A Parisian Minute

Sitting at a table on a sidewalk cafe at Le Sully, with a massive arch to my left, I watch. Paris is a city of movement, akin to NY, with all sorts of characters walking by.

A South Asian selling garlic and lettuce on top of wooden crates on the sidewalk. A tranny, blond hair glistening, her fuchsia bookbag bobbing behind her. Four-man squads of soldiers stroll by, most a couple of decades old at most, their automatic weapons slung forward, index finger intently placed above the trigger.

A brotha walked by in a loose-fitting suit, harking back to the zoot suit days in its panache. A long corridor looms forward, brightly colored decorations line it along with Afghani barbershops and Mauritian restaurants. A hooker, white and black leopard-print top, black leggings, makes the rounds along the boulevard.

Men with glittering jewelry, too much gel in their hair, chat energetically, smoking stoges as they take in the sights.

Bikes blur past. Pigeons swoop and take off. Pedestrians stare. They stop. They glance. Junkies kick their schpiel. Homeless languish in the brisk afternoon. Toddlers amble by under the watchful guidance of bobo parents.

There are a thousand pigeons under the arch, each crawling over the next, scrounging for today's scraps.

Signs I'm becoming European

Evidence A: 

The other day I was near the Norma by Notre Dame when I thought "I could buy some duck pâté", went straight for that part of the super and, sure enough, struck pay dirt. 

Pâté is a new thing for me, but there are lots of firsts here. Take cheese, for instance. Back in the states Brie was a milestone. Camembert was a step in the right direction, queso cabrales assaulted my senses the first go-around and now Roquefort is an ordinary thing. 

Bread and cheese, bread and anything, really, meant that I was making a sandwich. Bread and cheese may mean a platter, slices of cheese, of salami, maybe some ham, eaten a mouthful at a time. 

Wine is a cheap option. That's right, you heard right, it's a cheap option. There are some days that I think, "what'll give me the most bang for my buck?", and wine is the best option. Something that might cost 1,50€, maybe 2€ at most here goes for at least $12 back home, is the same price as a 40 oz. I should mention that's supermarket prices, it doesn't apply to the chino. 

The final evidence: I made tapas for my guests that came to play board games. I cut goat cheese into slices, placed that on top of slices of bread and drizzled honey over both. It's a wrap. 

La Tortilla

I used to hate tortillas. I really did. I used to hide them in napkins or ask for only half. I'd do my best to avoid them and then... I just accepted them. 

Growing up incredibly skinny it meant that my folks would try to fatten me every chance they got. At every meal. Heaping mounds of rice or at least two tortillas. I also didn't know my current tricks, that's to mix your rice/tortilla/bread with whatever else you're eating, this way it's more flavorful. What would happen is I'd end up rice/tortilla/bread and nothing to eat it with. 

As you can imagine I was always last at the dinner table. Hell, I'm still last at the dinner table. I'm also the one that'll probably finish your plate too, a holdover from having to finish every single plate.

Until around high school I had this attitude but little by little it changed. Coming to terms with who I am, being Salvadoran-American. I speak Spanish, I love pupusas, I'm short but got heart. And I have tortillas with my breakfast, un poco de frijoles molidos, cremita o queso duro. 

I remember mornings waking up to my dad making tortillas in the kitchen. Now... my dad hardly cooks. For some reason this one thing he could make relatively well. Many mornings I'd watch him while preparing my cup of coffee and sometimes he'd give me some advice about how to make them. Knowing that sometimes he'd make himself fresh tortillas made me think it's not that hard. Or maybe he just made it look easy. 

Recipe: Take some corn flour, Maseca is my mom's favorite back home, and add water until it's a paste. If it's too mushy add corn flour, if it's too dry add water. Put a frying pan on medium heat, add a bit of oil. Take some of your corn flour paste, just enough for a small handful, and roll a ball. Once you've rolled it you want to flatten it with the palms of your hands until it's the width of half a centimeter. Fry until it's done. 

San Lorenzo del Escorial

Silence. I can hear myself think, I can hear a distant cicada providing the beat, the wind breezing just enough, the occassional passerby strolling through. Some cars flash by, others cruise, everything has its moment. I'm sitting at what has to be a closed down shop, long since abandoned, replete with graffiti, broken beer bottles and rubbish everywhere. There are well-kept houses nearby and the youth hostel where I'm staying at just a few minutes walk up the street. 

I'm a kid from Jamaica, Queens. Sometimes I forget that I'm from there. It's times like these when I know that I needn't worry about being jumped, being robbed, that in reality there aren't many safety concerns other just making sure that I don't drink too much. That I relax, when you come from a tough hood sometimes the toughest thing is forgetting about being guarded all the time. 

I'm not saying it hasn't served me. I'm not saying that there isn't some value to growing up in those circumstances (and let's face it, NYC is tough but there are far tougher places and all you gotta do is cross a river to find them). Every time I get on the train I look around at who's close. Every time I meet a stranger I assess whether I can take them. Every time I'm in a new situation I'm thinking of the worst, I'm planning for it Walking Dead style and I'm pleasantly disappointed the majority of the time here in Spain. Out here, in a small city up in the hills, a bespectacled chap sitting cross legged on a ledge, alone typing away on his smartphone would just be waiting to get juxxed. 

There are many reasons why I live in Spain. There's the tapas, there's the Spanish language that's my mother tongue and there's the quality of living which is really high. And there's this, it's pretty fucking safe. Because all I wanna do now is have my beer, sit on this ledge without anyone bothering me and that's what I get and that's just perfectly fine. 

Lazy Sunday

We woke up late this morning but early enough to go for a stroll through El Rastro. The great thing about living in a foreign city is there's a constant stream of new places you haven't been to, you haven't discovered, and the novelty never seems to wear out. Today we found the Mercado de la Ribera, a tucked away spot near the end of the main street of El Rastro that caught my attention. It was packed, with stalls lining the walls and people flowing in and out, sitting at tables outside on the terrace. 

We continued up the street, making a left and grabbing a tapa at Teatro Bar, a well known spot with good tapas, a cazuelita of your choosing with every drink. Then we went to this spot we found in our last expedition through El Rastro, Bar Santurce, where we chowed down on grilled sardines and pimientos al padron (unos pican, otros no). The sign of a great place is the pile of soiled napkins strewn across the floor, look below:

 

What do we do next? Head for the Campo de la Cebada, an occupied space that's self-run by a community organization that has renovated it, taken an abandoned lot and filled it with the life. Concrete walls are adorned with graf and street art murals, stands with seating made from donated or found materials, a basketball/football/handball court where pickup games are regularly played and many gardens and green spaces which are spread out across the open area. As we speak a singer/songwriter plucks her strings to the applause and praise of her impromptu crowd, most are here to sit down in the shade and share a beer with friends or feel the warmth of the sun on their skin. 

Being that this is an open space and all are welcome you get your fair share of strange folks, we saw the crazy dude at the cumbia party at La Tabacalera that argued angrily with some folks in the bathroom and later accosted women on the dance floor a couple weeks back. He dropped a litrona (like a 40 oz) right behind Armelle and totally splashed her but that's the thing, with spaces like these you never what will happen next and that's kinda the fun of it. We posted up in the stands in the shade next to some hippie stoners that were really friendly, they even had this awesome greyhound that was all over the place but cool in the end. This is a typical, warm Sunday in Madrid, magically lazy. 

Lunch / Comida / Déjeuner

Lunch is a pretty simple concept, you have it in the middle of the day, right around noon back in the states. Thing is, in Spain it's customary to have five meals a day. You have breakfast as soon as you wake up or get to your work bar, then around 10:30, 11, you have merienda (almuerzo) which can consist of a small sandwich and then you have lunch around 2pm. In fact, you can tell that 2pm is the Spanish lunch hour because when someone invites you over lunch it's at 2, I made this faux pas by showing up at 4 for lunch and my fam out here were like, "but we invited you for lunch, that's at 2!?". 

It could be that everything is later because of the addition of two extra meals but I think it's also owed to the longer day here. Spain and the rest of Iberia is just below England and so, because of its longitude, should follow Greenwich-Meridian Time (GMT) as opposed to Central European Time (CET). It doesn't because Franco, during WWII, wanted Spain to be on the same time format as Germany to be able to help them (clandestinely). It's a holdover from that time but the Spanish have simply adapted, they eat later at nearly every meal except breakfast and the sun here in Madrid, come summer, will fall around 10. Is it any surprise the Spanish party like it's 1999?

 Lunch doesn't stop being different in relation to time. Here you have to have a first plate, second plate and dessert. That's called a "menú". Not to be confused with "menu", that in Spanish is "la carta". Confused yet? Everywhere you go you'll see boards with signs advertising how much their menú is, typically around 9€, and the fare at a normal bar is standard Spanish cuisine. If it's a steak (entrecot) or something similarly expensive it'll cost you more. 

When I worked at the school in Cercedilla my first year it was a bit of a culture shock (but then again what wasn't). A first plate might be soup or beans or a plate of rice with tomato sauce (think rich ketchup, the kids loved that dish!). The second plate would be maybe a chicken breast or pasta or paella, something a bit heavier. I couldn't understand it at first why I'm eating a chicken breast separate from beans or rice. As a Latino you have your meal altogether, same plate and all (even if I'm bougie with my salad and always eat it on the side). As an American you can also have everything together, perhaps you might order an appetizer before the entree but that's on you. They need the order ... and don't even think about skipping dessert! A piece of fruit, yogurt or maybe just a cup of coffee, you always have to have that last bit. 

When I go out I see it as normal now and even do it at home sometimes, if we have leftovers they might become the first plate. The structure, even if it's annoying when all you wanna do is have your beans and rice with chicken, is a bit refreshing coming from a city (NYC) and culture where you see people walking down the street scarfing a slice of pizza on their way somewhere. I no longer eat on the go, I sit down, take my time to eat, decompress and then continue working or heading to my destination. 

There's something old-fashioned to it but that's sometimes the best aspect. I think often in western society it's seen as backwards going to small shops that overcharge or take too long with service or don't offer a to-go option. However, those same elements can be seen from a different perspective. When you buy something from a chain, franchise or big-box store that money is being siphoned from your community to a multinational company. Service may take longer but there's a human being who has dedicated their life to that job and knows it better than anyone being trained in a couple weeks and paid minimum wage. That to-go option? That's just contributing to more rubbish, more detritus, more plastic is being produced to accommodate that growing need (or want) and for what? Just sit down and eat ya damn lunch in peace. 

Las Fallas

Imagine this: you spend the entire year fundraising, saving up the budget for the materials to create a "falla" as well as paying an artist to design it and then, blink and you miss it, watch the whole thing burn like wildfire, your year's work turned into a cloud of ashes. This is Las Fallas, Valencia's yearly fiestas (festival of the city). 

The backdrop is this: Valencia has a tradition that dates back to medieval times, one that supposedly started with carpenters that used wooden sticks which had little importance and burned them, either symbolically or to welcome spring. These carpenters made bonfires, the bonfires began to take shapes, become more elaborate. Eventually they took clear forms and what was just a bunch of burning sticks turned into Las Fallas, a yearly project that culminates in the burning of beautiful and polemic sculptures. 

I came to Valencia to see them 2 years ago with Armelle, a few friends and my buddy Adrian who we ran into while there. It was amazing to see them then but you don't get the sense they'll be burnt when that time isn't imminent. We went on a Saturday then and they did La Cremá on a Tuesday so we totally missed the burning, something different this year as it coincided with the weekend. It was perfect timing, I'd get to see La Cremá. 

We took a bus, managed by a friend's company to get there, MadLife, and it started out well as we were a group of 12. On the bus the crazy Venezuelans that work for the company got us well liquored up for the journey, starting with cava, then wine, vodka orange and shots of tequila. By the time we got to Valencia we had a nice buzz and were revving for more. The thing with a group that large is that you've either gotta be a tight bunch or otherwise be completely on board, neither of which we were. There were distinct cliques within and so it was difficult keeping everyone together, walking just a few blocks was a nightmare as some folks decided to just veer off and buy something or stop to look at something without alerting others, it was a game of stop-n-go. 

Somehow we managed to make it to the plaza mayor but it was around this point that it became clear that different folks had different aims so we decided to split into two groups, one went to the beach (I went with them) and the others went to check out the Fallas. I figured since I'd already been I wanted to make sure I made it to the beach, that was my goal, I just wanted to be next to the sea and smell that saltwater. 

These crazy fools, 4 of them, jumped in there, I give them props for sure. I was just happy to be away from the M80's going off, the crowds and relax for a while on the shore. Living in Madrid, a 4 to 5 hour drive from any coast in any direction, makes you crave the ocean or sea and being from a coastal city like NY can make that desire stronger. Even though I knew I wouldn't get in the water it was a relief being at the beach, you don't have to be a swimmer to enjoy it. 

Just because we were at the beach doesn't mean the party stopped, however. We had Marta, our talismanic salsera, who's a party unto herself. It meant more cañas and by the time we were back on the bus heading to the city center we were dancing salsa to Cholo's boombox, a spectacle for the startled straphangers. 

We met up with the rest of the group, they'd covered a lot of ground and even climbed the bell tower of Valencia's cathedral in that time. We had paella and, you guessed it, more cañas but by 10 all that traveling, all those drinks, all the spliffs and the throbbing crowds of people were wearing on us. It was a marathon 24 hours of partying and even before it was time to get back on the bus we begging to be let back on it. We got back to Mendez Alvaro, had coffee at a local bar, breakfast at the VIPS and then were off to our warm, cozy beds for extended siestas. 

Having finally seen La Cremá I can say that there's a philosophical point to it all, I think. It's the idea that our creations, beautiful or not, will not last and I, as an artist, feel this point strongly. As an artist you take pride in creating something, you somehow trick yourself into thinking that it'll be immortal but, in reality, nothing is immortal. The pyramids will turn to sand, the Mona Lisa will become dust and our time on this planet is like a breath to a star. What's it all for? What's the point of creating then? Why do graffiti artists bomb or make an elaborate wildstyle knowing they may get buffed the next day? You create not for immortality but for the love it, to express that sentiment regardless of how long it lasts. 

The winning Falla - 2016

10 Sitios Imprescindibles Si Vienes A Madrid

Muchas veces tengo amigos o familia que me piden detallar lugares que deben de ver en Madrid o tal vez me piden describirlo. Recientemente mi madrina y padrino me pidieron esto mismo y decidí hacer una guía, por cierto, hay sitios que se me olvidaron y hay lugares que me recuerdo de ellos al estar en una zona o pasando una calle, pero pienso que esta guía es un buen punto de inicio.

1. Puerta del Sol - Es el centro de Madrid, el centro de España y un poco parecido a Times Square en el sentido de que hay muchas actuaciones. Aparte del circo de curiosidades hay cosas en concreto, Kilómetro Cero está ahí, el punto central de las carreteras radiales. La estatua del oso con el madroño, símbolo de Madrid (que se puede encontrar en el escudo de Madrid), también se encuentra ahí. 

2. Plaza Mayor - Cada ciudad española tiene su plaza mayor y Madrid no es excepción, a 5 minutos andando de Puerta del Sol uno puede "tomarse un café con leche en la plaza mayor". (Alusión a la frase vergonzosa de Ana Botella.) Tiene varias salidas/entradas y la fachada pintada es preciosa, no puedes venir a Madrid sin verlo. 

3. Palacio Real y la Catedral - Vale la pena echarle un vistazo al palacio pero desde fuera, cuesta una pasta entrar y en realidad para que? Para ver cuartos amplios con muebles dorados? La plaza delante del palacio tiene estatuas que adornaban antiguamente la fachada, los jardines reales son una pasada y la catedral se puede acceder desde el lado y recomiendo verlo. Lo bueno es que todo esta al lado del otro, puedes empezar con la catedral, luego el palacio y al final los jardines. 

4. Templo de Debod - Uno de los puntos más altos de Madrid con paisajes a la vista, también tiene un templo egipcio y es punto para quedar y hacer botellón para madrileños cuando hace buen tiempo. No es solamente turístico, aquí se ve un poco la cultura madrileña. 

5. El Prado y La Reina Sofía - La gran mayoría de museos están colocados en el Paseo del Prado, una avenida ancha con árboles y un camino peatonal en medio de la carretera. Estos museos en particular, el Museo Thyssen también merece la pena, tienen las obras de los pintores españoles más conocidos, el Prado tiene Velázquez y Goya, la Reina Sofía tiene Picasso y Joan Miro (creo). 

6. Paseo del Prado - El Paseo de la Castellana se convierte en Paseo del Prado empezando en Plaza Cibeles, aquí es donde los madridistas (hinchas del Real Madrid) celebran sus títulos y donde la Cabalgata de Carnaval y varios desfiles se celebran. Bajando el paseo llegas a Plaza Neptuno, donde los hinchas del Atlético de Madrid celebran sus victorias, y si sigues bajando llegas a Atocha, la estación principal de trenes y sitio donde ocurrieron los atentados del 11-M, lamentablemente. En Atocha hay un sitio donde hay un montón de tortugas y es uno de mis lugares favoritos en Madrid para parar y desahogarme. 

7. Círculo de Bellas Artes - Madrid, como muchas ciudades europeas, no tiene muchos rascacielos, de hecho sólo tiene 4 (las Cuatro Torres), y entonces los pocos edificios altos que tiene ofrecen paisajes amplios de la ciudad. Desde esta terraza, o nada más salir del edificio, se puede ver el famoso edificio Metropolitan, iconico de Madrid. 

8. Gran Vía - Empezando en Plaza Cibeles, atravesando el centro tienes Gran Vía, una calle petada de turistas y madrileños, con varias tiendas comerciales. Al otro lado llegas a Plaza España, otro punto de encuentro para jóvenes y gente de todas edades donde también tienes al barrio chino al lado. 

9. Malasaña y Lavapies - Malasaña tiene boutiques y plazas, bares para salir de cañas o lugares donde puedes tomar un batido, sería un poco como Williamsburg en Nueva York. Perdiendote por las calles te da la sensación de la historia de la ciudad y hay bares, como El Palentino y Casa Camacho, un poco cutres, donde se puede tomar el pulso de la ciudad. Lavapies es un barrio un poco parecido a Malasaña pero que todavía no ha sido gentrificado. Aquí se ve la mezcla más diversa de nacionalidades, en mi opinión, y por eso me encanta Lavapies. 

10. Bares y Centros Auto-gestionados (Okupas) - España es muy de bares pero no el sentido de emborracharse, se come el desayuno en el bar, tomas la comida (almuerzo) ahí o pides una caña (acompañada de una tapa) y luego tal vez traes a tu familia al bar de "toda la vida" para quedar con amigos y familia. En algunos bares sólo te ponen aceitunas o patatas fritas con la caña (una cerveza pequeña), en otros puedes salir hinchado. 

Las okupas son algo muy curioso, son técnicamente centros socioculturales donde la comunidad ha formado un comité para gestionar un edificio abandonado y aportar servicios y clases a quién quiera. Hay sitios como La Tabacalera, La Morada, Patio Maravillas (que en este momento sigue sin sitio) y La Dragona que son auto-gestionados sin ayuda del gobierno pero con el apoyo del pueblo. 

Al final hay muchas cosas que tampoco se puede explicar o describir, como el ambiente acogedor de Madrid. Hay calles perdidas, hay plazas sorprendentes y tanto más que hacen falta las palabras. Si tienen algunas dudas me los comunican pero lo mejor va ser cuando estén aquí para poder mostrarles la ciudad. 

A Day to Forget

I woke up Monday morning wanting to have breakfast, relax a bit before teaching my class at noon here at home. What happened instead was my landlady, Luisa, came with her ax to grind and berated Armelle and I before I'd even finished my first piece of toast.

What happened? Sunday morning, after traveling 1,700 km, 32 hours from Strasbourg to Barcelona and then on to Madrid we arrived home. We showered, ate something and got under the covers for a nice siesta in our own bed when just as I'm drifting off to sleep I hear the door open. There's a knock on my ex-roommate Rodri's door and then the shouting began. Luisa had come in, saw Rodri's friend sleeping on the couch and was upset that he had allowed a friend to crash. There was the also the reason Luisa was there, she came to show the room and Rodri refused to allow her to see it. Bea, Rodri's quasi gf, got into the mix in order to defend him when she got into it with our prospective, now actual, roommate, Sandra. I heard all of this, and the full report from Rodri and Juanma's perspective later, but I just stayed in my bed listening while Armelle dozed, I saw no need to step in since it wasn't my problem. Luisa has this impression that I'm the only person that brings guests over and allows them to spend the night, in fact, on various occasions she's made me feel like I'm an awful person for doing so, something that at times makes me second guess myself. I know I'm right in this respect, though, she wants to run a boardinghouse here, not a shared apt, and this is what bothers me most, here I have less freedom to have company over or invite guests to come and spend a few days than I do with my own parents! So Sunday morning, after all the shouts and slammed doors dissipated I fell into a deep sleep...

Around 7 pm that same Sunday I was in my room, I'd already spoken to both my roommate's and the apt was calm, Rodri had gone to Bea's all shaken up, Juanma went out with a friend to have tapas and Armelle and I were on our laptops when we hear the front door open. I knew it couldn't be roommate's and so could just be one person: Luisa. She heads straight for the living room and starts complaining to me how the lamp there is broken, how the chair from the dining room set table is also broken and recounting to me the events from earlier in the day. At various points I tried to interject that none of those points, none of those issues had to do with me. We had just been away nearly 3 weeks, when we left the lamp worked albeit we never used it, it was just there in the corner. If I'd broken it, I'd pay to fix it, I have no problem taking responsibility for what I break. The chair was broken from usage and the chairs were poorly designed to begin with, that's part of offering a furnished apt. And the issue with Rodri and having guests, it does have to do with me but I've already stated a thousand and one reasons why I don't agree with her, the number one because I pay for a shared flat and that should be an issue resolved with the roommates alone. Here's the kicker, though, she came, berated m over things that I hadn't done and she came drunk. Yup, I could smell it on her a mile away, she wreaked and I tolerated her because I knew in this state I couldn't easily get rid of her, so I listened though I also gave her a piece of my mind and finally, when she'd realized she was chastising the wrong person she sat down on the armrest of the couch and began to cry. Talk about emotional blackmail! I gave her a pat on the back and told her to go home, think on it and we could talk about it tomorrow or later on.

She came the next day, asking for the rent, fair enough, and for 10 euros extra for the lamp, then 10 euros extra for a cleaning lady she'd hired, without our consent, to clean the apt. I summarily told her she'd only get the rent from me and not a penny more. In the following she came every single day, most days twice a day for silly reasons, she brought back the lamp repaired, sans lampshade. She kept the chair, or threw it out, not sure, but it never made a reappearance and at some point mid-week there was a glimmer of hope that Luisa had gotten her senses back. This was a mirage, she'd spoken to Juanma saying that she'd been unfair with us and had taken things overboard but she only communicated this to Juanma, she never told us any of this. In any case this all evaporated once Rodri moved out and our new roommate, the aforementioned Sandra, moved in. Just when we thought that we might be able to stay a bit longer, because we liked the apt, he neighborhood, that there's a storage area for bikes downstairs, that there's a Lidl a block away, a Dia across the street, that Chinatown is the next neighborhood over, we loved all these things and didn't want to uproot. No, we got La Pedorra as a new roommate and she lived up to her stinky moniker.

We got our first taste of what La Pedorra is like last Saturday. We invited a couple, Daniel and Laura, to come over and play video games. She wasn't going to be home that night, something Armelle had learned prior to Sandra learning that we were having company. It didn't matter. She saw our company arrive so we invited her to play with us and get to know us to which she rudely declined. She then, after briefly speaking with Juanma, called Luisa. She complained that there was company over every day she'd been there, which was true though not nuanced info. In the week prior we'd had company only once and it was that Saturday night, Rodri had company the day she came to check out the apt and Juanma had company the previous night. These were all weekend nights, so you kinda have to tolerate it. It didn't matter. Luisa called me, yelling at me, asking why I had company. After trying to patiently reason with her I lost my cool, yelled back and then hung up. For me to yell it takes a lot, and I mean a lot, to get that response out of me. She then messaged me on What's App and told me I'm not allowed to have company at all, not to play, not to have dinner, zero company. That was last Saturday and the following Sunday I had an early morning argument with her and Sandra, it left things clear: we have to get the fuck out of this crazy, fucking situation! In a few days we'd sent nearly 50 messages, gotten an appointment to see one and liked it. We move in on the 1st and this dark period with our insane landlady, Luisa, will be just that, a period in the past and days to forget.

Breakfast / Desayuno / Petit Déjeuner

My first year in Spain the concept of breakfast was a culture shock (like many things).

Back home in NYC I'd pass by the breakfast cart in front of the liquor store on Sutphin Blvd and buy a croissant or Boston creme and cup of coffee on the way to the E and finish it on the platform while waiting for the J or on the J. Either that or I'd buy a bacon, egg & cheese at a bodega near the Clinton-Washington stop and finish it at work ( I so miss these). The famous New York minute, a way of life measured in seconds, where folks buy their breakfast to-go and scarf down their grub on the subway, has its place but Europe moves to the beat of a different drummer.

Let's begin with where they have breakfast in Spain. At the bar. Yes, at the bar. Everyone. Not just drunkards or clubgoers stumbling out of the club for café con leche con churros, normal people: the construction workers in paint-spotted jeans and boots, the office workers chatting and smoking a cig with their co-workers just outside their office building and the executives, a suit-n-tie munching down on an Andalusian breakfast. Early on I would wonder why the bars were open before the bakeries, why so many people frequented them and why on earth there weren't any to-go cups for coffee (most bars will give you coffee, hot coffee, to-go in a plastic cup). My first year I had to walk 10 min through Moncloa and grab something quickly from Rodilla or Al Punto before hopping on the 687 to Cercedilla (it was an hour-long ride).

I would also have breakfast at Armelle's home some mornings and this was my introduction to a typical European breakfast, toast with butter and/or jam accompanied by tea or coffee. That's it. No eggs. No bacon or sausage. No home fries or French fries. A typical Spanish breakfast, the aforementioned Andalusian breakfast, is toast with a tomato-based sauce (that I think has a bit of garlic in it) with olive oil and salt, it's my preferred breakfast in Madrid. I also have oatmeal some mornings but that's something I'd have in the States, I picked it up from reading about fighters' diets.

I was reminded about this difference this morning and how I no longer need eggs with my meal, how I don't balk at the thought of just toast. And one should take into account that the merienda, mid-morning snack, still has a strong place in the customs here, in reality you have 5 meals a day and so a lighter breakfast is more bearable knowing you'll eat again in a couple hours. It's also nice to just go to my local bar or the one outside my class and sit down, take 10 min to have breakfast or 5 for a cup of coffee and take a breather before jumping into my workday. And this pace is just great.