Me Talk Guapa One Day

And I thought I knew some Spanish. After months of lessons (years ago, but still), multiple trips to various regions of México, and hell, living in New York, I really thought I'd gotten somewhere. I couldn't have been more unprepared for how resistant my mouth/ear/brain partnership is to making sense of the language. I'm lazy as hell and haven't studied a bit, of course, so I'm not really complaining, I'm laughing at myself, as you too shortly shall. See? That's the other thing, now I can't speak English either. Plus I never know what Gus is saying unless he slows down and speaks in the "1972 David Bowie" voice. It's getting silly around here.

I once thought I could speak some Spanish. Now I realize, I was totally full of myself because I made some half-assed attempts that supplied me with good stories. Like, once, in México, I asked the hotel proprietor whether the tarantula he was removing from the wall of our cabin was mujer or hombre (for the record, the answer was "hombre, claro"). When retelling that story to my friend Sylvia, she wondered why I would ask that question. My answer: Because I could.

But, just so you can laugh along with me, you have to hear the kind of short sentence I tend to rehearse in my head, prior to (or, more frequently, instead of) opening my mouth. They are uniformly mockworthy and ridiculous. Sure, why not, I have no shame.

Today, while we were all out for a long walk, Gus stopped in a local stationery store. I stayed outside with the dogs, since Chuck and Boom had no art or office supply needs. My having the reins apparently gives Chuck license to bark whenever I'm not touching him, until Gus returns. I happened to see the cashier in the store look out the window at us. She and Gus were smiling and chatting, and obviously admiring the dogs. Abandoning myself to the fantasy that I, too, was making small talk (imagine!) with the cashier about our dogs, I whipped up the following attempted sentence:

"Cuando yo no toco el perro (Is that how I should conjugate "tocar"? Oh, but should I say "massage" instead of "touch"? Are there weird implications in saying I'm touching my dog? There's always that trap of the unexpected masturbation euphemism, you never know... I'd say 'pet' but I have no idea if there's a Spanish word for that...geez, I thought this would be a simple sentence...) , ello (okay, so what's the word for bark? of course I don't know that. Can I say "hablando"? How bad is that? And that's not the right tense anyway, is it? Should I just go "woof"?)

Now, if I were to unleash that (sorry) on an unsuspecting Spanish person, they'd either die of shame on my behalf, or maybe look for the rest of the group of other-ly abled children. Yet I'm told that I should always "try". Well, sure, but if the net effect is that I say things at this level, I'd rather smile and fake it for a while longer. But, dreams crushed and hopes shattered - that doesn't work either. I've been told that after a long night of companionable dining and drinking with people who speak English the way I dismember Spanish, that all my glowing pride in understanding the gist of any thread of any conversational topic was totally unjustified, and nothing was what it seemed. Oh, we all had fun alright, but only Gus knows what anyone was actually talking about, and he really doesn't care to share it. I think it's a lot more fun for him to watch the found-sound, cut-up performance unfold. For now, I will continue to smile and nod, until my (cue drumroll...) Spanish class starts, after Semana Santa!

Yes, I qualify for the free-for-immigrants Spanish class at the immigrant center, just a short 30 minute mountain trek through my beloved, dodgy, construction-scarred Tetuán, and I can hardly wait. This I'm really looking forward to, because I'll be in with some local neighbors who likely aren't US or UK people, and that'll be a lot more interesting. From the sign on the door which offered info in French and Russian, I know it'll be a fun crowd.

Meanwhile, I vow to cherish these last remaining (pick a time period)s of relative incomprehension, where I can be alone with my thoughts in the crowd, until I'm suddenly addressed with anything but "Oye, guapa".

I marvel...

These are things that make me happy, and nicely distinguish here from there. The little differences.

1. The winter tomato (above). Oh my, right there in the supermarket. So juicy it's indecent. So cheap it makes you want to have it in the alley on the way home. The mighty Ensalada-grade tomato, maybe a Euro-and-a-half per kilo. Sure, the fancy, striated, multi-colored showoff (we'd say "heirloom") varieties are there too, at twice the price and very nice. But these which look much like our staple disappointments turn out to be the real deal once you get them home. If you do. Ha-cha.

2. The metal pull-down shades. Nearly all buildings have black or white metal perforated shades on the windows, built-in, which, when pulled down nearly fully, release sparkling stars of light all over the room, and when pulled down totally, bring complete blackness. Bump into furniture blackness. Not only is this amazing for someone who works nights, as Gus sometimes does, but it can really give you a sense of privacy and containment at any time. And then, the sheer joy at lifting them in the morning (or afternoon) to discover blinding sunshine! Well, not today. Anyway, fantastic things.

3. Men kiss each other hello, with tender grace and true affection. This really contrasts with the chest-butting, horn-locking pantomine, "I'm not gay!" brand of physical greeting. Oh sure, YOU don't do that, male friend of mine, but neither do you warmly grasp your friend's shoulders, gently plant one on each cheek, and show some real unburdened love for your man. You also don't say "Besos" or "besitos" when you sign off on the phone (kisses, mua) to other men. Well, maybe that's just a Gus thing, but seriously, the men in the social world I'm observing are a lot less guarded around each other here. I like it a lot, it's natural and not at all provocative, just genuinely warm. Don't try this at home.

4. People here talk freely about sex, even when they're not drunk. And not as a passive-aggressive means of trying to get some. At least I don't think so. I see it as a real backlash against the old guard, repressive atmosphere of bygone dominant forces. The crowd I'm getting to know mostly range in age from about 25 to 35, so these are the people born in the first era without dictatorship. I won't make a lot of considered comparisons, you can do that on your own, but the upshot is there's a relaxedness about saying things right out, which invites frank discussion and a lot of exciting opportunities for sharing stories, laughing, and then getting drunk. See, it's all a chicken and egg game. Fun!

5. It's a lot more multicultural around here than I expected, in a limited way but one I appreciate. The crowd is heavily veined with Latin Americans and Caribbeans, North Africans and a light spread of East Europeans (mainly Romanians and Bulgarians), with a dusting of 'other'. Oh, and gypsy/Roma/etc. people. They're fascinating, without trying to romanticize their lifestyle and other-ness, I'll say that it's a treat to hear a drunk gypsy/Roma/whatever guy walking home singing in the middle of the night. But back to the main point, the effect is that in the neighborhood, I can hear Dominican music and buy Mexican or Ecuadorean foodstuffs, or hear Moroccan music and ... like that. Pretty cool.

Oh surely there's more but, it's time to go to the supermarket while it's still early.

Hasta luego!

And, "Boom" goes the blood donation*

Yesterday morning, Gus's father had to take his devoted and adorable dog Cora to the vet in the nearby neighborhood where they have their Madrid apartment (that's Cora, with Chuck in the background).

photo: Stacco

It seemed like she'd been poisoned. In the country, where they'd been recently, there are people who put out poison sometimes for animal control, but it wasn't clear if that's what it was. His dad was pretty upset, and she was in frail shape. She is a lovely, feisty dog, 1/3 the size of either of Gus's dogs (Chuck and Boom), but totally the boss when they're all together. They love to play in the country, and have been very close for a long time.

In the afternoon Gus's dad called to say that Cora needed a blood transfusion. This local vet talked about contacting a blood bank but offered that it would be faster to get a big strong dog in, if one was available. We were out taking care of other things (more on that another time, also interesting), so we rushed home to meet him, the plan being we'd take Chuck over for the transfusion.

Gus thought it would be better (if slightly cramped) to take both dogs along with us. Boom gets separation anxiety when Chuck is gone, and if he was home alone, he might do damage. So, although his dad didn't look pleased, we shoved them in to the hatchback (under the black tarp thing, very weird) and rushed to the vet, about 15 or 20 minutes away by car.

During the trip, Boom made a complete, anxiety-provoking nuisance of himself by keening and howling without a break. At one point his dad pulled over to make Gus sit in the back seat, so he could attempt to calm him (or just yell at him).

When we finally got there, there were no other clients, so it was calm and quiet. Both dogs were allowed to go see Cora, in her little hospital cage. She was the only dog in there, though there was a street cat in the cabin below, looking like a hooker in jail. Cora was so visibly happy for the visit. As far as the boys, I imagined they understood that she was sick, and they were there to help.

Chuck is such a chaotic bundle of muscle, but he was put up on the table, got his forearms shaved, and in went the needle. Boom and I were in the waiting room right outside the open examining room, while Gus and his dad held Chuck steady on the table. Boom, predictably, would not give it a rest, howling his head off. Eventually, his dad came out and asked if I'd take him for a walk, directing me to a park a few blocks away. Boom had a little romp time, and we got to meet an adorable black Lab puppy (and her owner, who spoke English). While chatting with her, I got a call from Gus that they needed Boom right away, come back! Huh?

I got there and Gus met me outside the office. Chuck was with him, back on the leash, with two cute red arm bandages that made him look very revolutionary. As it turned out, big strong Chuck is so hyper-kinetic and tight, that they couldn't draw enough blood from him, and had to give up. Boom now had his big chance to be a hero!

Boom got hoisted up on the table. We massaged and cuddled him, and his dad covered Boom's eyes as the needle went in. Aww! It took about 10 long minutes, but they got all the blood they needed.

The boys got lots of goodies from the vet techs, and got to see little Cora one more time. Later in the evening we heard that she was home and doing alright, so it was a win! And after all the car drama and embarrassed regret about dragging poor Boom along, it turned out he'd saved the day! Yay, Boomcito!!

*of course, the title of this post is a play on this:

La Patatita?

Yes, "Little Potato". You know, these goofy terms of endearment just kind of happen, but appending it with "in Tetuán" allows me to make it my Flamenco name, clap-clap. Like, "La Perla de Cádiz", or something like that. Except, with potato.

This is my first personal blog post, and there's some internal pressure to sum it all up and get it all out. I want this to stay fun, so I am letting myself off the hook and not trying to document, analyze, and whip up a frothy fuss just now about my first 6 weeks here in España. Instead, my goal is to add stories as they happen, and fill in, when fitting, with memories of these first tumultuous, plague-ridden, injuriously comic days. Some of those events are better left to develop into good stories with the fullness of time, if you know what I mean. And I think you do.

I'll also deal with food a bit, because if there's one thing that's been a reliable source of entertaining change (as opposed to exhilarating, confusing, or exhausting), it's food. In particular, my grocery shopping and subsequent home cooking adventures.

Hasta luego,

La Patatita