The Wringer

Or give it to your mother, she'll know what to do...

Planes, Trains & Automobiles: The World Traveler

Madrid Barajas - Terminal 4 (long line to change a ticket)

PLANES.

“Buenos días”, I say to the man at the ticket counter as I hand him my ticket, passport, and a happy morning smile.

I was so excited to go to the States that I actually got to the airport a bit early, thinking that perhaps if I got there early, the flight would leave early too. I wasn’t on the same flight as Ismael who, essentially, would be on a direct flight later that day that would arrive at about the same time.

“Buenos días”, he replies.

A few long minutes go by and I ask him, “¿Pasa algo?”

“Pues, sí.  Tu vuelo fue ayer,” he says to me as he hands back my ticket and passport to a shocked frown.

“AYER, por Díos, ¿Qué hago?” I ask this man who is now telling me that my flight was the day before what I should do.  It was 5:30 AM on December 23^rd and I was supposed to travel to the States for Christmas.  Ismael and I lived in Tel Aviv at the time and we had flown to Madrid a couple of days before the US flight to celebrate Christmas with his family first.  I, admittedly, bought the cheaper ticket that had a layover in London so I could buy the latest season of Sex and the City on DVDs that would work in our Spanish DVD player in Israel.  What I didn’t realize is that according to my ticket, I was to fly in the day before Ismael and then go pick him up at the airport.

I whip out my phone and call Ismael.

“Mi vuelo fue ayer, ¿qué hago?”

Ismael is not a morning person and was probably having some lovely dream that I interrupted with my panic as he was just plain rude on the phone.

“Sarah, son las 5:45 de la mañana, ¿están abierto los mostradores?”

“No.” I respond.  No ticket window was open; in fact, there was almost nobody in the airport.

“Pues, yo no puedo hacer nada.  Hay que esperar hasta que abran,” says an angry Ismael.

At 6:00 AM, my cheap ticket with the layover in London to buy the DVD turned into an expensive ticket as I had to pay a fine to change the flight and the woman told me that I was lucky I had gotten there so early as I lucked out and got the last seat, in the last row, right next to the bathrooms on the flight to JFK from London.  Lucky me!

My mom has always referred to me as the “World traveler” as I just can’t seem to get enough of traveling.  I love seeing, feeling, tasting, and taking lots of photos of new places.  By my mom calling me the world traveler, it makes me feel like it should be my profession, perhaps I should be writing travel books or interesting articles about what I see and eat or write that fiction novel I have been dying to write.  But I think a better profession would be to perhaps entertain people about my travel flops!  I may be the world traveler to my mom but let the truth be told, I have no idea how to read a map, I buy travel guides to read the brief history, see what the prime museum to visit is, where the best shopping is and to make sure I eat or have a drink at the best local restaurants.  I tend to get so excited that my travel adventures start before I even get to my destiny.

Yet another incident happened just a few months ago.  My flight was delayed by a couple of hours and I was feeling chatty so I called Eli.  We were chatting on the phone and laughing, etc and finally, it was time for me to board.  I continue chatting on the phone, show the man my boarding pass and up the ramp I go.  I am still chatting on the phone and tell Eli that I have to hang up because I am getting on the plane.  (I really can’t stand the people that talk while on the plane so everybody on board can hear their conversation and for the rest of the flight we know too much about the person.)  

“Perdon, ¿me podría usted ayudar a subir la maleta?” I ask the flight attendant if he could help me put my case in the overhead compartment.

I am about to sit down and notice that there is a man in my seat. 

“Perdon, hay un hombre en mi asiento”, I tell the flight attendant. 

He checks my boarding card and looks at me with big astonished eyes and says, “¿A dónde va usted?”

“Bruselas.”

“Este avión va a Dusseldorf - ¿le han dejado entrar el avión?”

“Pues, sí. Eso parece.” I answered the man even tough I was thinking, “DUH, I am on the plane so of course they let me on it.”

He lowers my case and off I go running to find the correct plane. 

As I am getting off the wrong plane, a person getting on the right plane asks me, “¿Todo está bien?” and I assure them that everything is fine but I just happened to get on the wrong plane.

As I am walking down the ramp, 5 security guards are coming towards me in Spanish style to escort me off the plane.   I am not sure how I got confused because I generally check the departure board 7 times and check the boarding gate 7 times before it is even boarding time but I still managed to get on the wrong plane.  Ismael would have freaked out as he was driving from Dusseldorf to pick me up in Brussels.  It is scary that I was allowed to get on the plane but I was so worried about getting on the right plane to Brussels that I didn’t even really think about it at the time. 

TRAINS:

When I was a student in Madrid, my stepdad had a business trip in Salzburg, Austria.  My mom and I thought it would be fun if we met up there and enjoyed the city while Jorge, my stepdad who is really named George, had his conference.

I went to the travel agency, Viajes Zeppelin, for students in Madrid and managed to get a really cheap ticket, only it had a 5-hour layover in Amsterdam on the way to Salzburg. 

“Cool, I get to see two cities for the price of one!” I thought to myself.

Ismael assured me that I could make it to the center of Amsterdam and back to the plane in 5 hours because the train service in Holland was excellent.

My flight arrived in Amsterdam and I buy my train ticket to the city centre.  I asked 2 people how to get to the center and they both pointed to a train.  So, I hop on.

I ended up sitting next to a student who was studying US History, she probably knew more about US History than I do.  We talk about US History and Europe and the journey seemed to be taking longer than the 20 minutes Ismael insisted that it took to get to the center.  The landscapes I saw from the train were simply amazing;  flatland, very green and the occasional windmill, I was imagining people skating on the dam that followed the train.

“Where are you headed?” she asks.

Amsterdam Train Station & Bikes

“To Amsterdam.”

Her face distorted and she tells me I must get off at the next stop because we were headed in the other direction.

“Here we go again!” I thought to myself.

So, a quick goodbye when the train stopped and I quickly run down the stairs through the tunnel and make it up to the other side of the platform and hop on the train, the train to the center of Amsterdam.

By the time I actually got to Amsterdam, two and a half hours had past.  So, I quickly walked around, had a coffee and headed back to the airport.

and…AUTOMOVILES:

I had another incident in Costa Rica – I was on the bus and I was going to meet Kim & Kristy in Quepos, a small town on the coast.  I fell dead asleep and all of the sudden I hear the driver yell, “JACÓ”.  I had to take a bus to Jacó and then catch another bus to Quepos.  So, I get up, grab my backpack, and jump off the bus.  When my eyes finally opened, I was in the middle of nowhere!  I was in the middle of the jungle with an elderly woman at the bus stop drinking a coke out of a plastic bag.  I asked her what time the next bus came and she told me in 2 horas, si Díos quiere (in 2 hours, God willing.)

So, I parked myself next to the woman and we started chatting.  Next thing I know, she is inviting me to her house to drink cokes out of baggies.  Off we go trekking through the woods.  We arrived at her house and it was the typical Costa Rican wood slatted house with a tin roof.  She lived with her daughter and her 5 kids.  Next thing I know, I am being served beers and arroz con pollo.  I took several photos and wander back through the woods to the bus stop.

I finally made it to the final destination.  We meet up at the local pulperia, check into our bungalow and off we go to the beach.  After our beach time, we go back to the room to find that we had been robbed!  They took all of Kim’s money, my watch and my CAMERA!  I have no proof of my bus incident in the middle of nowhere!

Ismael always asks me about 10 times if we have the tickets.  On one of our trips to the States, I claimed I had them.  I swore I had them.  So, we get to Barajas and wait on queue to fly Delta Airlines for 3 hours.  Finally!!  Our turn to check-in.

“May I have your tickets and passports, please?” asks the woman at the desk.

We hand over our goods and she asked us once again for the tickets.

“¿Billetes? ¿No son electrónicos?” asks Ismael.

I could feel my face turning white as the memories came flashing in a wild gush to my brain.  We had received paper tickets in the mail months before and I safely stashed them in a drawer in the apartment.

I tell Ismael to stall the queue, as there were still about 30 more passengers to check in.  Off I sprint.

I ran through the airport like a mad woman and ran to the taxi station.  I showed a taxista a bill and essentially told him that I would double it if he could get to my house in Vallecas and back to the airport in 20 minutes.  The taxista seemed all ready for the feat and when we got to my street, he actually timed me!  I hadn’t been timed since my brother said he would time me to see how long it took to make him 2 pb & j’s with a glass of milk!! 

I made it back to the airport almost exactly 25 minutes later with the tickets in my hand and an empty wallet.  We made it on the flight.

I tend to think that adventure follows this world traveler wherever I go.  I never manage to have a dull moment, always happen upon fascinating things, and always learn a lot; I even know where to get a tire changed in Ft. Williams, Scotland.  Luckily, some former workmates gave me a bubble gum hot pink travel case that fits passport, frequent flyer cards and boarding passes and it has a strap so I can wear it on my wrists so I don’t have as many “incidences” anymore.  I say that if you love to travel, just remember your passport and tickets, bring extra batteries for your camera, an empty stomach and let the adventures follow, or, lead you! 

Carmen, not the barrio!

Before I left for Madrid back in 2001, NYU sent a dossier with a bunch of apartments in it.  I remember calling a friend who lived in Málaga to ask him which were the best areas, etc.  He called a friend who lived in Madrid and he informed me of the best zonas (areas).  I ticked my three choices and sent the dossier back to NYU. 

I soon received my soon-to-be address in the mail, calle Doctor Esquerdo.  Cool!  Couldn’t wait – I can’t remember if it was my first choice or not but I knew that I was going to be living with 3 other Americans and that the apartment building was relatively new.  NYU had suggested that we spend the first semester in the housing that they have agreements with the dueños (owners). 

I landed in Madrid and my friend from Málaga met me in the airport. He told me we should take the metro as it was cheapest.  He had already been to see my future apartment and knew the way.  It was great to see him but seeing him somehow made me feel like I had a pit in the bottom of my stomach.  I left NYC wanting a change and I wanted a smaller city, I also wanted to learn, feel and discover Madrid on my own. 

Finally, we arrived at the apartment.  It was lovely!  The building was brick and brand new, very common in this neighborhood.  As I was one of the first ones there and as I was going to be the mother hen, I decided that I needed to pick my room and to have my own bathroom.  No one seemed to argue!  After we shifted roommates – there were originally 2 grads and 2 undergrads in the apartment which NYU undoubtedly should know that undergrads and graduate students don’t always mix, especially not in a city that never sleeps where agendas would clash, ie, partying all night vs. being a ratón de la bibilioteca (a book worm).  With that settled, we were 4 grad students living together on calle Doctor Esquerdo, metro stop Conde de Casal on the circular, gray line, had to figure out how to get to the Instituto Internacional on calle Miguel Angel.  After trying to figure out the metro map, to travel to school everyday, we had to take the circular gray line 6 and then change to the green line 4, to finally arrive to the metro stop, Rubén Dario.  If you have read a previous blog, you would know I absolutely can not stand either of those lines even though I did get to see the Pink Fairy on the circular.

So, my first apartment in Madrid on calle Doctor Esquerdo is located in the Zona Retiro, Barrio Estrella.  This is quite a posh neighborhood as there are lots of trees, it is right near the Parque Retiro, there are lots of schools, there is a mix of old and new buildings, lots of women pushing baby stollers, there is no noise, but for a foreigner looking for adventure, the neighborhood really doesn’t offer much more, ie, there are no bars, cafés, not much movement, etc.  I loved the apartment, I love my roommates who are still my dear friends, I loved living near the park, I loved that there was a supermarket and a gas station where I could buy Doritos and Magnum Dobles at 5:00 AM but not only was there nothing else, it had the most inconvenient metro line – no matter where you went, you had to get on the circular, gray metro line.

Instituto Internacional

Us roommies knew that we were going to move out in December so my next task was to find a new apartment that didn’t involve the circular, gray metro line and was close to the Instituto Internacional, a lovely building that used to house the majority of the US universities and it is also the where I worked for ACCENT.  Luck bestowed me and a NYU doctoral candidate told me I should take over her room when she headed back to NYC.  WHOOPIE!  I was going to move to calle Miguel Angel, right next to the Instituto Internacional where NYU is located and live with 2 gay Colombians, Juanca and Marino.

This barrio in Madrid is called Chamberí, it is also very posh.  It is where a lot of wealthy people live, it is right near many government buildings, the British Institute, Museo Sorolla, the Paseo de Castellana (a long road that goes through the center of Madrid), the plaza de Chamberí and it is very quiet.  The houses are old with beautiful windows, there are nice restaurants and a one night club in the area but it was VERY quiet area and on Sundays, it was almost impossible to have a coffee at a café without having to walk 15-20 minutes.

Plaza de Chamberi

My roommates slept all day as they worked as waiters in restaurants in the night, so there was never any clashing.  Marino never learned my name and always called me “Chiqui”, “Chiqui” is better than being called Sandra, but that is beside the point.  Shortly after I moved in “Antoni” moved in, a gay American from “Iowa, not to be confused with Idaho, the potato state as Iowa is the corn state”.

I liked this apartment but I wasn’t terribly convinced about the neighborhood despite the fact that the neighborhood was charming and filled with beautiful old buildings, I wanted to see people, Madrileños and hear noise.   Yes, living there was great, I literally walked a block and a half to classes and the library, which was very convenient, and to top it off, I didn’t have to take the circular gray line.  My roommates were always cleaning and listening to great music.  I, admittedly, spent a lot of time at Ismael’s apartment when he was working in Madrid (he lived in Rome when I met him) and Antoni will tell you that I was barely there, except to study during the day, take a siesta, do laundry, shower, have a chupito of limoncello with Antoni (I kept a bottle I had bought in Rome in the freezer) and clean my room.  Antoni never understood why I cleaned it when there was really never anything to clean.

After I finished the first part of my masters, luck bestowed me again as after I was finished with classes and summer was over, Ismael was getting transferred to Israel and said I could live in his bachelor pad where we continue to live today.  His bachelor pad has still not undergone a woman’s transformation but I have never been much into interior decorating as I like to be en la calle as they say in Spain, which my translation would be out and about.  I remember when I lived on calle Doctor Esquerdo which is about a 15 minute walk to Ismael’s apartment and he asked me to go to Ikea with him.  Ikea?, sure why not.  I have only been back there 3 times since I don’t really like my furniture coming from a box and then you have to laboriously sweat your guts out to put it together. 

View of all of Madrid from the Boobie Park in Vallecas

Ismael’s apartment is located in Vallecas, metro stop Puente de Vallecas, light blue line 1, one of the only metro lines I like.  It is 7 stops away from Sol (the center of Madrid), has busses that go just about anywhere in the city and is very blue collar.  It is a VERY noisy neighborhood, full of people, and has often been referred to as the ghetto as it used to be known as the slums.  Finally, I got to see people and have lots of noise.  Vallecanos are the people from my neighborhood.  Vallecanos used to refer to Vallekas as a different city than Madrid because it is separated from Madrid by the Puente de Vallecas.  Vallecas is the home to the PSOE, Ska-P, a renowned Spanish ska group, has el Parque de las Tetas with the best view of all of Madrid.  Most Vallecanos support the soccer team, el Rayo Vallecano whose stadium is a hop, skip, and a jump from Ismael’s apartment. Vallecanos say that once a vallekano, always a vallekano. 

Vallecas, even today, still considers itself a town.  It is conveniently located on Metro line 1, just like the 1 indicates, was the first metro line in Madrid built under the reign of King Alfonso XIII and it opened in 1919.  The original metro line didn’t extend down to Vallecas till 1923.  Despite the fact that Vallecas is conveniently located on the blue line 1, not many madrileños will venture there.  Better for the vallecanos. 

Vicente, a neighbor who takes great pride in the fact that he lives in the only red building in Vallekas, says that his mom used to say that she was going to the city when she had to buy something in the center.

Vallecas, according to Boss 1, has had the highest increase in real estate prices out of any other neighborhood in Madrid, he says that most houses have gone up in value by 20-50%.  I believe this is the case due to be the fact that Vallecas keeps improving.  I remember when I moved to Vallecas back in 2002 or 2003, the neighborhood was a total dump, quite dodgy and every year it improves; more policemen patrol the area, entire buildings are constantly being demolished and reconstructed, and Madrid keeps expanding, making Vallecas part of the heart of Madrid.

For the most part, I don’t mind living in the ghetto.  The people are generally very friendly and they are very Spanish and what I love most is that they have great pride in themselves and Vallecas.  One of the oldest bars with vermut on tap is just around the corner, there is an old fashioned market right nearby, about 3 supermarkets, a post office almost in front of our apartment, la Cervecera where we celebrated our wedding, a gym and a posh pub with European beers and ciders that we have been going to for years.  We have made friends with people from all necks of the woods.  We are friends with politicians, doctors, the original drummer from Ska-P and his darling girl friend, funcionarios (civil servents), one of which is one of the first female metro conductors, IT specialists, importers, exporters, electricians, etc.  I think it is the one place in the world where the postman actually sings me happy birthday every year, in Spanglish!

Aldomovar's Carmen

With living in Vallecas comes Carmen who attributes to a big part of the noise.  The building that houses Ismael’s apartment is a new construction; they tore down the old and built up the new.  Ismael’s apartment is on the first floor and right next to Carmen. Carmen is the heart of the building; she is your typical Spanish lady, one that you would find in Pedro Aldomovar’s Volver.   

Our corrala, aka the plaza de toros

The building is built in a 15^th century Spanish architectural style called corrala.  A corrala is a building that has a big open space in the middle that typically no taller than 3 stories high.  Back in the old days they would put on zarzuelas (Spanish operettas) or have a market.  When a zarzuela preformed, it was for the people, some would even hang out their windows or over the balconies to see it.  I love zarzuelas but not when it is a modern day saga of the neighbors shouting from one balcony to the next.  I refer to the open space a plaza de toros.  I see it as useless space as the neighbors won’t allow for tables, chairs, a bbq or anything of the sort but only the clothes lines.  I would also state that the corrala allows for Carmen to let her grandkids run loose and make more noise than she does.  The corrala also allows for all of the neighbors to gossip from one floor to the next, more noise.  Most of the time, I can tell you who has achy joints, who is eating what for lunch, the temperature as the weather is a big conversation and if somebody needs garlic.  I actually think that Carmen needs a hearing aid as unfortunately, she is ALWAYS the loudest.  I can hear her talking through the walls.  Carmen is so loud that I actually had a minor dispute with her.  Carmen, despite her uncontrollable loudness, has a heart of gold.  One day when I was sick, she noticed that I had gone into the apartment and hadn’t left for a couple of days.  She knocks on the door and asks me if everything is ok.  I was extremely sick and had lost my voice.  She offered to make me food and said if I needed anything, I knew where to find her.  Those were her quietest days ever.  Not one peep!  BUT once I was up and running, the volume went back to normal!

It is funny because I now have all of the noise and all of that people watching that I was craving for when I was a grad student but now I don’t want it.  Madrid has a ton of zonas, barrios, and all have their charm.  I love going to La Latina on Sundays but I would never want to live there.  I love going out in Malasanya but I would never want to live there.  I must say that I have grown found of Vallekas but I would give my ears to live in one of the quiet neighborhoods I resided in before but then again, perhaps in a quiet neighborhood nobody would sing me happy birthday or knock on my door when I am sick.  Whatever the hood, Madrid is a fascinating city.

Shitgrins (a.k.a. Sjögren's)

This was my hand in August 2008

I am never really sure what I should write in my blog and I am never really sure who really reads it.  I started it because I always wanted to be a novelist.  As an avid reader, I can’t imagine what I would write that would top a NY Times bestseller.  Today is a special day for me, I could say that I have tears in my eyes but I no longer have tears.  Today, according to the Sjögren’s Foundation that was founded in 1983, is the First Annual Sjögren’s Awareness Day, July 23 because  because it is Dr. Henrik Sjögren's birthday, the man who discovered it. 

I refer to this particular autoimmune disease as Shitgrins as the autoimmune disease is total shit but I have found that the more cheerful and positive that I am, the better I feel, hence the grin part!  

I was officially diagnosed with the Shitgrins in October 2008.  I made my dear friend Annabel go to the best Rheumatologist in Spain with me for the diagnosis because my hubby was in Germany.  I was shaking in my shoes.  I had been poked and prodded for months.

It all started in March 2008.  I thought I had broken a bone in my hand from carrying a box of paper up to another floor.  So, off I went to a Traumatologist. He told me I had temporary arthritis, gave me a prescription and told me if my right hand was still swollen to get an X-ray.  15 days go by and I then had 2 swollen wrists.  I had to figure out where to get the X-ray done.  I finally get the X-ray done and he tells me to take the pills for longer.  The end of May rolls around and I started to swell up like a beached whale that had been in the sun.  I decide that I need to go to another doctor.  So, I go to a general doctor.  He prescribes more tests and more drugs.  I go with the paper to the lab and get the blood drawn.  A few weeks later, I am back in his office.  “Your cholesterol is high, you have to go on a diet”.  I am thinking to myself, “What the hell?  I eat no fat, barely like any foods and go to the gym-I have NEVER had high cholesterol."  A month goes by and I have gained more weight and can no longer sleep because I am achy and any move hurts and I found myself crying all the time.  I go back to that doctor but when I am in the doctor’s office, a different doctor appears.  He told me that I was obviously not following the diet and the cholesterol was going to my joints.  “HELLLLLLO?, anybody in there?”  I knew something was wrong.

I felt like the Tin Man

I go to the States in August, and all I can do was sleep, be mean, sleep, be mean and barely eat, in the meantime, I kept getting LARGER.  After seeing 3 doctors in Spain, my cousins who are prominent doctors/surgeons told me what tests I needed to have done; Lyme, Celiac and to see a Rheumatologist (whoever that was).

I went to see my mom’s doctors who I now think are total shit along with the Shitgrins for them to tell me that I don’t have Lyme nor am I a Celiac.  Hmmmmm…The husband doctor gave me the results of my tests and proceeds to tell me  me that I am depressed and should consider taking anti-depressants.  Anybody who really knows me would never tell me I am depressed, a bit crazy, but depressed never.

So, I head back to Spain a bit discouraged and LARGE.  I can no longer sleep because my entire body hurts.  So, BLAH BLAH BLAH.

Finally, a diagnosis!!! It took 11 doctors to finally assure me that it wasn’t me being a hypochondriac.  Primary Sjögren’s Syndrome.  WTF is that?  It is an autoimmune disease that affects the glands and essentially makes the internal organs not so happy.

So there, to make a long story short, and with the help of Dr. Gumers, Marty, and Josette, I found myself seeking alternative treatments because the corticoids and other drugs made me feel crappy.  I found Fruitcake through Celia, a dear workmate. 

Fruitcake is a Biological Medicine doctor that does nose jobs on the side.  He is a quake, sometimes a perv, but he is fixing me through extensive biological analysis.  I often think that Fruitcake is from another planet.  He makes me drink things that taste like they came from the bottom of the faucet drain, my fridge is filled with vitamins, I go to his office once a month and I get IVs for 3 and a half hours, it’s EXPENSIVE, BUT it works!!  Less shoes, better health, right?  He has never told me that I have Sjögren’s but rather a body out of balance, which essentially is the description of Sjogren’s.

I just want to take a moment to give a shout out to those of you who have an autoimmune disease or something that inflicts your health.  It can suck, it can be the pits, you feel lost, you feel alone, you feel like you want to die, you feel like you want to break something, you feel it isn’t fair, you feel you want to cry but, out of experience, the more positive you are, the more meditation you do (check out my blog on the yogi guru), the more love you receive, the more you laugh, the more you see that life is lovely, you can overcome.

Love you all for your endearing support. 

First Annual Sjögren’s World Awareness.

Metro Madrid le informa....STRIKE!

Right outside Atocha Renfe Train Station

On my way to work last week, the EMT, public transportation of Madrid, was handing out little blue booklets titled, "Muévete major en el autobus, Viajar en los autobuses de la EMT."  I knew something was up as I can not fathom who on earth needs instructions on how to get on the bus, what to do while on the bus, and how to get off the bus and mind you, I was coming up the stairs from the local trains. 

Pamphlet on how to get on and off the bus
which includes how to behave on the bus

Metro Strike! The strike started yesterday and according to El Mundo, it is going to continue.  The article gives no specific termination date which in Spain that means indefinitely.  The metro workers are government employees and to help with the Spanish deficit, all government employees are going to have their salaries lowered by 5% as of January 2011.  The metro workers are protesting such decrease and the Canarian in my office comments, "Lo que me da rabia, es que van a bajar los salarios de todos los funcionarios y los trabajadores de Metro parece que son los únicos que pueden provocar problemas por eso a todos lo demás."  She essentially has stated that it bothers her that the metro workers are the only ones that can cause problems due to the salary decrease.  I tend to agree with Mauricio who claims that he would make a "nueva plantilla" (an entire new staff) as currently, Spain has an unemployment rate of 20% and surely there are enough people out there who would be delighted to have a job.

A metro strike happens almost every year, I should be used to it by now.  The underground workers always seem to be able to complain about something.  Strikes in Spain are a nightmare; it is the time when you see Spain at its' finest.   The day starts out with traffic that doesn't move, no taxi in sight, and having to queue for at least 15 minutes to cram yourself into an overstuffed bus where you find that you have an unknown man's penis pressing on your thigh, a woman's arm flattening your boob, and something that you hope is a bag pressing on your ass.  To add to the flavor of being stuffed into a sardine can, there is the typical man, yelling his complaint about how the strike is not legal to the entire bus.

I get my daily routine interrupted by the transport strikes which makes me extremely exhausted and gives me anxiety.  A trip to work that normally takes me about 15 minutes can extend into an hour and forty minute bus ride, packed with people, and then a ten minute walk.  Due to lack of metro services, the crowded sidewalks are enough to give you claustrophobia. 

"Nunca me ha dado cuenta de la cantidad de gente que usa el metro, como la gente está bajo tierra,"  The Canarian commented that she never realized just how many people used the metro because you don't see anybody because they are all underground.   

El Mundo states that 2 million people in the Community of Madrid have had to figure out alternative ways to get to work.  Luckily, the local trains and buses are still circulating but they are over-crowded and even still, the metro seems to be door to door where the others have their routes and often don't leave you right by the door.  A friend from Finland had to walk an hour to work yesterday, mind you it is hot out and arriving to work sweaty is not always pleasant.

The public transport in Madrid is usually quite exceptional, a traveler can basically get anywhere in the City by Metro or bus quite easily.  Somebody once told me that the Metro was designed so that you could get from point A to your destination without having to change more than 2 trains; so far that has been my experience.  I am the queen of the public transport.  I have even taken the metro to a wedding!  A monthly pass, abono de transporte, cost a mere 46 Euro which if compared to New York, is a bargain.  Basically, I can travel anywhere in Zone A as much as I like via buses, metro, local trains (cercanías).  I must say, on lazy or hot days, I love my abono as I will take the metro or the bus only a couple of stops.

The Metro designed a new map in 2007 and it resembles London's Tube map.  I find the map awful and illegible.  I have the worst sense of direction and the new linear design has made it worse so I use the maps that I saved from previous years.  My old, tattered maps don't have all of the new lines on it but I figure if I have to travel out of Zone A, I better be in a car.

Section of the OLD map

When I was a student at NYU, I was obsessed with writing an article about the metro experience.  My brilliant idea was to spend an entire day riding the Gray Line, Line 6, the Circular.  Spaniards generally refer to the line number where I usually associate the different metro lines by color.  I think that the Circular is the worst line ever, along with the Green line, Line 5.  The Circular trains make you feel like you have gone back to the 50s as they are cumbersome and outdated.  You can find all types of people on the Circular as the line just travels round and round and round Madrid.  So my obsession with the Circular just kept growing as I find people fascinating.  It seemed as though this one crazy lady would always travel at the same time I did and boy did she make my day.  I called her the "Pink Fairy" as she always dressed different shades of pink and a tiara with missing plastic jems.  She didn't really look like a fairy as her over-bleached teased hair was dirty, she caked hot pink make-up all over her face and the pink clothes were soiled but without fail, she always wore the tiara.  The first time I saw the Pink Fairy, I looked around for a hidden camera after she got out of the wagon.  She got on the train in her big pink outfit and the tiara with a ton of plastic bags, started singing, sat down in a seat and started opening up cans of tuna and eating the tuna with her fingers.  It was totally nasty and yet totally fascinating.  I remember the next time I was riding on the Circular and she entered, the shocked look on the others faces was priceless.  I haven't seen the Pink Fairy in years as I have tried to avoid the Circular but I remember her with a smile on my face.

Like I said before, normally, the Metro is great.  I only hope that the strikers resolve their issues so I can get on with my routine and keep claiming that the metro in Madrid is really great.  If they can't resolve their issues, I hope that the government will insist on having the military drive the trains as they did in January 1976 according to El Pais or that the the strikers are replaced by more willing employees.

7 Weddings in 5 Months means Crisis

The Chinese say that it is the Year of the Tiger, Spanish newspapers claim it is the year of the crisis, 2010 for me is the Year of the Weddings. My husband and I have officially been invited to 7 weddings over a span of the next 5 months; we have R.S.V.P.ed “no” to 2 of them and will do our best to make the other 5.

While I was eavesdropping on the elevator ride up to my office, I overheard two women talking about the number of weddings they had in the next year and I just had to say:

“Mi marido y yo hemos sido invitados a 7 bodas en los próximos 5 meses.”

“Buah, es una multa!,” she replied almost in shock. She said that my situation was like receiving a ticket or a fine. I probably couldn’t have said it better.

5 out of the 7 weddings we have been invited to are in Spain and 2 are in the United States. Weddings in Spain are quite the affair, perhaps which is why I opted for the “are you sure you aren’t pregnant?” type of wedding, in Spain, this type of wedding is known as “se casan de penalty”, meaning they are getting married because the bride is pregnant. I got an estimate for the type of wedding I wanted in Spain from Toda Boda, a Spanish wedding planner agency and the estimate was about the same cost as my student loans which in Spain, many couples take out loans to pay for their weddings. Ridiculous.

I used to LOVE weddings, I still do but in a different way.  When I was a bit younger and I dreamt of the day that I would get married and hoped that it would be an event right out of a fairy tale. But as time has gone on, each time Ismael and I get an invitation; I chuckle and actually get a bit claustrophobic which you will understand the reason why just shortly.

I think that the process of the wedding is pretty similar in Spain as it is in the States – it all starts with the engagement: you hear first about the engagement through word of mouth, or in these days, the news arrives via some form of cyber space.

Traditionally, the engaged couple arranges a “cena de pedido”, an engagement dinner, where both sets of parents are invited to have a dinner. This can be quite “violenta” as it is typically the first time the parents meet. Tradition has it that the groom’s parents give the “novia” a ring while the bride’s parents give the “novio” a watch. The diamond ring is a new concept that has been adopted all over Europe which I think is due to the American influence and I must admit that I don’t always like the selected engagement rings and have found that they are much lovelier in the States where you can even get them custom made.

Once word has been spread around, you soon learn of the date via email, sms, phone call or whatever. One of my American friends who is getting married on September 11th sent a paperless post save the date and I thought that it was adorable and very formal.

Soon the invitation arrives, which is usually handed out personally by the bride and groom in a bar or over tapas and if you couldn’t make it out on that particular day, it is sent via post.

The first wedding I went to in Spain was our friends who got married in Southern Spain. They got married in Marbella in 2003. I remember when their invitation arrived and it had little numbers on it.

“Isma, ¿Qué es esto?” I ask Ismael what the numbers meant.

“Es el número de la cuenta.” He tells me it is the account number.

“¿Qué cuenta?”, not knowing what the account number was.

“La cuenta bancaria”, Ismael responds in a duh tone as if I should know.

The typical, traditional Spanish wedding invitation is nothing that special in my eyes but I shouldn’t really criticize them as I sent all 27 guests to our wedding an evite. The traditional sort is a rather large piece of cardboard in a selected color; I received one in pea green once, with calligraphy. In the top corners are the names of the parents and in the middle the names of the bride and groom with all of the other pertinent wedding information.

Then just in the corner is the RSVP and just below that is the bank account number, printed directly on the invite. If the account number doesn’t appear directly on the invite, the happy couple usually encloses a little piece of paper with the 20 magic numbers on it so that you can make a transfer from your account to theirs. If the invite doesn’t come with the little paper, you feel obliged to email and ask what it is. Hell with registering for gifts, right?

The going wedding rate these days is 150€ a head, that is about $190.19. I can’t remember the last time Ismael and I ever spent 300€ on a dinner out, probably because we never have. I find it a bit outrageous and I, admittedly, never transfer that amount of money. As a tradition, you are supposed to pay for the cost of the dish which usually runs around 40-60 bucks.

A co-worker commented on the transfers by saying that “ellos se van de luna de miel y volvemos a Madrid con una resaca de cojones y sin un duro”, claiming that the couple goes on their honeymoon while we go back to Madrid with a huge hangover and empty pockets.

After you figure out which hotel to stay in and how you are going to get there, soon before you know it, The BIG Day finally arrives.

In Spain, there is no rehearsal dinner the night before a wedding which I have found that I sometimes like the rehearsal dinner more than the wedding itself. Instead of a rehearsal dinner, there is usually a more informal dinner or tapas followed by “copas”. The “copas” can be un peligro total as you usually end up having the worst hangover the next day and have to celebrate the big day with the happy couple.

Guests at Spanish weddings, I am referring to the women, tend to dress quite fancily, although, in my opinion, some can get way over dressed and appear almost gaudy. Most women wear some type of dress or suit, get their hair done which usually includes a tocado, a personal fav, and a fan. Men usually wear the same suit they wear to work.. A bride’s dress is according to her own taste but they can be quite costly. Some of the major brands for gowns are Pronovia, Sarda, Frikki, Rosa Clara or to have one made from scratch. There are no bridesmaids and I have been asked at every Spanish wedding if I have been a bridesmaid in the States and if I had to wear the same dress as the others and if it was as ugly as some seen in the US films.

I remember one year Ismael and I had so many weddings in all different parts of the world that I got away with wearing the same red, long BCBG dress to almost all of them, the almost is because the day arrived when my husband actually told me I had to buy a different dress because he was sick of looking at the red one and from the photos, all of the weddings seemed the same!

In Spain, being the couples’ testigo (witness) is a very important role and everybody wants to be it which I find funny because very seldom do the youngsters stay at the church for the ceremony, most head to the nearest bar to have a beer or wine while the couple is tying the knot.

After the ceremony has finished, there is a cocktail hour, followed by lots of food and more wine, followed by a dance. A typical Spanish wedding can finish well into the next day.

While you are eating your dinner, guest constantly stand up and shout,

“Vivan los novios” or “que se besen, que se besen”…

and at that point everybody raises their glasses, watches the newly weds kiss, and gives a toast, chin chin.

The couple usually gives out little party favor to the guests which are passed out as the desert is being served, mind you, there is no cutting of the cake, by the woman witness and a couple of dear friends of the bride. The typical present is cigarettes and cigars but at the most recent weddings, we have received alpargatas, fans, pins, visnagas, etc. Ismael and I gave out a CD with our favorite tunes on it.

The Spanish newspapers can’t seem to write enough about the crisis, does a crisis cause more people to tie the knot? Since we have been invited to 7 weddings in 5 months in 2 different continents, I am led to believe that crisis definitely bring people together whether it be through marriage or something else. Whatever the occasion, I am always honored to take part and take loads of pictures.

Operación Bikini

“Sarah, ya es tiempo de Operación Bikini,” said my workmate who I always refer to as Mr. GQ as he could be a model for the magazine.

“Buenos días”, I respond. 

“Hmmm, it’s already time for Operación Bikini?  Has a year gone by that fast?” I think to myself as I remove my wool coat and hang it in the closet. 

Next week, Spain celebrates the Semana Santa, Easter holiday, where all of the Catholics and non-practicing Catholics celebrate their Catholicism and sins with beautiful tronos for everybody to enjoy.  The tronos, or Saints, that are on floats, are carried by the members of a church, los costaleros throughout the cities that have processions.  There are only a few tronos in Madrid.

Los costaleros carry big floats with statues of Christ or the Virgin Mary, covered with candles and flowers.  These floats can weigh up to 3 or 4 tons and are paraded throughout the streets by the members of the particular church.  One of the best processions I have ever seen was with my mom back in 1997 when I lived in Málaga.  I was showing her the city and we just happened to go into the church there when suddenly it got really quite and then we heard, “thump, thump, thump, thump” and in came the procession.  It was breathtaking.

Around the tronos carried by the costaleros, are other members of the cofradia, dressed in outfits that consist of a robe with a cone hat.  Some say that the Klu Klux clan stole the idea of their outfits from the Spanish processions.  There are also drummers and as they beat the drum, the cofrades take their pasos.  It is all quite intense and worth a visit to Spain to see.

Along with the processions during Easter week, comes a few days off from work which usually means, too much eating, relaxing and drinking.  It is right after the Easter holidays due to the extra pounds put on during the holiday, that leads up to the when the Spaniards and all of the news feeds start spreading the word about Operación Bikini. 

I typed Operación Bikini into www.google.es and thousands of articles came up on how to lose the “Michelin”, Spanish for “the spare tire”, for bathing suit season.  There is even one article that states that Operación Bikini will make it to the school cafeterias with healthier foods to help control obesity in children.  The articles I found write about what to eat, how often to eat, how to prepare your skin for the sun, what exercises are best and all say to drink lots of water.  It all seems like basic health stuff to me.  The Spaniards actually become quite obsessed with this "operacion bikini" concept.  These are the times when I walk in to office kitchen during an on-going session of Camera Café and opt to eat something when a co-worker snickers that it is going to ruin the operación bikini and they like to know how often one goes to the gym.  I have even caught them comparing their cholesterol.  

I am an avid gym freak even though I have had to tone it down a notch; I go every other day for about a half hour to an hour and a half, but this is the season when I actually don’t like going to the gym because it fills up with all of the “get-ready-for-bathing suit-season” temporary members.

It may seem odd that I have chosen to write about two subjects that really do not go hand-in-hand.  Well, they don’t at all.  Nobody is going to go to an Easter procession in a bikini or swim trunks but perhaps due to lent and giving up the foods one loves or due to the fact that there are so many holidays in Spain that this is the prime moment when the media goes on a frenzy about diets and skin scare.  Holidays in Spain could be defined as a time to eat too much, a time to take a really long siesta after eating and drinking too much, a time to do absolutely nothing, the list could go on.  But my theory is, is that if you can’t pinch an inch after a holiday, then perhaps you didn’t enjoy it.   

For the body conscious and body obsessed, now is their time to shine, after the Semana Santa that is, and for those of us who don’t really care or who maintain a healthy well-balanced lifestyle all year round, we feel stuffed at the gym by all of the extras.  Needless to say, I don’t think that people should really need the “operación bikini” as an excuse to take better care of themselves but if it is an initiative, I say go for it – just don’t hog the treadmill. 

*Note: The photo of the woman in the reindeer antlers is courtesy of Juan Ignacio Garcia who took the photo while on holiday in the Canary Islands.