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.

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

Poem: Abricot

I thought I saw
You, last night,
This morning,
Wearing next to nothing so well

I thought I heard
You, yesterday afternoon
A murmur crept off your lips
Tiptoed across the room
Slipped onto my lap

I thought I tasted
You, just earlier,
Succulent and divine,
Apricot ambrosia,
Nectar of my vision.

Un 'Naco En Madrid: Una Curva (A curveball)

My journey coming to and arriving in Madrid was mired in complicated circumstances.

My friend, we'll call her Mary, convinced me to come here, told me all about how cheap Madrid was with its tapas, how living in Madrid enables you to see Spain and visit other parts of Europe more easily and how liberal it is when it comes to the consumption and production of marijuana. She was also in love with me. I was aware of the last bit yet I made it clear that if I were to move to Madrid it would be for my personal growth, not for romantic reasons.

We were paramours. Since my last serious relationship I've known many women who were amazing in so many distinct ways but for some reason or another I liked the relationship the way it was, with no strings attached. It was no different with Mary, she was intelligent, witty, pretty and I could spend hours with her watching tv, playing games and drinking, just having a good time. She was also possessive, though, and even though I made it clear where I stood, my feelings toward her and what I saw for our future (just being friends), she was still territorial, jealous and intrusive, looking through my emails and messages. I tried letting her off easy yet the message went ignored, no matter what language I used.

Maybe I didn't try hard enough to sever ties. Maybe I shouldn't have continued our physical relationship long after she'd grown attached. Maybe I was wrong to accept any gifts or help she offered, no matter how tempting or alluring. Maybe I shouldn't have come to Madrid. Whatever the uncertainty or regret I feel, the path only moves forward. The recipe for disaster had come to fruition and it was only a matter of time before I tasted the meal.

There was a fallout. I am to blame, demonstrating poor self control and poor judgment, perhaps it was self sabotage unconsciously manifesting itself. Whatever the case, she hates my guts, an eventuality that I'd imagined but one I lament nonetheless. Even though Mary and I had our problems it's always incredibly painful to lose a friend.

I'd always been a bachelor but suddenly I was truly on my own, owing nothing to no one. I thought I could finally breathe, finally go out, flirt, hook up, go on dates, bring home whoever I like. I had a bit of success but I also found Spain challenging, I've never really had hang ups about my complexion or race but Spain is a different beast. Here, I can pass for east Asian, Latin American or Middle Eastern, none of which are particularly appealing to most Spanish women. Oh, with my haircut I can also pass for gypsy (imagine where they stand in the hierarchy). Normally I'd take pride in being confused for these other ethnicities but instead it only made me second guess myself. It would be a lonely year, it seemed, and what was never an insecurity of mine started to wear on me.

I fell into despair. Normally reasonably confident, I felt ugly here, unattractive, thinking that I was part of that undesired group of dark-skinned people that go mistreated, misunderstood and marginalized much like in other parts of the world. I'd resigned myself to my fate and felt that if that's how it is, I would not let it change me, let it mark my attitude, I would be the same person I've always been and see who responds to that.
Just when I'd moved past the maelstrom of Mary, crossed the desert of despair and found solace in my self confidence I found her. It was lust at first sight, like many relationships first start for me, but I could tell she had something special about her.

I met Armelle at a free salsa class at La Tabacalera, as we swiveled our hips together and flirted. We spent time together whiling away the days chatting, taking strolls and becoming closer and closer when the thought that'd eluded me for four years now began to take hold on the cliffside of my mind, a mountain rose sprouting. When you least expect great things, when you least expect to meet that special someone, life has a way of throwing you a curveball. And I'm thankful.

Un 'Naco En España: Con El Ojo Apagado

Me empezó a arder jueves en la noche, después de la clase de salsa. Normalmente vamos a algún lugar con el profe a bailar más, esta vez fue en la misma Calle Embajadores a una manzana de La Tabacalera. Estaba platicando con unos tíos mexicanos cuando me empezó a picar el ojo. Pensaba que era simplemente un caso de las lentillas secándose pero al ver mi ojo en el espejo vi una pelotilla en el iris. Suponía que estaba en la lentilla pero al ponerme las la próxima mañana vi la pelotilla en el ojo sin la lentilla.

Seguí mi rutina, fui a mi clase de español y regrese a mi barrio pero antes de ir al piso pasé por la optometrista. Después de comprar más lentillas me reviso los ojos, diciendo que había roto las córneas. Me puse pálido, especialmente cuando me dijo que tengo que ir inmediatamente a la sala de urgencias.

Que lo había causado? El jueves fui al cole en Cercedilla, termine al mediodía y regrese a casa. Comí un burrito (el almuerzo de campeones barrigónes) y me fui a dar mis clases particulares en Aluche. Una amiga de la clase de salsa me invitó a una práctica de breakdancing en Nuevos Ministerios, algo que me hecho falta, entonces fui a hacer un poco de ejercicio. No se si al tocar el piso me toque los ojos sin fijarme o si fue algo que tomó mucho tiempo en crecer, ni los doctores me pueden decir que es al momento.

Y que tal del sistema de salud aquí en España? Vine a Urgencias, di mi tarjeta de seguro y la enfermera me pregunta: " Sólo un apellido?" Si, soy hijo ilegítimo. Aparte de distinciones culturales de verdad es más sano aquí, te tratan bien y no tuve que esperar mucho para ver el médico.

Me vio el ojo la enfermera y la doctora y me dicen que tengo una úlcera en el ojo, pero aquí dicen úlcera para todo entonces suena peor de lo que es. Sin embargo tuvieron que raspar, si, raspar, una muestra del ojo usando una punta, me sentía como el protagonista en "A Clockwork Orange". Me recuerda del tiempo que mi primo me disparo el ojo con una pistola de pelotas de pintura, tuve que ver un oftalmólogo varias veces y lo peor fue cuando me inyectaron el ojo. Al menos no me han inyectado el ojo.

Thinking behind "Crazy Eyes"

I should've figured that the response to my blog post Crazy Eyes might not be so warm, after all, there's def a touch of scumbaggery to me. I even got a response from someone that was potentially interested in me on how that post completely turned them off and I can't blame them. I won't, however, censor myself. We all have beautiful, gorgeous elements to our personalities and, correspondingly, ugly, scumbag ones. Perhaps that's a bit eastern in thinking but I embrace it, what I wanted to write was an honest portrayal of what happened on the date, irregardless of how I look in it. If I only wrote about the stories where I look like a perfect gentleman, and I'd like to point out that at no point did I disrespect her, would that be true to character?

I also think that sometimes you meet someone and you think it can go somewhere, their combination of looks and personality mean that just being in their company would be great even if it means friend zone. Others have a great personality but aren't your cup of tea visually, so maybe you become friends. Lastly, some are lookers but there's something missing personality-wise, so it's only something physical you're interested in. I know I'm not the only guy that feels that way and I know plenty of women that think the same way, so am I so wrong for being honest about Crazy Eyes?

People like to throw around the term "nice guy" and yeah, I can be a nice guy. I can also be an asshole too. Most days there's a smattering of both and while I try to do the right thing most of the time, some days I get it wrong. I ain't a saint but I'll acknowledge my sins and that's all I aim to do with my writing, be sincere with myself.

Un 'Naco En España: Sin burrito

Hay un lugar en mi zona, Moncloa, que se llama Tierra. Hacen uno de los mejores burritos que he probado, aquí o en los Estados Unidos. Ellos tienen una oferta que si donas sangre a la Cruz Roja, te dan un cupón para uno gratis. Hace meses done y me encantó mi burrito de carnitas.

Un lunes fui a donar, listo con mi NIE y un apetito salvaje. Llegue al bus, pedí un formulario pero la enfermera me empezó a hacer algunas preguntas.

" Que comiste de desayuno?"
" Un bocadillo."
" No, de desayuno."
" Un bocadillo."

La primera vez que me ve con cara extraña.

" Vale. Que comiste de comida?" (Debo de mencionar que en España no usan almuerzo, lo llaman comida.)
"mmm.... Otro bocadillo."
" No no no, de comida."
" Un bocadillo."
" No puede ser, voy a llamar al doctor a ver que dice, pero eso no es suficiente."

Viene el médico y me hace las mismas preguntas y yo le doy las mismas respuestas.

" Lo que tu comiste no fue comida. Una comida es el primer plato, después el segundo plato y de ahí sigue el postre, lo que tu comiste no fue suficiente."
" No pero en los Estados Unidos un bocadillo es grande, le llamamos sándwich y viene lleno de carne y verduras, es una cultura diferente."

No quedó convencido el médico y me fui sin donar y sin cupón, esa noche no cené burrito.

El día siguiente comí con mis colegas del cole y les conté lo que me paso. Chema, el profesor de educación física, comento: "Sólo faltaba que te llamará ' tonto'."