The Riverlands

So I stopped posting on this blog because I didn’t think many people were reading it, except family and friends I talked to regularly by phone anyway.  Apparently, I was wrong, because a lot of people have complained since I got back that I stopped writing!  Oh well, next time I’ll know better.

Being back Stateside, there doesn’t seem much point in continuing to keep a blog, as I have never had much inclination to share the details of my average, daily life with the Internet.  However, developments are in progress which could give rise to decent blog material again…so check back in a month or so. If nothing else, I’m going to Mexico for a couple weeks this summer and if I can get Internet access, I’ll be posting from there.  But it <I>could</I> get more interesting than that.

Sarah and I noticed this last time we were here…but it’s amazing how American you become the minute you leave the country. I suppose because a large part of your identity suddenly becomes your nation of origin, whereas, of course, in America being American is nothing special. Also it seems to be instinct (at least for her and I and the other members of our group!) to respond to any kind of homesickness and anything that bugged us about European culture by becoming even more American. Hence Sarah, who normally can’t stand carbonated drinks, started guzzling Coca-Cola, and I began eating regularly at Starbucks (an evil chain with plans for world domination which I therefore normally boycott.)

Things like that. This time my coping strategy has been…www.azstarnet.com. For the first time in years, I am reading the news on a daily basis. The local news (I mean, Arizona,) not the New York Times. (Btw, if you haven’t read Fitz today–the day before Thanksgiving–READ IT.) I’m actually commenting on articles! And for the first time in my life, I am keeping a semi-eye on American sports. I actually know who’s playing tomorrow! (ASU vs. USC…oooh, the dilemma…do I dislike California enough to make me root for the Scum-Devils?)

I actually wrote some lyrics for like three different songs yesterday and today, for that lit & rock class project. They’re not very good, but I figure, hey, they’re a start. (They’re too literary, the language is too high-level. Not suitable for rock. Maciek is going to try to dumb them down a bit.) Then I tried to write another song, but it turned into a poem you definitely couldn’t put to music, and then the poem turned into basically a rant about being American in Europe (read: Europeans picking on America in Europe.) Naturally I don’t plan to show this lovely little spew to anyone on this side of the pond. And being a rant, it’s rather too disorganized for poetry. But I think some parts of it actually have potential, so I’m going to hold onto it and clean it up a bit, maybe. (Basic theme: Europe is an old fogey.)

***Disclaimer***

Europe is actually quite a cool, very unique and beautiful place and I’m very happy to be here. I would recommend it as a great travel destination to virtually anybody. It’s just…you know…it’s not home…and sometimes in order to enjoy yourself even more you have to let off steam once in a while, or the little things (read: political snobbery & conflicting cosmologies) begin to pile up and bug you.

So, for those of you who read my story about the riots in the Basque Country the weekend we were up there, I heard one from another American student studying in Prague yesterday that tops it by far.  (She was taking a free weekend to visit an old friend in Spain, and we started talking because it turns out she goes to ASU.  And boy, the stories…)

So apparently, there’s this political group in the Czech Republic called the Young Democratic Somethings-or-Other…that the whole world knows are Neo-Nazis.  And I guess not too long ago–at some point this fall–they put in an application to do a political demonstration “to protest the Iraq war.”  Except that everyone knows they’re Nazis, and they were applying for the date that just happened to be the anniversary of Kristelnacht.  So naturally, it turned out that their organization wasn’t officially registered, and they got turned down.  (The way it works in the Czech Republic, I guess, is you can demonstrate over anything you want but you have to register your organization and reserve the date and place ahead of time, I’m assuming to keep rival political groups from demonstrating in the same place and getting into fights.) So Prague’s very tiny remaining but very active Jewish community got right on it, of course, and nabbed the date and place (the city’s central square) for some other political demonstration, so that the Nazi group couldn’t register and then get it.

That was the set-up.   Now apparently this girl (her name is Cassie)’s Czech teacher was Jewish and very much involved in politics, and the thing was, everyone was expecting the Neo-Nazi group to make trouble and try to trash the Jewish quarter, legally registered Iraq-war protest or not.  And the counter protest the Jewish community was organizing was basically there to try to prevent anyone from getting into the Jewish quarter that wasn’t supposed to be there.  So naturally, this teacher thought to invite his class along to participate.  And naturally (we had a long discussion about the sorts of things you love to do that you only tell your parents about afterwards,) Cassie decided to go along.

She said it was like a military zone.  There were hundreds of police in full riot gear, stationed on every corner for blocks heading into the Jewish quarter, a helicopter overhead (the first time she’d seen a helicopter in Prague,) and tanks.  Yes, tanks.  And the Jewish protestors were gathering inside the Jewish quarter preparing to march from there to the city square, and the Neo-Nazi group was lined up outside the Jewish quarter, all of them hooded and masked with bandanas, and she said it was the scariest thing she’d ever seen in her life.  She said she went with the march along its heavily-guarded route to the city square, and once it arrived safely, headed off to another part of town and went shoe-shopping.  And apparently just in time, because right after she left, the Nazis showed up in the city square.  She saw it all on the news later.  Apparently the police formed a barricade, the Nazis charged it, there was a long struggle and then someone threw a can of tear gas–they think it definitely wasn’t the police–and all hell broke loose.  She said they arrested over 650 people–over 80 of them foreigners, interestingly enough–and a few people were seriously injured.

So yeah.  If anyone’s feeling bored and looking for a little adventure in their life, it seems there is still plenty to be had in certain parts of Eastern Europe.  And I don’t think they should spend any time worrying about me here in Spain (ahem, you know who you are,) because hey, I could have gone to Prague.  And we should all take a moment and make a small mental note that, just in case we were ever tempted to think otherwise, fascism is definitely not dead yet.

These are a couple more random observations on Spanish culture.

First of all, when Sarah and I were here last, we certainly noticed that our host mom served fries with every single meal (except breakfast.)  Without fail.  But we thought, hey, she’s busy, she’s got three young kids, fries are quick and easy and relatively healthy if you make them from frozen and don’t boil them in oil or something.  So we didn’t ask.

But it now seems that this was not simply a that-one-host-mom thing.  Because the cafeteria at my dorm also serves fries with every single meal, without fail.  Even and including when there are other major potato dishes included in the meal.  (They call them “potatoes,” by the way.  No special term.)  And everybody eats them.  Always.  The cafeteria at the university also serves fries with every meal.  So.  It would seem the Spaniards…really like their potatoes.

It’s really fun because there’s only one bottle of ketchup for a cafeteria that seats about sixty at full capacity.  It makes the rounds a lot.

The other funny thing I noticed was, as I was walking to the grocery store today to buy more toothpaste (I have just about decided, by the way, to stock up on at least a year’s worth of Spanish toothpaste before I come home.  I don’t know what they put in the stuff, but my teeth have never been whiter,) and I happened to notice an athletic shoe store that I’d never really noted before.  The store was called: The Athlete’s Foot.

Now, there are two really obvious explanations here.  One is, Spaniards are practically the only Europeans that speak practically no English.  The average Spaniard speaks about as much English as the average American does Spanish.  So you can imagine how they might come up with a name like “The Athlete’s Foot” in an attempt to be cool, and…miss something.  (The logo was a little winged foot, by the way.  If that helps.)

The other possible explanation is that they know perfectly well what it means, and they’re trying to be funny.  And that got me thinking: if you saw a store named “The Athlete’s Foot,” and you were shopping for sneakers, would you laugh and go in…or would you steer as far away from it as possible?  Please, I really am interested in knowing.

By the way, I’m now meeting twice a week with a botany teacher at the university who wants to improve her English.  We speak for half an hour in Spanish, half an hour in English.  She really doesn’t speak that much–I have to go almost word-by-word–but hey, that’s how you learn, and she actually corrects my Spanish when I make a mistake, which most people don’t do.  So I think it’ll be a good arrangement.

This is a really random post…but I just had to share that I have discovered the wonders of toe socks.  Oh, and that it’s official that dryers eat socks.  I know this because I know I put two pairs of fuzzy socks into the dryer the other day…and only one and half pairs came out.  That’s how the toe socks came about; I needed a new pair of fuzzy socks, because I have a tile floor in my room and it’s freezing, and I found some, but they happened to be toe socks as well.  So I took a risk and bought them anyway.  And maybe it’s because they are fuzzy socks, but they’re really comfortable!!  I really, really like them!

I may have to add toe socks to my shopping list for the day after Christmas.

So, as if I don’t have enough on my plate already, I’m wondering where I can continue learning flamenco once I get home?

Don’t worry–I probably won’t attempt it.  But it really is a blast.  Right now we’re learning “sevillians,” which, as one girl defined it, “is like flamenco, except street-style.”   What that seems to mean, practically, is that they’re basically Andalusian folk dances, done in couples, but with flamenco steps.  And, actually, the steps are harder to get than I would’ve thought.  They’re not complicated, but the flow of movement is completely different from Irish dance, and I always want to transfer my weight to the wrong foot and things.  What’s worse, I think I mentioned I’ve been fighting a sore throat.  I wasn’t feeling that bad, but my throat was a little dry, and once we started moving in class, I came down with this horrible coughing fit and everyone thought I was really sick and, I think, saw me as a bit of a walking germ bed, and my partner didn’t exactly want to take hands during the take-hands part.  Despite that, however, I really had a blast.

I haven’t been back to ballroom because Thursday I was cooking fajitas for everyone–did I talk about that?  We’ve all been taking turns cooking dinners for the group with food from our countries, so I did a fajitas-and-bean-dip night Thursday.  It was a bit hard–I had to improvise on a lot of the ingredients, since they don’t have refried beans or sour cream here–and the sour cream came out liquid–but it tasted pretty good.  The fajitas were great, and I actually found tortillas for them at the grocery store.  Everyone at least claimed it tasted really good.  And if they’re lying, well, their loss!!!  Because I can tell you those were some great fajitas!  It was kind of funny, though–I didn’t cook them that spicy, but I was told that they were pretty spicy.  I never thought of myself as having a particular immunity to spicy food, but I guess I have more than I thought!

So, anyways, I missed ballroom dance that night.   But I’ll be back tomorrow.  Oh, by the way, I forgot to mention that last Tuesday we learned the official difference between Argentinian tango and a “regular” or the “national” tango.  Basically, as the teacher explained it, with the regular tango there’s air between you and your partner, and with the Argentinian tango there’s…not.  I’m rather glad to say we’re focusing on the “national” tango in class.  Paucity of males or not.

So, it’s weird, but it’s amazing how long it really takes to get used to a place.  You think you’ve finally more or less settled in and then one day you’ll wake up completely lost the whole day.  I mean this in the mental and physical sense dually.  I thought I’d gotten to know Segovia pretty well, at least the old part, but today I got totally lost in the middle of the city square and couldn’t figure out for nearly two minutes–which is a long time to feel like a total idiot, let me tell you–how to get to school.

And it’s been the same with my Spanish.  Some days I can understand almost every word someone says, and then there are days when it’s like I’ve never heard the language in my life.  I still haven’t yet managed to think in Spanish, although on very rare occasions I find myself code-switching in my head.  The problem is, once I’m aware of it, I automatically revert to English.  I have to make a conscious effort to think in Spanish, and then it’s very artificial.

So yeah, just observations on what it takes to get used to a new place.  Some days I feel really happy here, other days I hate it.  …I think more of that may be affected by how much sleep I get than I’m willing to admit.  But in general, I’m liking it a lot better now than I was a couple weeks ago.  And I’m actually–gasp–starting to feel a bit of a homework crunch!!!

Yesterday afternoon I went up to the mall with Monica and Justyna to see the movie “Shoot ‘Em Up.”  I don’t know if any of you have seen that movie.  DON’T.  It is easily one of the worst movies I’ve ever seen in my life.  I mean, yes, it’s a shoot-em-up…but there are still GOOD shoot-em-ups and BAD shoot-em-ups.  This was one of the REALLY REALLY BAD variety.  Like, all the way down there with “Mr. and Mrs. Smith.”  Maybe worse.  I’m just really glad I didn’t go all the way to Madrid to see it in English…then I would have been really ticked.

However, I am going to Madrid this Friday, with my medieval art and archaeology class, to see the national archaeology museum.  I’m very happy about this, as I remember that museum from last time and it’s a great museum.  And then, since I’m getting a free ride up to Madrid, I figure I might as well take advantage of it and do some other stuff while I’m there, then take the bus back.  I’m thinking of going to see “Elizabeth: The Golden Age” (in English, of course!  You couldn’t possibly watch that one dubbed!)  I’ve been dying to see that movie ever since I caught the preview this summer.  The defeat of the Spanish Armada, hooray!!!  I mean…of course, I’m being very politic here…

I’m acquiring certain Spanish habits a little too fast…siesta, for instance.  Of course, I’m acquiring the siesta habit mainly because I’m acquiring the stay-out-all-night habit…not on school nights, don’t worry!  But Friday night I went out to a disco with the Erasmus people and stayed there until 5:30 am, I kid you not.  Of course, I’ve been fighting a sore throat all week, and that was the trigger which did me in for most of the rest of the weekend.  By the time I went home, I was not only deaf, I could hardly swallow.  I had to go to a drugstore Saturday to get something for it, and they gave me Ibuprofen, which I’d never heard of taking for a sore throat, but it actually works pretty well.  At least, I had a lot of fun.  (So much fun I didn’t notice my throat swelling up until near the end.)  There were so many people there dancing–it was a big party hosted by the architecture students–that I even got over being self-conscious enough to dance a little myself.

The crazy thing is, I didn’t leave when everyone else did, I left when they decided to go to another bar.  I was like, it’s…5:30…and by then I’d realized my throat was on fire…and I’m thinking, when am I going to sleep?  So I went home and slept until noon.  Bought medicine, ate lunch, went back to sleep for a siesta…of course, my schedule was messed up all weekend.  I slept until 1:00 Sunday, missing church, and I only am now getting back right because I forced myself to wake up for breakfast this morning.  And I’m feeling pretty tired now so hopefully I’ll get to sleep at a decent hour tonight.

So, tonight I officially signed up for ballroom dance lessons.  They’re twice a week, Tuesday and Thursday evenings, and tonight we did mambo and tango.  I think it’s going to be really good for my Spanish.  And good just to get out of the dorm in the evenings, too, have a more regular semi-social activity.  The only downside is that, with the exception of a large assortment of little old retired couples, the entire class is girls, so some of us have to be guys.  Shades of Irish.  Fortunately my partner volunteered to learn the guy’s part this time.  At any rate, I had a blast.  The exercise was also good, too.  And it was good not to be cold.  An underground studio, full of moving people, and no fans…yeah.  Nice and cozy, shall we say.

Tomorrow I start flamenco!

So, I’ve recently read two fundamentally opposed statistics on the same thing.  An article in a Spanish newspaper calling Spain “the new Promised Land” was talking about how Spain has the highest proportion of immigrants in the EU (something close to 10%.)  It did, however, also mention, just by comparison, that the U.S. has a proportion of 30%.  However, an American journalist (Bill Bryson of Notes from a Small Island fame) claims that we only have 6% immigrants while the average European country now has about 10%.

So, which is it?  6% or 30%?  I’d really, really like to know, you see.  Because all this talk of Spain as “the new Promised Land” has got my hackles up, and if Europe really has surpassed the U.S. in terms of immigrant population, we need to do something quick, because I view that as a serious threat to my national heritage.  (Especially if Bryson is also right that the average European country has a concentration of 250-300 people per square mile, while the U.S., on average, has 62.)  So heads up, everyone: we cannot let the Europeans steal one of our nations proudest and most long-standing titles!!!  (Especially not Spain.  Please, not Spain.  The only thing worse than that would be being surpassed by France.)

Hopefully that Spanish newspaper just has access to better statistics than Bryson.  I wonder how they’re measuring “immigrant population”?  Number of people born outside the country?  Or number of residents who aren’t citizens?  Because if it’s the latter, that would explain why Europe has a higher percentage than the U.S.–it’s a lot harder to get citizenship over here!  That would make me feel a lot better.  But how to find out for sure?

This is just a note to mention that I, Mikaela Bell, stayed out and partied until 4:00 am on the night of Wednesday, October 31, 2007.  Yeah.  First one of the other students had a party for her birthday/Halloween at her apartment, which started at 9:00 pm.  About 1:00 am we all headed out to a disco, and then after an hour, hour and a half some of us went to a bar where it was a little easier to talk.  We then passed most of the next two hours arguing about whether there’s any point to having a queen of England.  Yeah.  (”But she represents the chivalric ideal!”  “She represents an exploitative hereditary class system.”  You get the idea.)  About four the bar closed and kicked us all out into the street, at which time I went home, got a shower, surprised my parents by calling them at 9:00 pm their time, then slept until I was awoken at noon by the cathedral bells (our dorm is literally right next door to the cathedral) going haywire for All Saints’ Day.  (Which is an official holiday here, so we didn’t have school.  Don’t worry, I’m not that irresponsible.  And I made up for it by spending most of my day off studying.  All right, and finishing S1 of Heroes.  You have all really got to see that show.) Anyways, it was really fun.

Oh, and then I had this funny little story that took place last week…I think it was Wednesday?  I don’t remember.  Anyways, I woke up and discovered that my computer clock was an hour off from my phone and mechanical watch.  Weird, I thought.  But, I figured, computers can get bugs and I have two clocks, one of them mechanical, versus one, so I set the computer time by my watch and went about my day.

Well, all I can say is thank God I didn’t have class early in the morning or anything.  I had no idea anything was wrong until I went down to lunch and discovered…that the cafeteria was closed and silent.  I was walking back up to my room feeling rather disgruntled that I never seemed to be able to figure out what time the food is served from day to day, and wondering if I’d missed lunch or if it hadn’t started yet, and what I was going to do because I had to leave for class in half an hour, when suddenly it hit me that maybe my computer had been right and my other clocks had been wrong.  But how could that be? I thought.  It’s too much of a coincidence that both my phone and my mechanical watch could go wrong at once!

Then, like a glimmer of light, a faint, vaguely-heard-of idea leaked into a corner of my brain.  Daylight…savings…time? I thought.

Do they have daylight savings time in Europe?  Isn’t that an American invention, Benjamin Franklin or something?  And…so, how does it work again?  I know it changes in the fall sometime…and it’s fall…so it could be…

So I went back to my room and went online to find the official time at that precise moment in Spain.  I do a search and sure enough, it says 2:00 instead of 3:00.  And then to confirm it, the cathedral bells rang 2:00 as well.  So basically I’d gotten up a whole hour earlier than I had to (boy was I ever mad about that!) and even though I was starving lunch wouldn’t be served for another half hour.  Man, life is tough sometimes.

I asked around a bit later and sure enough, they have daylight savings time here.  Everyone was a little amused…all right, one or two people were very amused…that I had no idea how it worked or when it happened and that I’d spent the morning functioning under the delusion that my computer had a bug in it.

I just don’t get it, see.  All right, I get that the days are shorter in the winter.  But why go to all the trouble of changing the time back an hour just because you have a lot to get done?  Why not simply get up an hour earlier to milk the cows, and leave the rest of us who aren’t farmers to go about our lives in peace without screwing up our schedule?  I love living in Arizona.  Ranchers forever.