of this means, but I dutifully write it all down in the hope that it will make sense someday.

Sadly, I seem to be the only student who doesn't know what this means.

I also seem to be the oldest student, by far. The very sweet Niels, who sat next to me today and is clearly at least 13 years my junior, very politely asked if I had taken time off between college and this graduate program. Um, yes. He then asked if I was on Facebook. Facebook? Oy. I feel a generation gap coming on. I read an article about Facebook in The Economist, but to be honest, I wasn't all that solid on the details of what exactly Facebook is. But...when in Rome, or Barcelona as the case may be, do as the Romans do. So, after much consternation and much trial and error, I figured out how this Facebook site works and I now have a....(I don't know the term. Is it page? site? registration?)...presence there. Ah, the things I do to fit in with the cool kids.

No one said it was going to be easy, right?

On a brighter note, I'm managing to make my way around the city without speaking English. In general, Spaniards understand me, but furrow their brows and make quizzical faces upon hearing my thick Argentine accent and latin american vocabulary. However, there are a large number of North Africans in Barcelona for whom Spanish is a second language. I am pretty much incomprehensible to them. I did, however, run into a Brazilian store clerk today who was simply enchanted with my accent and happily mimicked everything I said with a special emphasis on my argentinisims.

So far, no particularly interesting things to note (still trying to erase the image of a drunken Englishman pee-ing in the street), but I will be sure to report any that arise.

For those of you who dutifully tuned in to our Buenos Aires blog, I apologize for being so neglectful and leaving you with a cliffhanger. I will endeavor to be a much more responsible blogger from here on out.