A New Yorker in Madrid: Top Slang You'll Hear in Madrid

Before I came to Spain I thought Spanish was just Spanish, sure you've got different dialects all over Latin America but when you got down to it, it's all just Spanish. Thing is, here Spanish is often referred to as Castellano, because aside from from regional dialects you've got parts of the country that speak something altogether different like Euskera, Catalan and Gallego. The last two seem like a combo of Spanish, French and Portuguese, which makes sense given their Latin origins, but Euskera, from Basque Country, is in another league, some say it comes from barbaric tribes that populated Spain before the Romans and that were never actually conquered by them, the Arabs or the Catholic Kings that came later. Basque Country is dense forests and hilly, a terrain that's closed off and very different climatically from the rest of Spain.

Now, I've come across a person from nearly every Spanish-speaking country and picked up the lingo from their respective countries but Spain is a microcosm of Latin America. Here's a vocabulary guide to some of the slang I've come across out here, I'm sure I'll continuously update it.

Guay - adj. it basically means cool. You're gonna use this shit a lot here. It's like chido for Mexicans, chevere for a Venezuelan and chivo for us Salvadorans.

Friki - n. comes from freaks or freaky, without a doubt. Used to describe a misfit or outlandish person or a geek. A computer geek would be a "friki". Doesn't have to have a negative connotation.

Genial - adj. used much more than its English counterpart, it's used in place of great or nice.

Tí@ - n. refers to a guy or chick in the colloquial Castellano. You hear this all over the place here in Spain.

Tronco - n. also refers to a dude in the colloquial way and is particular to Madrid.

Buen@ - adj. means a hot person.

Cachonda - n. this one is tricky, it can mean a hot girl, a horny girl or a slutty girl. I thought I had a handle on this one but I've altogether decided not to use it, not worth the potential offense. Cachondo, on the other hand, is typically used to describe a humorous guy.

Cachondeo - n. can mean laughter, silliness or having a good time, I heard this a lot when I worked at a school, it was used by the teachers when they were scolding the children for laughing a lot and making noise.

Maj@ - n. + adj. it can mean a nice person or a hot person, it all depends on how it's used, can also be used interchangeably with guap@.

Guap@ - n. + adj. it's a handsome or attractive person, in general, but in Madrid they use it plainly, it doesn't have to have a meaning or compliment behind it, it can be used to simply address you without using your name. I got hype the first time someone addressed me this way but you soon figure out it ain't like that.

Follón - n. is a big mess, comes from follar (to fuck), anytime you add -on to the end of a word it makes it big, like botellon, which means big bottle.

Botellón -  n. you'll be doing a lot of this in Spain, it means a get-together in a park, typically to pre-game before heading out. You can do it in a plaza, park or any other public place and it can involve spliffs or shishas but, above else, it means drinking in public. You can't botellon without a bottle of something alcoholic.

"!!!" - this one is a sound, similar to a sucking noise but slightly different, you make it by putting your tongue on the roof of your mouth and snapping it out, the Spanish use it in place of "well", I'd say. It definitely has a meaning, this sound, though it's hard to recognize at times.

Where to eat pupusas in Madrid

I've often said I've got a fat man in my belly, I put it away like nobody's business.

I think with my belly, I love cuisine from all over the world and don't say it frivolously, though it's taken work and resolve on my part. I also love a bargain and am constantly in search of dishes I've had that are sometimes hard to find outside a cultural and culinary capital like New York. The first thing I looked for in Madrid in anticipation of my arrival back in 2013 was pupusas. I can't live without them, ask me what dish I'd have to eat for the rest of my life if forced to and the resounding answer would be pupusas, without a doubt. I'm Salvadoran, it's in my blood, but it's also a great dish, it's very healthy, filling and I've shared my favorite dish with people from all over the world and they've loved it.

What is it? It's a tortilla (not the Spanish kind with eggs and potatoes) but closer to its skinny Mexican cousin, though thicker and made from corn dough (masa). It's similar to its Venezuelan kin, the arepa,but I like to kid that the arepa is like an incomplete pupusa, though not as thick. It comes stuffed with your choice (typically) of cheese, cheese & beans or cheese, beans and chicharron (shredded pork). That last one is called a "revuelta", it's my preferred choice though perhaps not the healthiest (but let's face it, sometimes it's most flavorful for a reason). The pupusa then comes with the option of adding curtido, which is diced cabbage, carrots, onions and spices soaked in water and vinegar, I'd say it's kind of similar to coleslaw and even have my theories of how it may be linked to Germanic traditions. You can also add a tomato sauce on top of all of this and there you have it, the pupusa.

Pic from the internet

In New York City, in my neighborhood of Jamaica, Queens, I had approximately 7 pupuserias (as they're called) within walking distance of my home due to the high density of Salvadorans and other Central Americans in the area. My favorites are Pupusa Market (formerly El OK Restaurante) and Marina Restaurant. In Madrid there aren't nearly as many guanacos and in reality I only know of two places, the first, Rio Grande, I found Google searching "pupuseria Madrid".

Rio Grande (Pupuseria Madrid)

I have an emotional attachment to this place, I won't lie. When I found the Facebook page I only had an address to go off and I was still a noob getting around Madrid so I depended on my friend Jean to get us there, along with her roommate John. We took the 3 from Moncloa and walked from the Villaverde Bajo-Cruce stop, which is a good 10 minute walk (it was a rookie mistake). We got the area and looked around in vain for the storefront, back and forth along the street. Finally I decided to take a look at the address again and realized that we weren't looking for a storefront but for an apt. The restaurant was in someone's apt! This was quite shocking for my American pals, they couldn't fathom that a restaurant could be in someone's place and in any case felt it was pretty sketch. In NYC I'd seen businesses grow this way, in fact, Marina's up above had that same trajectory, springing forth from their home and having so much commerce coming through their doors that they eventually decided to open up a proper restaurant. So I knew that it wouldn't be so bad and I knew that I wanted pupusas, I was dead set on having them, danger be damned. They wilted initially, but bolstered by my resolve chose to join me, they certainly didn't regret the decision. It was someone's piso (apartment) but it was run like any restaurant, they had a waiter, tables set up in the living room and a menu with the dishes available. My buddies liked it so much they'd make trips there without me.

When we went it was early Sept and around November they opened up a brand new location, the owner, I still don't know his name but Jean dubbed him "Smiley", was exuberant in informing us. That's where they are now, just a stone's throw from the Villaverde Bajo stop on Cercanias and 15 minutes away from Sol on the C3 or the C4. I love this place, I feel like I grew with them and am always met warmly each time I come, the prices are great, the service decent (and that's saying a lot for Spain) and if you order a glass of wine they give you a tub! I highly recommend it, I'll be there tonight.

Sombrero Azul

I've only been to this place twice but I have to check it out at least a third time because I hear their Sunday sancocho is to die for. For those that are afraid to venture to Villaverde (it's not that far, people) I don't know what to tell you, but this place is located in the center, in Malasaña, and provides some good pupusas. The service was good, the locale tiny yet cozy and you can also get Mexican food like a torta (because I suppose they just lump Central American cuisine with Mexican here *groan*). The caveat: it's a bit expensive, each pupusa is 2 euros and most things on the menu are pretty expensive, especially compared to the former restaurant. If money isn't an issue and you live nearby, by all means check it out (though I wasn't impressed with the Mexican food, the torta wasn't genuine). The pupusas were def par for the course, however, and you're always met with a smile.

If you have any questions or know of other spots please feel free to drop a line below. Buen provecho!

Places to visit and eat well in NYC

I get asked often to mention some places to visit while visiting my hometown of New York City and even though I plan to offer a much more comprehensive list this one I came up with rather quickly for a friend of mine. It's a year since I've been back home but my memory is fresh and certain staples will be forever ingrained. You'll also notice that many are places to eat, I think with my belly, it's unavoidable. Aside from that, I'd give the advice to go off the beaten path, in my experience, and this goes for any city, the best places were through wandering and happenstance; there's Fifty-Five bar in Camden that served as refuge during a downpour in north London, there's the food stall along the beach in Bali where we stopped in for a quick bite, there was a street vendor in Kuala Lumpur that sold us pisang goreng fresh fried and there was the time I walked with a friend from Carroll Gardens all the way over the Brooklyn Bridge and into Chinatown. These places and tested, though, and I can usually bet on them.

Burger Joint:

I love this place because it's in the lobby of a very swanky hotel in Midtown Manhattan and yet and once you enter the smell of grilled burger and graffiti on the walls hits you, it's a paradox. The burgers aren't that expensive, the shakes are, but all in all for less than 10 bucks, I think, you can have yourself a damn good burger and remain in Midtown.

http://www.parkermeridien.com/eat/burger-joint/

Williamsburg:

Just go for a walk and take it in, it's one of my favorite neighborhoods even still. Sure you'll cross plenty pf hipsters and trendy, expensive bars but I think it's still worth wandering around, I still do it. Bushwick is what Williamsburg was when I was younger, 2 decades ago, but I only recommend walking around there with a native since some parts are still dangerous. Get out at Bedford Ave on the L and walk down to the river but don't be afraid to zigzag your way there. There are lots of interesting things to do, Brooklyn Bowl has cheap performances with great artists that play there (I caught Talib Kweli and also the Ska-talites there), Brooklyn Brewery has their brewery there and that's a fun time, the iconic Kellogg's Diner and so much more. 

Corner Bistro:

A gem. It's an old bar, one of the oldest NYC has, in the West Village, at a strange intersection where 1st St and 11 St meet, I think, the old Cuban waiter sill works there and has that air of being from another era. It's all cash, the menu hasn't changed, and if you get there past 6pm it'll be packed so perhaps it's best to go during the early afternoon. The burger is pretty big and great for the price, only go to the West Village as in recent years they've expanded and the new places don't have that old-world vibe. 

http://cornerbistrony.com/

McSorley's:

Another old pub, this one is know for it's ale which is made only for that pub. It only comes in 2 types, light and dark, and they give you 2 drafts but it's the price of 1 beer, there's sawdust on the floor, the floorboards creak and the joint is always packed after 6 but it's a good mix of locals, old men and yuppies. A good place to have a beer, a decent cheap one, in the East Village if you're near St. Marks.

http://www.yelp.es/biz/mcsorleys-old-ale-house-new-york

Paris Sandwiches:

Don't know if you've ever had a bahn mi but it's the Vietnmese version of the torta, in a sense. In another, it's just SOOOO damn good and Chinatown has several places to get an authentic like you might find in Saigon or Ho Chi Mihn City, this is one of them. Get yourself a bahn mi, an iced coffee and revel in the greatness, I'm getting hungry describing it! And they're cheap, for about 8 bucks you can have both. 

http://parissandwiches.com/

Summer Vacation: Castellon & Benicassim

The word of the day is: budget. (Well, it should really be "poverty" but I like to roll with euphemisms.)

The month of July I worked at summer camps, the first one in San Lorenzo de El Escorial (I now know a fuck lot about the city and legend behind the monastery and the saint whose namesake it bears) and later another in San Mamés, on the outskirts. Both camps had their marvelous moments and their struggles though I always knew the light at the end of the tunnel was the month of August, my vacation month. 

August in Spain is equivalent with vacation, the majority of folks get a month vacation (yes, that's a month of vacation that you can take in ONE SHOT, consecutively, something the folks back home I know will appreciate) and people in Madrid typically all take it in August, heading to their family's villages or to coastal areas like Valencia or Alicante. That means that even though I wouldn't have minded working this month it's near impossible to get work because everyone is gone and it's a ghost town (I went out to buy something from the corner store the day before I left and on the walk I didn't cross a single person, super rare where I live). 

Once I'd come to the realization I wouldn't be able to work I had to figure out what I'd do, so much time but I had to stretch my purse strings. I knew I could visit my friend Eleisia in Castellon. I wanted to also meet Armelle somewhere soon after and when I got back I wanted to do the Camino de Santiago. Everything came together in less than a week, I finally was able to skype with Armelle (because the second camp was a black hole of communication) and we decided that logistically and economically the best choice for meeting between the south of France and Castellon was San Sebastián in Basque Country. The Camino de Santiago would have to be delayed a bit. 

Castellon was what I was looking for, a respite from city life, a pool for swimming, beach chairs for sunbathing and countryside for miles. The first day we were ambitious, we hiked some local paths for three hours before heading back under the darkening skies. The next and following days consisted of sleeping in, beers or tinto de verano's and just laying about. Eleisia prepared some good meals, Juan's mom Tere did as well and time just whiled away like the falling leaves of autumn. 

My last night in Castellon I went to stay with David, my friend and French teacher, in Benicassim. It's a beach town with a pretty lively nightlife due to all the giris (light-skinned anglophone foreigners) and Madrileños that flood the shore during the summer months. It started out with some basketball (I was out of my depth but still had a good time) and then we were off to the races, dinner and drinks. After pintxos, dobles and dancing, Benicassim ate my cellphone. Some asshole picked my pocket and jacked my phone, so the next day meant getting in contact with my blablacar driver and Armelle was gonna be hell. 

Castellon to Valencia by Renfe is less than €6 and takes about 45 minutes, within an hour I was there near the Plaza de Toros, having McDonalds, I know it's not my brightest moment but there's nothing better when you're hungover. My blablacar ride consisted of long intervals of sleep and the routine convo, my driver was really nice and gave me some great advice for San Sebastián. 

The climactic change was drastic, I left Valencia in a tee and shorts, drenched in sweat. I arrived in Basque Country in a fog, into a fog, Bilbao was a cold precursor to the torrential rain that greeted me in San Sebastián. By the time I got dropped off so I could wait for the 16 bus to Igelda I had to change into boots and my waterproof jacket, Basque Country is no joke. 

She waited for me at the bus stop, how she knew the time I'd arrive or how long she'd been waiting I'm not sure but after all the travails in getting there she was the remedy for it all. I was ready and complete for the adventures that awaited us there. 

How to pull an all-nighter in Barcelona

All you gotta do is take a free magazine from La Taverne in Strasbourg, miss the last bus to Madrid due to a packed bus, find a quiet spot for my gf to rest while the restless urchins that traverse that crummiest of crummy travel hubs (a bus station) scuttle by. 

The majority of the sketches/doodles I worked on though some I finished after and some she added her touch. Even though it was uncomfortable giving myself something to do helped pass the time, growing up in New York passing through Port Authority I knew there was no way I'd get any sleep especially in a city like Barcelona, there's no shortage of junkies, bums and thieves, that's for sure. 

Hitchhiking through France/ Auto-stop en Francia

That easy-erase board was our best friend as we embarked on our journey from Toulouse to Strasbourg a few days ago. Armelle had told me how (relatively) easy and fun it was traveling by hitchhiking and I've always wanted to after reading books by Jack Kerouac and other Beatniks. Given that I had zero experience yet plenty of enthusiasm she was the perfect companion, battle-tested and a French native (my French is coming along, slowly but surely). 

We began by taking a bus from Madrid to Toulouse through Basque Country, changing buses in San Sebastián. The climatic differences are amazing, it's so green! Madrid is a sub-desert climate, you look everywhere outside the city and it's beige, the way you imagine parts of Mexico or Arizona. The air is arid, in the summer your laundry can dry within hours of coming out of the washing machine. It rarely rains and hardly ever for days on end, it's a stark contrast from the humid, marsh climate of New York. The landscapes are breathtaking, rolling hills, lush countrysides, ubiquitous trees. I'm definitely going to return, this is a Spain I've yet to see though the one other stark contrast was the language, Euskara is something else! Speaking English, Spanish and understanding a bit of French has helped me but nothing has prepared me for Euskara, it's a different beast. In any case we caught our bus to Toulouse and were on our merry way, seeing the country change from Basque to French. We even made a stop at Pau, France, the site of my buddy Jason's month-long stay over a decade ago while studying abroad. 

We arrived in Toulouse on Thursday night, hungry, tired, stiff, but being that I'd never been I still desired to walk through the city to our destination, passing the Capitole, crossing the river and on to the flat of Armelle's friend Anita. After a bit of bumbling about and a kebab in our belly we made it to Anita's apt, she welcomed us with a drink, banter and a futon to sleep on. The following morning we made a few errands before heading on our way, a stop at the post office was in order. It was entertaining (and time consuming) to say the least, she needed to deposit money and I needed to get a French SIM card so we waited on the line and discussed our plans (in Spanish, as usual). An elderly gentleman asked me if I was Spanish and I explained to him that I'm not but that we live in Madrid and had just arrived recently, the rest of the convo went like this: 

Old man from Salamanca: Tu eres de Madrid?

Me: Sí, vivimos ahí. 

Old man from Salamanca: Real Madrid... Chuletas de ternera, copas de champán, fumando cigarros puros... Y 5 millones de trabajadores paradas... QUE GUAPO!!! 

As he shuffled away with his cane it took me a second to digest what he meant, but obviously he was upset about the millions that Real can splash for international Galacticos and yet so many spaniards are suffering on the dole. He grumbled these sentiments to me and although it was an amusing encounter it was also illuminating, perhaps the man had moved there during the Franco years, perhaps he still had family there...  it's these small conversations with complete strangers that make these trips worthwhile. 

We took the metro to Ramonville and walked a mile next to the road in tall brush and hay until we passed the toll. At the toll we wrote the next town we were aiming for, Carcassonne, and hoped for the best. Within 10 minutes we had our first ride, a couple in a beat-up coupe looking to go fishing. The young woman had various tats, a rose on her left forearm, wings on her upper back, she was red from sunburns and wore sunglasses, Oakley-style, most of the time. Her boyfriend wore short hair, blonde, he had a kind of dirty Vincent Cassel look, the way he portrays most of his characters, scowling most of the time with an occasional smile. He had his middle and ring fingers bound in gauze and I'm guessing that's the reason he wasn't behind the steering wheel. They seemed a bit white trash, a bit dangerous in a way, but of all the gleaming, expensive cars to pass by with their snotty owners staring down at us they were the first ones to offer us a ride and even went out of their way, literally taking us 10km past where they were going. It wasn't until after they'd dropped us off at a rest stop that Armelle told me that in fact they'd made some disparaging remarks about Arabs and, well, that's the way of the world, sometimes. It's an irony, no, they were so kind to us and yet what if we were Arab, at least visibly so?

We ate at the rest stop, it was noon by this time and the sun was baking everything in its glare, and after a nice lunch of jamon iberico, queso curado and bread we searched for another lift. Armelle felt that if we approached a car owner that was clearly from the region we were heading in, due to the number on the license plates you can determine their region of origin, we might be more likely to secure a ride. The problem is that my French isn't good enough in this respect, the only thing it's good enough is small banter, and so she'd be the only one able to do this job. After trying out this approach, and suffering from standing so long, I suggested we wait at the exit of the rest stop where cars would have to pass through. We found a nice spot underneath a tree and hoped for the best, within another half hour our next driver picked us up, Stéphane. 

Stéphane was a middle aged man, I'd put him in his fifties, with brown, thinning hair but an easygoing air to him, he smiled easily (even if half the time I didn't know what he was saying). He'd been to many parts of Spain and could speak a bit of Spanish, he smoked like a chimney and drove quickly (I liked the latter most). He took us from Carcassonne to Montpelier, he wanted to leave us at the toll but it didn't work out so he left us at a crazy roundabout. From that roundabout we found another driver that wanted to take us close to Nimes but he found that he in fact couldn't help us so he took us to another roundabout on the either side of town. There we were a bit lost so after buying some fruit and roasted ham (and asking for help from the vendor) we hiked up from the roundabout to another one where we managed to get a driver heading to an area between Montpelier and Nimes. He definitely helped us but at the same time this rest stop was far too close to Marseille, because of this many drivers weren't heading in our direction.

 We spent hours at that stop, trying her method, trying my method, trying out different cities on the erase board to see if one worked better than the other. We arrived there around 6:30pm and after hours there with no luck the sun was going down and the temp with it. Our goal was Lyon for the day and we were a good 250km away, I didn't want to spend the night at this rest stop in te middle of nowhere with no tent, no sleeping bag, no proper clothing for roughing it and not many prospects. I consider myself an optimistic realist but my optimism was rapidly running out and the fun that this trip offered starkly became something else, fear. She kept me optimistic, even though we had different ideas about what we would do should night fall she was confident we would make it through. We entertained ourselves during this time by insulting the various drivers who not only rejected us but either ignored or sneered their uppity faces at us, it definitely helped pass the time. Salvation came just when my enthusiasm was nearing its end, Nathanaël with his cousin picked us up and were going to leave us in Avignon but we didn't know a soul there so he offered to let us crash if his girlfriend was ok with it. It's a small world but his girlfriend, Cecile, is a Spanish teacher there and when we arrived we soon became acquainted. It was awkward, there's no doubt, but the fact that these complete strangers took us into their home, fed us and then gave us a futon and room to sleep in is something I'll never forget. They restored a faith in humanity for me when I'd given up hope and I plan on repaying that kind of compassion to someone in the future. 

We ate dinner, spoke well into the night, as their daughters watched Koh-lanta (the French version of Survivor), and took showers to wash off the film of road dust from our bodies. The next day we awoke, ate breakfast with the two young daughters (I inadvertently scared the younger one with tales of crocodiles in Florida) and prepared for another arduous day on the road. Cecile drove us past the outer wall of Avignon, it's an ancient city but unlike Carcassonne, which was rebuilt after the war, its ancient part is still lived in, still a main part of the day to day. We saw the famous bridge of Avignon, extending to nowhere, and continued on to the toll where Cecile left us. 

Here again we didn't spend too much time, it seems that tolls on the main highway of France are excellent places to get picked up whereas rest stops are hit & miss. After 15 minutes, or maybe a bit longer, we were picked up by an middle-aged woman and her teen daughter in their way to Lyon. This would be a good 200km, luckily I didn't have to speak much and slept through most of it while Armelle chatted with our gracious driver. 

Lyon is a beautiful city from the glimpse I caught, we were supposed to spend the night there instead of in Avignon but that'll have to be an adventure for another day. In Lyon our loquacious driver left us near the Musée des Confluences and there we spent a half hour by the side of the road with the sun baking everything in sight. We set our sights on various cities, in the beginning shooting directly for Strasbourg but bit having much luck with that. Armelle had mentioned that Muslims typically pick up hitchhikers because they're obligated religiously to help others, especially with Ramadan fast approaching. And so it was, two Algerian men, one Berber and other Arab, picked us up in a minivan along with a gentleman from Niger they'd picked up using Bla Bla Car. It was a relief, they had AC, offered us a frozen bottle of water (that soon melted) and blasted Middle Eastern rap and ballads the whole ride (some of those we're bangers). They were really kind, at one point offering baklava and a similar tasting muffin. The Berber gentleman, I sadly have forgotten both their names, had been to New York and various cities all over the US and world, they were both affable and easygoing. The Arab fellow, he was very typical in his dress and gestures, he danced to the songs, had one of these heavily gelled hairstyles with a bit of his front combed down and didn't speak much French but gave off a friendly air. We spent hours in their company, at times I vibed with the music, at times I passed out, Armelle really assumed the duties of speaking with the drivers as my abilities in this realm were limited but I gave it a shot when proposed (typically I'm the chatterbox for the two). They left us in Metz, approximately 150km from Strasbourg and it was still 6:30pm, Strasbourg was achingly within reach. We got a ride to the peage (toll) and there languished for what seemed an eternity, we each had different yet similar goals, I wanted to arrive as soon as possible in order to not miss the Champions League Final (my Barça was playing and I was miserable that I'd possibly miss the match, they were on the verge of completing a historic second treble and... And... I couldn't consider missing it). She wanted to make the most of her vacation and spend as much time with her family as possible, she also knows how much the game meant to me but of course family comes first. We both wanted to get back soon but as the sun descended and the breeze became cooler desperation began to set in. Our saviors arrived in small sedan, the driver a tall blonde-haired guy with short hair and billy goat beard. His girlfriend, blonde as well in a  light brown dress,were very kind, they were young like us, strasbourgois, and even played the game on the radio for us as we made our way to Strasbourg. I heard on the radio when Rakitic scored the first goal of the game 4 minutes in (translated as I'm not well-versed enough to catch it all on a radio broadcast) and looked forward to stopping in at a bar as soon as we got into town. They lived pretty close to her parents' home and we even ran into her brother Benoît as we started walking a bit. We'd made it. 

The experience of hitchhiking is no longer as idyllic as it once was in my head, there were very serious realities that we weren't prepared for (I think a waterproof tent and sleeping bags could've helped for starters). Then there's the idiots who honked their horns at either Armelle (for being an attractive female) or at me (for possibly looking Arab or Asian or in any case non-French). There was also the incredible kindness of those who wanted to help a young couple, especially Nathanaël and Cecile. I promise, this to the universe, to pay forward their hospitality and generosity, there are still good people out there. 

Lo barato sale caro

Yesterday Armelle and I went for a walk early in the day around La Latina, stopping in for a caña at the Mercado de la Cebada because I'd never been. There was a cheerful old man with a toothless grin sitting at Bar Toñi, he was telling Toñi how he needed to get a cheap girlfriend (kiddingly, of course). I said to him, "has oído que lo barato sale caro", in English it's "what's cheap ends up becoming expensive". We had a good chuckle and continued chatting, enjoying the cheap caldo and beer (that didn't turn out expensive at all, €2,20 for a caña and cup of soup). 

The expression made me think of how I got swindled when I bought my Sony Xperia Neo V off segundamano (the Spanish Craigslist) for €40 and spent €40 more on it only for it to die in less than a year. 

I should've known better but it seemed like a good solution, I'd just lost my second iPhone and didn't have a big budget for another smartphone. I bought a cheap clamshell for €10 but What's App is king in Spain, I knew I'd be at a loss without it so I continued searching for a smartphone. I looked on segundamano.es to see what I could find and this phone popped up, sure the screen was cracked but I knew that's an easy repair. I met the dude at the Vicalvaro stop on Cercanias, he seemed a bit sketch but the phone worked with my SIM and my preliminary scan of the phone turned up nothing. Then I got home. I opened up the case and noticed crud all over the inside, dirt or mud in nooks and crannies. Not only was the screen cracked but so was the case and the power button didn't function all that well. I kind of felt the same way I did when I chose my first apartment and later, after moving in my stuff, took real stock of joint; it was not as advertized. 

I bought another case and screen, which I replaced myself, and another battery but after a little over a year my little engine that could couldn't anymore. I've gotta look for another phone (granted, I could go Neolithic with the clamshell and simply grin & bear it but I'm in too deep at this point) and shell out more cash. 

What's the moral of the story? Go with the expensive girlfriend, she'll wind up being cheaper in the end.  

Eurolines 2015

We left

Palms, platanes, ciutat vella

Wildstyle drips and wheatpaste heiroglyphs

Sunshine drapes that holiest of sanctums

We walk

Rues, avenues, autopistas, rest stops

Me permites, s'il te plait

To hold your hand as Autumn coaxes Winter,

As Winter reposes with a toke,

As celestial bodies float together and pass

El mundo brilla con tu sonrisa

La noche menea con tus caderas

We sway

The way palm trees weather storms

Waves lapping up sand,

Sand stone against the sky,

The sky smears ambers and gun metal and tangerines along the horizon

Como llegue a este lugar?

We spoke

Español, Catalán, Francés, Alemán

Whispered in tongues and conversed in looks,

Nos conocimos en soirées,

Forgotten flotsam, jettisoned jetsam

We thought

The block the world,

Kabul the corner,

Palestine was the state of mind with the walls closing in

Me escape o me he liberado?

We breathe

February's frigid embrace melts before Madrid's gaze,

Vin chaud and jamon curado dance on the palette,

Veins pumping Afro-Cuban timbales es clave 

We continue