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)