Spring Cleaning

Another absolutely beautiful day in La Rioja and in about twenty minutes I am off to spend the rest of it inside. It's not such an enormous loss though, mornings are proving as wonderful as afternoons in the Spanish spring- now I just have to get myself out of bed in time to enjoy the former. If I went to bed earlier, I could get up earlier and get more done. More on that in a moment.


I'm a big fan of spring cleaning. I like the feeling of having a big cleaning project before me, scrubbing each room from top to bottom and then airing out the chemical overtones to leave only fresh scents and that slightly chilly hint of sanitization. That is what I am going to be doing this whole week, attacking every corner of my apartment with broom and sponge until it shines. While there is much work to be done on my apartment's aesthetic, there is no reason for me to stop my spring cleaning with that. 


Instead, I am proposing to myself a setting in place of new, healthier, and more positive habits, to be realized with the passing of the spring and continued from this point forward. They are small, but necessary adjustments in my daily life and I am looking forward to implementing each and every one of them. I understand that change doesn't happen all of a sudden, so I am going to dedicate each week to one or two goals. You'll be able to follow my progress here.


This week is a two-part challenge. 


1. Sit down and eat a real breakfast every morning, with either juice or milk. I've done it for two days in a row so far, which is a trend that I'm not entirely sure my world has seen since before high school. It's a good way for me to start the day, just sitting and doing something methodical and peaceful. It also means that I start my day with a quick five minute jaunt down the street, which will keep me from spending the entire morning in a series of static positions. I leave the computer in the apartment and just dash down the street with me, myself, and I.


2. Engage more with the girls in the afternoon and do not touch my computer while I am eating lunch. Isolate eating times and work/mindless internet surfing from one another.


It's Tuesday and I'm doing alright so far, but you'll know how it panned out on Sunday. One of the enormous over-all goals springing from this, as you may be able to identify from this week's intentions, is to spend less busy time on my computer and prioritize my time when I am on the internet. Next week's challenge may be tough to handle.

The Tortilla Española

¡Que rico!

It may not look like much, but if not so delicate a delicacy of Spain, the tortilla española is certainly a staple of noms throughout the country. The pie-like circles of potatoey goodness circulate at every birthday, festival, and social event. I am convinced that Spanish men and women are born knowing how to cook this extremely delicious pseudo-omelette, but for those of us that aren't, have a look at this great article by Brittany Griffith that I nabbed from "The Cleanest Line". "The Cleanest Line is the official blog for ethical outdoor clothing company Patagonia.

Cooking the Tortilla Española

I encourage you all to give it a try and then adorn or dip with your favorite sauce- that's what I'll be doing, an ocean away! I find that something a little picante, or spicey, compliments the taste well.

The Toddling Days of Spring

Written in Apartment

10:08 PM, February 26th

It feels like SPRING! In the winter there is always this sense of gray that clings to everything. Even when the sun is out, that dove gray lingers at the edge of sensation, just waiting to sink into your bones when the sun goes down. When you walk outside, you darn well know that it's winter because even the buildings have their shoulders hunched up against impending winds. I tend to view winter as a malicious entity instead of a season, but that's because I'm not an enormous fan of cold or snow after it has been around for about a week. You can only imagine how I feel about New England's five to six month winters. Personal opinion? Christmases should always be white, fall ends on the last day of November, and the New Year should also mean a new season. One month, exactly.

Complaints against the winter department aside, I walked outside this morning and found that it was warm and that the clear light that means spring is on its way was comfortably stretching itself out in the streets. Instant mood improvement! This means that tomorrow I will be working on the spring cleaning of my apartment! This consists of scrubbing everything very thoroughly and being a rockstar with a broom while I sweep and listen to excellent music all day. Admit it. You're jealous. As for today, I enjoyed a spring nap and opened my windows just the slightest bit to let in some fresh air and let out that radiator generated staleness that had become my flatmate. Some people like to call that phenomenon "coziness". Poor, deluded winter people.

Here, have a playlist for the toddling days of spring:

1. Something in the Water - Brooke Fraser
2. Waves - Jhameel
3. Blue Skies - Jessica Lea Mayfield
4. Hotel Song - Regina Spektor
5. Elle Me Dit - MIKA
6. Banana Pancakes - Jack Johnson
7. Brandy - Red Hot Chili Peppers
8. Here it Goes Again - OK Go
9. Time to Reply - Charlie McDonnell
10. Don't Unplug Me - ALL CAPS
11. Go Places - The New Pornographers
12. King & Lionheart - Of Monsters and Men
13. Sister Golden Hair - America
14. We Intertwined - The Hush Sound
15. Girl Inform Me - The Shins
16. Up Up Up - The Givers

The Pasta Game

We are playing a game in my host's house, but they don't know it. I personally think that this makes the game more fun. Here is the setup. I live in a house with a group of people that really love pasta. As a matter of a fact, it is not uncommon for us to eat pasta several days in a row. I have no problem with this, carbohydrates are my friends. If I tell myself that over and over again, they will not make me gain weight out of sheer gratitude that I don't hate them like every other female on the planet. My plan- it is genius. 


Anyway, every so often, when there is a load of pasta in the fridge or cupboard, just waiting to be eaten- the lady of the house will make it her mission to cook anything BUT that darn pasta, because as soon as it starts, the Italian trend will keep up for days. For the first half of the week these "avoidance meals" appear to be utterly normal in their culinary makeup, but as the supplies dwindle, things get increasingly... creative. Luckily, three and four year olds will eat nearly anything if allowed to apply their own mayonnaise and ketchup, so the condiments flow like the Amazon at mealtimes here.  I'm not entirely certain that anyone else notices the trend, but for me it has become the pasta game. When I come in from my apartment for lunch I will attempt to discern from the door, without even approaching the table, if we have finally broken and given in to the five-minute simplicity of boxed tortellini- the silent tyranny of ready-made foods, the false allure of three-step cooking. Sometimes we have and other times, we are eating a curious combination of chick-peas, rice, and stewed onions. It's creative! We're setting an example for the children! Be creative, because someday you will be too tired after work to even think about going shopping. As far as I'm concerned, I'm putting aside ideas for when I'm a starving writer. Or, in this case, a not starving one.


Either way, tonight I am cooking. 

Carnaval and Recovering

It has officially been more than a week since I last updated, which goes into the firm list of rules that I set forth for myself before beginning this particular travel blog. Again, that list is proving to be more like guidelines. I have no excuse for the tardiness- I've had plenty of opportunity to update this work week as I have spent 95% of it being sick in bed and the other 5% dragging myself downstairs to be sick downstairs and eat something. Nothing will make you miss working hard like not being able to.

¡Olé!

Either way, the past week was comprised of Carnaval! If you are unfamiliar with Carnaval in Spain, it is the very same Carnaval that Brazil is so famous for celebrating each year- an entire week of festivities leading up to the Roman Catholic observance of Lent. Because Lent is all about sacrifice and thought, Carnaval is about getting out your ya-yas and enjoying yourself before you give up alcohol for a while. So, yes. A holiday completely dedicated to being holiday. Carnaval has only become a big culture point in Spain in the last ten or fifteen years, but like any excuse to have a society-wide party, the Spanish accepted it with open arms. Everyone participates, dressing up and spending time with their friends at any one of the many parades dedicated to finding the most outlandish or intricate reveler. During the day it is all good and innocent fun. At night the streets are filled with dancing and cleverly costumed party-goers, while the kids party at home.

For Carnaval I went with a group of other girls and dressed as a torrero (bull-fighter). It was wonderful because everywhere we went that evening we were followed by proud shouts of "¡Viva España!" to which we responded by tossing our hands in the air and crying out "¡Olé!" Also mandatory, every time we passed an individual dressed in traditional bull-fighter garb or, better yet, dressed as a bull, we had to take a photograph with them. In the United States it might be a little strange to take photographs with complete strangers in the streets, but I've noted that it's pretty darn commonplace here. We're definitely looking at an overall more chummy culture. Still, with my American sensibilities, it was a little surreal for me, being out with a group of Spanish girls in a very Spanish costume and being recognized in this very nationalistic and Spanish way, but if cultural immersion was my concern for the evening- I think I got it.

Not everything is good about Carnaval, of course. There are exactly the things you would expect from such a festival, just like we have come to expect to see from Mardi Gras. It's fun until about 4 AM, when people have hit that threshold of drunkenness where no one in any culture is any fun to hang out with. It's alright though, the night has more potential for fun than it does for fun's negative compañeros, and we certainly made the most of it.

Now, just to shake off this sickness and get back to work on things. And by things I mean studying phonetic English teaching methods, Nepali/Nepal, French, and preparing for our English immersion summer camp!

¡Feliz Día de San Valentin!

It's been nearly a year since I was last boyfriended and I must confess that it has been a  bit of good, a bit of excellent, and the smallest and occasional bit of utterly lame, this road of singledom. But for Valentine's Day 2012, it was not to be a fact of consequence. Instead, I got two entirely platonic British valentines and spent the most wonderful of days with them. It was, without a doubt, a superior Día de San Valentin. 

But, you know, in a BLIZZARD
(Montaña en Arnedo)

We started off the day by meeting up in a pastelleria (a small, basic café that serves delicious pastries), a coffee, a coffee with brandy, and a hot chocolate assigned to each of us, respectively.  Afterward, we piled ourselves into the rented car that the boys, brothers Niall and Myles, had taken out for their trip into Spain. The original plan had been to drive up into the mountains and take pictures of the gorgeous views of La Rioja, so far below, maybe walk a bit ourselves up the peaks that cars can't quite pull themselves to. Unfortunately, this turned into a near death experience, because the incline on the mountains is already deadly, and far more so when covered with fresh snow and gathering ice. We made it about 3/4 of the way up and then crawled down the descent at 2 miles per hour. It was absolutely terrifying, but more or less supercharged us for what followed. That will always be remembered as the second single most frightening car ride of my life- at least until I experience a more frightening one. On the way down, we would stop at random wherever there was good grip and jump out of the car to take pictures, sprinting back to the car before the brakes gave or some policeman had the peon task of patrolling the mountain pass. This picture of complete adolescent idiocy is easily explained away by the increasingly apparent fact that two individuals of the party have an overactive immortality complex. That would be Myles and myself, of course. Niall was game, but spent a lot of time with a stiff jaw, slowly steering us back to safety. When we'd finally made it, there was much high-pitched hysterical laughter, of the variety that issues out of people who have recently been made re-aware of how truly great [still] being alive is.

Afterward, we still had several hours before I had to be back for work, so it was to the village where their father lived when they were children. It is the most classic of wine villages, tucked into the shadows beneath craggy mountain faces, and nearly abandoned at this time of year.  The people that live in this particular area are not grape (wine) and olive (oil) people, simply the most purely dedicated of grape people. Even though the place was an utter ghost town, which had its own charm, we were bound for different ghosts. 

If one hikes for about 45 minutes, down a choice of one path or another, one can reach two abandoned and decrepit chapels. It used to be that religious men of all walks of life would come to these monasteries in the mountains and hole themselves up in them until they thought themselves sufficiently cleansed of the world below. Even with the ruins themselves covered in snow and only three of four walls still standing, you can imagine the degree of solitude that these men must have experienced, and what a different sort of home that the chapels must have been to them when they stood. We decided to hike this pass, despite the complete lack of proper footwear, and to go to these chapels. It was much more taxing than expected, as the natural springs had frozen and we were stumbling through snow and hidden roots. But it was more than worth it when we finally reached our destination. The chapel itself is beautiful, with dying bunches of flowers slipped between holes in the stone by devout villagers who make the climb for just the purpose of honoring history, and a single small glass window, a weather-beaten stained glass Virgin Mary, standing out over the entrance. She stands as if to bless the place, and there really is more than a lingering sense of the sacred to it. But more incredible than the chapel is the view that lies just over a small bump. It's all of La Rioja, stretched out and free of snow beneath you, while you stand calf-deep in the stuff. And there, just on the point that stone juts farthest out over open air, there is a small iron cross set into the ground. Intense imagery, I'll tell you that. I can't imagine what the sunsets are like, although someday I would like to return and find out. Pictures were taken and laughter was had, but at this point, it was precipitating in earnest, an unfortunate mix of snow and sleety rain. Soaking wet already, we decided to not get MORE soaking wet and headed down the mountain.

It was a mountain goat race down the mountain side, punctuated with cries of panic and victory when those moments of panic didn't pan out into something negative. Doubtless, the best moment was when Niall put"Boys are Back in Town" on his cell-phone and then turned the volume up and held it over his head as we careened on treadless shoes down the snowslide, then mudslide, of a steep path. When we reached the car, shoes went into a bag and we all sat in utterly soaked happiness. But, before heading home, there was one more stop.

Hotel y bodega Marqués de Riscal
Diseñado por Frank Wright

We went to see the bodega, Marqués de Riscal, that was designed by the man who designed the Guggenheim in Bilbao. When you see this thing, you are not in the least surprised by its architect. It has his genius fingerprints all over it. Upon getting home, Myles carried me to my door, instead of making me put my soaking wet boots back on (yeah, those things will never quite be the same), which was a lovely Valentine's gesture, and Niall carried up my things for me. Really, these boys are wonderful catches and they come with accents! Ladies! Over here! REAL gentlemen!

The work day went by quickly, probably because I was in such a wonderful mood, and then it was back to my apartment for my Valentine's Day Dinner. Around ten the boys came by, with an excellent bottle of Rioja wine, two bricks of chocolate, oreos, biscotto cake, and these incredible chorizo sandwiches. We ate, we laughed, we told stories, we reminisced about the morning. Finally, we sat in the "living room", watched Mulan on my computer, and played Truth or Dare like eight year olds. 3 AM, my Valentine's was well over, and I sent two droopy-eyed Brits back to their hostel for the night. Still, we all agreed that it was the best February 14th that we had ever experienced and that the future would be hard-pressed to come up with one better.

This morning? I had the remainder of the Biscotto cake for breakfast and a wake-up glass of Rioja wine to chase away this totally unexplainable respiratory cold that I seem to have picked up overnight. Luckily, the fun isn't over. The boys are off a-rambling today in the countryside, but tomorrow night will be a fiesta in the main city, an all-nighter of dancing and such, which is, as you know, more or less my favorite thing to do. Then it's a sad goodbye, until we see one another next- God knows when. Saturday is Carnaval! Which I will cover in depth after it happens. Shhh, my costume is a secret.

Photos will come of my Valentine's Day adventuring at some point- you'll be the first to know, readers!

Also, if you're interested in photos of La Rioja that are far more beautiful than any I could even hope to take, I direct you to this adventurer's Flicker account. Beautiful captures!


And have some Thin Lizzie, to make your day better.

Rant I: On Education and Learning

Okay, ABBA, almond-studded chocolate, and sparse pasta dinner- let's chase the blues away together.

I had another one of those moments today- the golden hours of expectation that spin themselves into ash in all of the twenty-three seconds it takes to read to an e-mail. As you know, it's been an uphill battle as far as trying to elbow my way into university. Uphill battle is quickly becoming an understatement. Let's now call it ice climbing an 89 degree wall.

I finally had the courage to send my e-mail off to one of my top schools. I've written it and revised it, deleted it, fished it out of the computer's trash bin, deleted it permanently ten minutes later, re-written it, and worried it down to the decision of choosing to open with "To whom it may concern (colon)" or "Dear Sir or Madam (colon)". Finally, it slipped into the streams of hopes, dreams, and mediocrities that is the world of inbox-to-inbox communication. Close the laptop, go to work, don't think about it.

Of course, I did think about it. So much that, a mere hour later, I stole away into a corner of the room and checked my e-mail. It was not a good middle of the work day decision. The response was familiar. Allow me to pull out the fancy words and mechanical utterances of sympathy for you.

-----

Dear Miss Jones,

your resumé is excellent and [institution] is extremely impressed with the caliber of projects that you have chosen to take on between graduation and getting your degree. It's very cute of you. Unfortunately, our merit aid is limited to students with stereotypically excellent high school records and no matter how hard you work on external pursuits of note, our system will not reward you for perseverance that hasn't taken place behind a number 2 pencil. We're a pretty damn good school and that means that you aren't really special unless you have the same track record as everyone else that applies from secondary school institutions with a 4.0. Wait, or are a diversity factor. Is there any Native American in you? No? That sucks, you might have had something there. We, of course, do not wish to discourage you from applying to [institution] in the future, we are just warning you that there is little chance of merit aid, which we largely base on financial need, although there is a separate package for that completely (which you also do not qualify for, even if your parents have excommunicated you to Siberia, until you are 27). We wish you the best with your adorable projects and aspirations. Aspirations are good! Keep having those!

Sincerely,

[office drone who is probably also a graduate of this prestigious school- we have 99% placement!]

P. S. Have you considered community college?

-----

I'm not bitter.

Okay, I'm totally bitter. I am completely and utterly bitter.

I am so frustrated that I want to march into each and every one of these admissions offices and look them in the eyes and ask, "Can you remember the exact moment at which your institution began to protect its impressive walkways and vaulted ceilings instead of the pursuit of knowledge occurring beneath them? Can you pinpoint the hour and the day that you chose to become a company instead of a place where diversity in learning is celebrated?" I am not saying that I am the ideal candidate, perhaps those schools are too good for me as a student, but there is no respect for the idea that people's passions may indeed guide them to go about things in a different way, not in a way that caters to the status quo, but that caters to the invisible and beautiful drive to do something to fulfill some unspoken and very human need. That schools do not encourage diversity in applicants and learning will be a great downfall of our generation. We can no longer rely on these places to be anything other than a stepping stone- our potential is not decided by them. We are so quick to ascribe our worth as human beings and the quality of our education to the name of the institutions that we have passed through. But education relies on so much more than a building and a curriculum. This is proved by every girl that takes five SAT II's and studies for them by the sound of breaking bottles and by every boy that has first worked as a janitor in a school, before becoming a member of the student body. Unless we begin learning for ourselves, for the betterment of our character and our minds, and not for some vague social niche, we will quickly encounter intellectual stagnation and polarization. It is all around us now. Find the exact opposite of whatever you have been assigned and read that, too. Do it every time. Explore the things that are censored by silence. That is well roundedness, not the much-praised A in Chemistry, A in English, A in Art. It cannot be denied that such a report card is good and should get you many claps on the back, but if you are breaking your back to succeed in something that you are not good at and couldn't care less about- then you are wasting time to excel in the things where your gifts and heart lie, and all of the claps on the back in the world will not be able to salvage the opportunities that will have withered in the wake of pursuing the mold for generic success.

So here is my advice. Instead of treating college like this almighty, all-powerful thing that controls your destiny, instead of treating it like the only way to gain necessary knowledge, instead of treating it like the destination, treat it like what it is- a way to get somewhere else. Modern institutions are not the open staircases of Plato and Aristotle's day, where men met to learn things simply for the sake of learning them. We cannot bemoan the loss of such opportunities, because that in and of itself would be ignorance. Those courtyards still exist, but now the voices are in the billions. It's the internet. It's the library. It's that mechanic who lives on your street. Hey, you've always been interested in cars. You're never going to be a mechanic…so? Degrees are for jobs. Learning is for living. I'm not saying don't go to college, I'm saying go because it has something to do with the attainment of ultimate goals, not just because "everyone is doing it". And as everyone now knows, college is the new financial equivalent of "if all of your friends were jumping off a cliff, would you do it too?" The companies that provide loans will gleefully inform your mother that "hell yes, you'll do it too." She will then sign on the dotted line to foot that very risk with all of the strength in her bank account, because this culture of complacency is no more obvious than in the way that we refuse to challenge education for what it has become.

Treat the process as if schools are not shopping for students, you are shopping for a university. This is intellectual prostitution at its absolute finest- and don't think for a moment that these places are looking out for you, because they aren't. They are businesses and like any business it is possible to exploit the system as much as it seeks to exploit you. Sell yourself, do not shake in your boots because your Advanced Math grade is terrible. Instead, look at what you're good at. Sure, you can memorize two pages of Shakespeare, but you can't recall the quadratic formula. If a school will not accept you because of this, perhaps it isn't the right place for you to be. In your essays and your applications, list with confidence and pride the things that you are truly satisfied with. Do not invest in things that will destroy your individuality and make your life a study in regret, with the diploma to prove it. Go somewhere where you feel stimulated by your surroundings and your peers. If that is Harvard, find a way to go to Harvard. If it's beauty school and you scored a 2300 on your SAT, go to beauty school and read War and Peace in Russian on break. Explore every possibility, not just the brochures that the guidance counselors hand you. At the end of the day, your work ethic and your approach to the accumulation and application of knowledge both theoretical and practical will define who you are as a student and an individual and where you gained that knowledge will not matter in the least. When you are applying for a job, if you are a person that you cannot even recognize, all of the degrees from Harvard in the world will not save you. If you acquire a position at the top of the best law firm in New York City and you couldn't care less about what that means, then you have failed. Granted, it is difficult to advance past a point in any career if the love of the thing is not there. There will always be someone who cares enough to work the day and night shift to take that position from you, and when they do, they'll be better at it because it is of a deep and profound value to them that you cannot begin to understand

It seems like we have come to believe that our worth depends entirely on pieces of paper. This is not new. You are four years old and the teacher hangs up your cleanest coloring, so perfectly within the lines. You are four years old and your hands are leaving grime and lunch on the picture that you are clutching beneath your desk. You know it was better, because purple is a much better color for the sky than blue. You know it was better. Why doesn't she? It hurts. You are eighteen and you get a school-wide award for excellence in English and it is empty. In the sleeve of your graduation gown you have rolled up the cheaply printed certificate of some local greenhouse's $500 scholarship. You are embarrassed by it, but keep it close to your skin anyway. You know that the greenhouse hosts several weekend sales a year to put together the money for it, but it means less to the crowded room than this great and anonymous endowment that you are about to receive. You know it is important, but do not understand why you are afraid to say such a thing aloud. It hurts. You are suddenly fifty and a song by the Red Hot Chili Peppers comes on the radio while you're driving home from a company dinner. The  award that you received there sits on the seat beside you. The manuscript that you scribbled out in a feverish set of drunken nights in the first two years of college, accompanied only by the very same RHCP album that this song is from, is somewhere under a stack of economics notes in the attic. You are vividly aware of this dusty thing that long since should have been forgotten. Your name is about to go on a plaque in the front lobby of a very tall building in a very big city. There isn't a soul alive aside from yourself who has seen a single word of your great American novel. And you know what? It hurts.

I constantly need to remind myself that at the end of everything, the only person that I have to answer to is myself. I can get as good of an education going to community college and spending hours of extra work to make up for the disadvantage as I can at Yale, where those extra hours are built in. If a "high-level" school is what you feel will satisfy, then fight for a place in one, but I firmly do not believe that it will make or break you in the end of things. It will be your willingness to fight that will continue to define how you move from Point A to Point B. Learning has not a single thing to do with walls or buildings. 

And if you go to the high school I attended, if your dreams lie beyond New Hampshire, if your dream is not UNH or Plymouth or Keene, then don't waste time on them. If those places will get you where you need and hope to be, take advantage of them in every way that you possibly can and avoid being taken advantage of. It's well past time to remind institutions everywhere that they work for the student and no one else.

As for those rejection letters or subtle snubs? I will store them away for days when I am feeling discouraged and use the accumulation of them to make me angry, because being angry is better than being made docile by failure. And one day, when I have fought for every step in the right direction and have become all of the things I ever wanted, I will choose to be as proud as the things I have learned that have no degree or certification as whatever will someday hang on my wall. I have learned and am continuing to learn that my value is not in the things I have accomplished, but the things that I dare to accomplish, with or without permission.

2.9.12

11:29 PM

Photos I: Yesterday's Snow Fall

These are the vineyards behind my apartment building. I can see them from my east window!

Poem I: Snowfall in the Pueblo

I was there

At 8:30 AM, when the streetlights went dark

And their ambrosia flicker fled the byways

At 8:30 AM, when the village may have been empty of souls

For its silence-

Just walls of stucco and wood frame

In intent conversation with the echo and splash

Of my footfalls.

Snow was falling, in that determined way

That snow falls when the season has robbed it of rightful storms

And the vineyards sat in stoic wedding gowns

The texture of turned up rocks and frozen soil

In wait for their green-fitted bridegroom

A pale bride under the vaulted and steel-eyed sky

Whose train and veil extend beyond the hilltop,

I'm sure,

Perhaps all the way to the sea

To St. Petersburg

To wind-painted oceans of sand.

Silence at 8:30 AM

When I walked the mud-slick back-path

The water-slick backstreets

The dangerous glisten of murderous, winking cobblestones

Smoothed down to pavement by such winters

And the fountain muttering incantations between drops

Charms against ice and shattered pipes

A dog barked

A formless dog of dawn

Looking out from behind warm panes of glass

Or stealing beneath the bridge, a picture of neglect- freedom as well

Which is not always such a comfortable path

When winter comes.

I will never know if he barked at me-

To get my foolish feet indoors, my shoulders beneath blankets

To walk some more, a harsh and throaty bell of affirmation

Or maybe just at the snowfall

To break the strange and desperate quiet of it.

I finally turned for home

And thought a heatless world better than a heatless apartment

Picked a flower

Conducted the low-flying birds in their brave northern symphony

And thought

For a moment

Of introducing sound to the furrows and stone of the fields

"Don't you see this is winter's proudest day?"

When the bride blooms

Her earthy skin will be all the warmer.

9 AM

2.5.12

Music I: Ai Se Eu Te Pego

This song is all the rage among my students. If you give them ten seconds of silence they will start singing it in perfect chorus, complete with motions. It's easy to see why. I dare you to not find this Brazilian tune utterly catchy! If you're a reader with kids, introduce them to it and let them learn the dance, it's really very fun and innocent.


Ai Se Eu Te Pego - Michael Télo

Post VII: Cleaning House

It still doesn't feel to wintery to me here, although I acknowledge the possibility that I have been given ludicrous expectations of the season by growing up in New England. Horse-drawn sleighs traversing through pristine mounds of freshly fallen powder, anyone? Tunnels of light and darkness caused by the ice-heavy pine and birch along the driveway? While the general mood of northern Spain does not reek of early February in all of its romanticized bleakness, it is cold enough that, should any precipitation decide to take place then it would almost certainly be in the form of snow.

It has been a very standard procedure week, but I'm just about to the place where routine is wearing on me. "But you've only been back a couple of weeks!" you may protest, but a couple of weeks is all I've ever needed to get antsy. I love Tolstoy and all, but if I will be damned (excuse the expression) if I spend this weekend curled up on the couch with War and Peace…again. It's time to go out dancing and shake the dry cold out of my bones. It's time to go to the cinema or simply do something entirely new. I'm ready for some music. Although, let's be honest, I'm always ready for some music.

Anyway, I will be waking up tomorrow morning at 8:30 to give this apartment a thorough scrubbing. Someone is coming to look at my little abode tomorrow around noon to see if they might like to take up residence. It would be nice to share my space again, I'm not at a place in my life where living alone is an attractive option. However, although I have much faith in my Little Apartment That Could, even I can see that my transient life-style, out at seven or eight in the morning and in at midnight or later, has taken its toll. To put the mess simply, it's a total bacholerette pad. Immediate orders of business?

1. Take giant rack of drying pants out of the center of the living area and put them in my own room.
2. Sweep the floors and mop down the "kitchen" tiles
3. Wipe out the sinks thoroughly
4. Actually wash the dishes in the sink. Running water over them and putting them away does not count.
5. Finish moving myself out of the Blue Room and into the Peach Room

Add various nooks and crannies to that list and you have a good idea of what I have ahead of me. Luckily, I stayed up until two thirty scrubbing out my refrigerator the other night, due to a concerning mold scent, which appears to have been eradicated for the moment. But, like broken boilers and holes in the walls, you can be sure that the curious scent will be back with a vengeance at some point. I like to think of dysfunction and I's arrangement in this space as "symbiosis"- it's been a loud, but affectionate roommate.

Post VI and Marvelous Mail I: White Vans Without Windows

I think that one doesn't really notice the number of white vans without windows parked on the blocks between Point A and Point B before walking between said points after midnight. That was the story of last night.

In other news, I just signed (poorly) for a package from Amazon, which I wasn't expecting until tomorrow. Sure enough, I opened it up and inside found:

For those of who can't make out what that says, it is my book of Nepali Grammar and Vocabulary! I can't wait to get home to my apartment tonight and begin the process of digging into this little treasure. An interesting fact, it is actually compiled by the Reverend A. Turnbull who, according to the editor's preface, was the same man to translate the New Testament into Nepali.

Pages 2-11? The alphabet. JUST the alphabet.