I'm falling in love with my ex all over again

When I describe what it feels like to be back in New York City after having lived in Madrid the past four years I say it's like reuniting with your ex; you feel like you know this person and yet things have definitely changed.

Last night, while I was waiting for the J train at the Myrtle stop, I got into a convo with two MTA employees that were watching me on the platform. I just finished my torta and was looking for a trash can when they asked me what I was looking for. After pointing me in the right direction, it was down the stairs by the turnstiles, I came back upstairs.

"Hey, do you mind if we ask you something? We have kind of a debate going."
"Sure, shoot."
"We wanna know if you're from New York or not."
"I am, I was born and raised in Queens, Jamaica. Wanna see my ID?"
"Nah nah nah, I believe you, it's just that you went really far to throw out your garbage and I was saying that if you were from NY you would just throw it out anywhere."
"Well, I went to throw it out because it's the right thing to do, I'm not gonna litter knowing there's a garbage can, it's no biggie, it's not like it's mad far."
"Oh, you said 'mad', you are from NY, haha, but we thought you went to the Popeye's to throw it out."

We talked a bit more about this and that and not long after the train came. I shook their hands, wished them a good night and was off on my way home.

As I sat on that J I started to reflect on what just happened. It's true that I'm a native New Yorker, I am and I always will be. I'm more than that, though. I'm also a madrileño, I'm also European in some ways, I'm no longer just a New Yorker. I'm something else, a hybrid, a product of the experiences I've had abroad.

As I walk around my city now I marvel anew and at the same time know her well, I know her intimately. I'm a native and a foreigner... and that's just fine.

Why the hyphen?

I am Salvadoran-American. I am neither entirely one nor the other, I've noticed this time and again living abroad. It's a dichotomy that I've lived with all my life and, in this post-Trump world, I'd like to celebrate it. 

My first language is Spanish. Until the age of five I spoke nothing but Spanish and when I began school I was placed in an ESL program for kindergarten and first grade. I really loved those first two years of school at PS 182 in Jamaica with Ms Rodriguez. Early on there was a boy that was picking on me and she told me, "if someone hits you, you hit them back twice, if someone kicks you, you kick them back twice, don't let anyone take advantage of you". Those words stuck with me and, though I'm a pacifist, I recognize her good intentions. She was also the one that recognized that I needed glasses because I was having trouble seeing the board during class. 

I also really liked that, even though we were learning English, the program didn't reject our Hispanic roots and we also learned Spanish vocabulary in class. At home, I would watch TV in Spanish, my favorites were Chespiritu and Carusel. I also watched Sábado Gigante with my folks on Saturdays and had to tolerate my mom's novelas.

At home, being Latino was and continues to be an intrinsic part of me. I couldn't live without pupusas, beans and rice are staples and I'm a domino fiend. Living abroad in Spain I finally got the opportunity to hone my Spanish and now I'm capable of not only speaking fluidly but also thinking in Spanish. 

It wasn't always peaches and crema, though. 

At some point during my teen years I had a bit of a crisis. I rejected my heritage and wanted nothing to do with it. My parents would speak to me in Spanish and I'd respond in English. I would trade homemade food for fast food almost on a daily basis; the cashier at Wendy's recognized me and even offered to make me homemade food one day. 

Growing up in a rough neighborhood, and to overprotective parents, meant that I spent a great deal of time at home watching TV. I watched hours and hours of TV. I've watched complete series, Empty Nest, Golden Girls, Seinfeld, Saved By The Bell, The X-Files, Hercules, Xena and the list goes on. As a result my accent is an amalgam of accents and doesn't truly reflect my hometown. 

In my late teens it all started to make sense, however. I met many more Latin-Americans like me, kids born to central- and south-American immigrants who also yearned to find a niche in the American patchwork. Kids who spoke Spanish with their parents and Spanglish with me. 

When I first came to Spain the first thing I did was look for a Salvadoran restaurant. Whenever I made breakfast it was almost always an American one, two eggs and toast, the eggs with ketchup and jalapeños, of course. I can make pupusas and Philly cheesesteaks from scratch. Sometimes I make fresh Salvadoran tortillas and beans to go with it. My favorite cheese is Salvadoran, queso duro, though I do miss American cheese and American heros, bocadillos pale in comparison. 

It was difficult adapting to life in Spain, adapting to their customs, but three and half years on I've come to love European life. This morning I ate at the bar out front, had toast with salt, olive oil and tomato spread. I'm a huge fan of the tapa and the caña, a tiny glass of beer, and can spend hours at a bar placidly having both. 

The thing is, here I'm more Latino than American because of the way I speak Spanish. I refuse to change the way I speak, refuse to adopt the vosotros, and see it simply as unnecessary, like if I were to live in the UK and all of sudden began speaking with an English accent. The consequences of my choice sometimes reflects in my treatment by spaniards, Americans are held in high esteem whereas Latin-Americans are regarded as an underclass. I often can see this paradox, many people don't know how to treat me or how they want to treat me and it's this conflict that I've had to live with my whole life. 

I'm American as flan. As Salvadoran as ketchup on my eggs. I use "vos" with my family and curse like a sailor after a few drinks, the ghetto boy from Queens, NY is never far behind. When I stub my toe I yell, "coño", but my preferred language, in many ways, will always be English. And I think that dichotomy's quite all right, it's as American as pizza and hamburgers. 

"Lo llevas en la sangre"

Yo bailo salsa. Me encanta. Tomó clases dos veces a la semana, salgo con los salseros a menudo, cuando coincidimos, y escucho salsa en casa porque me gusta. 

Anoche tomé una clase de salsa que era fuera de lo normal en una escuela de danza. Era un intercambio y como siempre, al hablar con una de los asistentes al evento, me comentan "a pues como eres latino tú lo llevas en la sangre, no?". Es decir, el hecho que sea latino automáticamente significa que puedo bailar salsa y otros bailes latinos. Incorrecto. 

Te cuento mi historia. A la edad de 13, por ahí, me di cuenta que las chicas les encanta chicos que pueden bailar. Yo no tenía ritmo, nada de nada, y era incapaz de seguir cualquier ritmo, aún con el merengue (que se supone que es el más fácil de los ritmos latinos). 

Mi mejor amigo, Jason, se empeñó para enseñarme cómo bailar porque Jason, aún a esa edad, ya era un crack con el tema. Empezó con tocar música y intentar encontrar el ritmo básico, algo que se me escapaba. Pasamos horas así, el tocando música y yo dando palmadas donde pensaba que caía el ritmo. 

Le pedí a una prima, Margarita, la esposa de mi primo Mario, que me enseñara como bailar también. Ella me enseñó merengue, bachata y un poco de salsa y mostró mucha paciencia, que en esa época pisaba, no bailaba. 

Pasaron años y tuve muchas y muchos profes; Blanca que me enseñó en los bailes del instituto, tambien hubo una chica brasileña de un campamento en Rochester. Conocí más a la vergüenza que la gloria y conté con la paciencia de mis parejas. 

Luego, a los veinte y pico, mi amigo Leo, uno de mis mejores amigos, empezó a tomar clases de salsa en línea. El me contaba, "vente a las clases, te gustarían, aprendes mucho y hay muchas pibas!". No le hice caso. Todos nuestros amigos en común fueron a las clases, todos se volvieron en cracks o al menos podían bailar bastante bien. Al ser cabezón, no les hice caso. Pasaron años. 

Un día, después de haber intentado de aprender de forma auto-didáctica por muchos años, decidí tomar clases. Al fin me entregué a la locura de los demás, es que lo de seguir a los demás lo llevo fatal. 

He tomado clases con Piel Canela, con Lorenz y sigo tomando clases aquí en Madrid, en la Tabacalera y en la Traba. Sigo mejorando, poquito a poco, gracias a los profes que ofrecen su conocimiento y las parejas que me toleran. Y sigo mejorando, pero sin tener esa base no podría entender el baile como lo entiendo ahora. 

Así que por ser latino o por escuchar la música en mi entorno no me han ayudado llegar a este punto. Y tampoco es porque lo "llevo en la sangre". 

My salsa teacher is English, and?

A couple weekends ago I went to a house party. At the house party I was chatting with some Latin Americans and mentioned that Ian, who was having a bit of difficulty with cumbia, I think, was my salsa teacher. Their reaction? An incredulous, "Hiiiiiimmmmm?!", which was followed by giggles. 

Why did it surprise them? Was it because he was having difficulties with another Latin dance? Perhaps because he doesn't "move his hips enough"? Or was it the obvious reason, because he's not Latin American? 

It's not the first time I've come across this, not the first time I've heard criticisms of him. Let me say this first, Ian volunteers his time, he's not paid to teach, doesn't make a dime off it and doesn't teach for a living. He's a computer programmer. He began teaching because in our collective, which is self-run by the collective through assemblies that we hold, the then teacher left and no one stepped up to teach. He did. A big fucking E for Effort. 

Secondly, who are we to judge? Who says that salsa needs to be taught by a Latin person? Sure, there are nuances, there are cultural elements that perhaps a Latin person may provide but the reality is we live in an increasingly globalized society. Borders are lines in the sand that can be traversed with the click of a mouse. And it's dance, that art form that regardless of where you come from, where you live, if you can dance you can dance. One of my closest friends back home, Leo, is one of the most phenomenal salsa dancers I've ever seen and he's Filipino. And learned by taking classes. 

I understand where the possessive nature of the argument comes from, however. As a New Yorker I sometimes think that "pure" Hip Hop should have a New York sound. I give preference to NYC MC's. Southern rappers, rappers from just about any other locality, need to be vetted first. Why? There's this idea that your origins will influence who you are and how you do things. There's also another axiom: it's not where you're from, it's where you're at. 

I get where the argument comes from, the sentiment, but the fact of the matter is this: if someone does something better than you and can teach you that shouldn't that be more valued than where they're from? 

Inspired by William Carlos Williams

Tortilla de Patatas

I made a tortilla de patatas and left it out on the counter to share with my roommates, they took a piece larger than I imagined

Would you rather...

Bulls, prior to their bloody, violent death, are treated like kings. Knowing that you'd meet such a torturous death, yet live an otherwise idyllic life, would you choose it?

I got on this topic during the beginning of one of my classes when we discuss just about anything. This time we got on the topic of Barcelona's historic come-from-behind win over PSG which prompted my other student, Lore, to remark that "those millions of euros wasted on football could be used otherwise". I said that Rome had gladiators to calm the mobs, nowadays it's football and bullfighting. Jesus asked me if I liked bullfighting (corridas in Spanish) to which I replied that I've been to one but that I didn't like it. He seemed unnerved and put off by my response, anxious to explain why it's a good thing. 

One of the points he made was that bulls are treated like royalty their entire lives before meeting their fate in the ring. He said, "I'll probably live 80 years fucked, at least they see some glory". It made me wonder, would I trade this life for that? If I could live the perfect life knowing what awaits me, would I? 

Of course the poor bulls have no clue where they'll end up, they have no choice in the matter, but it is an intriguing debate. 

The other point he made was that if it wasn't for bullfighting there wouldn't be another purpose for growing bulls, something I can neither corroborate nor deny. What I do know is this, I've been to a corrida because I wanted to see firsthand what it was about. I saw 6 bulls perish that night, watched spectators revel in the bloodshed and never once did I flinch. Do I see the point in it? No. 

Would I trade my life for that? Call me stubborn but I do see the value in all the suffering we endure and wouldn't want to see my life diluted by a lack of it, I always say life is just peaks and valleys. It is tempting, though...

How do you become a New Yorker?

You don't. You can feel like a New Yorker, you can live the majority of your life there, let's say, you're a 90 year old grandma and moved there for college, but you won't really be a true New Yorker.

Why? There are certain elements that make New York special, especially in your developmental years. I went to PS 182 for kindergarten through 2nd grade (where two of those years I was in an ESL program). For third grade I went to PS 82, both were in Jamaica, Queens. We moved the summer after third grade to Astoria, a more affluent neighborhood filled with Greeks and Italians, and so I went to PS 84 for fourth through sixth. "PS" stands for "public school" and is only used in NYC. Most other schools around the country name their schools after people, McKinley Elementary School, for example. Junior high I went to JHS 141 and then it was High School of Art & Design. 

What made the schools I went to so unique were the diversity I experienced at such a young age. During fourth grade my best friend was Peruvian and the rest of my friends/classmates were from the Philippines, Montenegro, Poland, Greece, Italy, Puerto Rico, Bangladesh, Ireland, South Korea and Brazil (those are just the ones I remember). Being around kids that were really different culturally from me helped me develop cultural sensitivity and tolerance. 

There are other things too. New York, most people forget and tend to idealize, is pretty dangerous, especially during the 80's. I wasn't allowed out, I couldn't play with the kids on the block, but that doesn't mean that the violence bubbling outside didn't directly affect me. It's the reason I spent so many hours watching tv and movies. The reason my brother had to be smuggled out of our building wrapped in a blanket and driven secretly to Maryland. I remember the graffiti that blanketed the subways, top-to-bottom cars and the interior of the subway cars covered in tags. 

The 90's were marred by the emergence of the Decepticons and later the Bloods and Crips, not to mention more homegrown gangs like DDP (Dominicans Don't Play), Nietas and Latin Kings. During my high school years I found myself visiting friends in every corner of NYC; Williamsburg, LES (the Lower East Side) and Bushwick weren't places you wanted to find yourself in late at night. 

The reason I mention those neighborhoods is because NYC has a lot of universities, hence a lot of transplants, and thus many folks that after a few years call themselves New Yorkers. And many of those folks are my friends, that's why it's a delicate subject in some ways. 

So I come back to my answer and why it's an emphatic no. I live in Madrid now, I've been here for the past three and half years. In my time here I've adapted to the way of life, I eat a typical Spanish breakfast, which is toast topped with salt, olive oil and grated tomato, and know how to order it like a local, "una barrita con tomate y un café con leche fría, porfa". I've adopted the local vernacular, have tapas all the time, know the time to have vermouth and can botellón like nobody's business. Thing is, even though I feel very madrileño, I'll never truly be one. Growing up somewhere molds you, shapes your values, develops certain instincts. Take my approach to strangers, I'd be friendly while remaining suspicious of you until it's clear you're not a threat. That's what New York does to you, it's a trait I'll have my entire life most likely. 

There are other elements too. Think of it in the opposite way, say you're from a small town, like Bar Harbor, Maine. If I move to Bar Harbor and within a few years of living there called myself a... Bar Harborian? would you take me seriously? The fact of the matter is that most folks want to be New Yorkers, or Parisiens or Madrileños, because it's glamorous and recognizable and prob because of Friends. It doesn't work in the opposite direction, however, I don't see a whole lot of folks clamoring to be considered from Fargo. 

And New York ain't that great. I should know, I've lived the first thirty years of my life there. It's infested with rats, roaches and pigeons. It's still fucking dangerous, if you find yourself outside the gentrified zones. The subway is badly run, Chinatown during the summer months smells like an open landfill and it's so goddamn expensive. I may be a cool New Yorker and but take into account that our new Prez is also a New Yawker.

So when people ask you where you're from be proud and say, "I'm from Fargo", because I'll catch you out, anyway.

Inspired by this article in the NY Times:

http://nyti.ms/2hVRB0Z

Kicked Out

So I got kicked out of my apt. 

Saturday evening, as I was preparing my grocery list and skyping with my gf, I get a What's App message from my roommate (anyone who has lived in Spain knows that What's App is king here, you can even use it as a verb). He said in the message that he wanted to have a word, it was important and he wanted to do it over a drink. Bet. 

I didn't have a clue what it was about but I knew it was regarding the flat. I arrived at the Cafe del Teatro, a couple blocks from home, and found him working on his laptop. The cafe was chic yet homely, hipster except for the fact that there weren't hipsters there but local folks. 

We jumped right into it, I didn't have time to dilly dally. 

"Larry, I'm asking you to leave the apt. The reason is because I'm sick of living in the tiniest room in the flat and want one of the larger bedrooms. I know how this goes, I've been kicked out of a place in the past and was given little time so, because of it, I'm giving you a month to find another place." We'll call him Asier, out of respect for his privacy, and he said all this matter-of-factly and once he said it I knew that this was a final decision, not something to be discussed or debated. 

"Tell me the truth, Asier, what's the real reason for kicking me out, be straight with me. If it's a bigger room why are you kicking me out and not one of the other roommates?"

"The main reason is because I want a bigger room... though I won't deny that our prior conflict didn't influence my opinion. We've had our run-ins but that's not the main reason."

"Look, Asier, I'm not gonna mince words, you're fucking me over. You and I had a verbal contract, back in August, that I would stay until the end of June. I wasn't planning on deviating from that and now I have to look for a new place, to me this is coming out of left field. I knew we had our differences but I also thought we'd moved past it."

"Well, the other day I was in my room and you were in the kitchen with a friend when she began to say, 'Is this the same flat where you were arguing with your friend...' and then you cut her off. Well, I heard the whole thing and it really bothered me and I was about to come out of my room and say something but thought better of it."

"You're right about that, that's how it went and I admit that that was silly of her to do but what I told her wasn't shit-talking because I have no problem telling that to your face. Furthermore, Asier, I understand that this is a decision you've taken and I have to simply live with it and move on but I want to be very clear with you: you're fucking me over."

During this convo I was texting on What's App with a friend and simply told her to come meet me there, that way we could both go to the supermarket together (obviously prior to getting hit with this news). When she arrived (and had no clue what our convo was about) she reminded him of the dinner and this guy had the gall to show up. Picture it, you kick someone out and then go to the dinner that they've prepared. I don't blame my friend for her ignorance, she had no clue, but he lacks decency, in my opinion. 

We had a great time at the dinner, I made pollo guisado and platano maduro (comfort food for me, my friend wanted Cuban food and I said, "I can make that at home and it'll be cheaper that way"). I decided that since it was the plan we'd made I wasn't going to let the bad news spoil what could be a great night and so it was. 

He'd given me a month to look for a new flat, and that was the 22nd of January when he told me, but I knew that I wasn't going to use up that month, the goal was to get the hell out as soon as possible. I began looking that Sunday, posting a status on FB letting my friends know that I'm looking for a room and reaching out to them individually but it took its toll. It all came as a shock, especially after I spoke to my other roommates about the matter, they had no clue that he was so unhappy in the situation. They also were upset because in our previous (and sole) roommate meeting he made it clear that even though he was the leaseholder he didn't want to consider himself above us. Making such a unilateral move made it all too clear that they weren't peers anymore and changed the dynamic. 

You're free to make what you want of the situation. Personally, I take this as an affront on two levels. Firstly, on a professional level: we had a verbal agreement that I would stay until the end of June. He broke this agreement and that's unlawful, plain and simple, I can give a shit about his flimsy reasons. Secondly, on a friendship level: you don't do that to your friends. You don't. At least, by making this decision, you make it clear that you're no longer friends. I knew this was the case and I wanted to give him a piece of my mind but I also knew that, just in case he chooses to be vindictive, I need to hold my tongue until I get my security deposit back. 

I searched and searched but to no avail. I sent many messages, I called some of them and went to see some but nothing clicked. Monday the 30th I woke up with a knot in my stomach, I had 48 hours to find a place and none of my friends were able to let me stay with them, well, one did offer his couch and for that I'm grateful. That Monday morning I debated looking for an Airbnb or placing all my efforts on finding a place. The first place that I saw I called and within a half hour I was in her flat checking out the place. It wouldn't normally be my first choice, if I'm going to be honest, but with time running out I had no choice. I decided to lock it up, be done with it and in one fell stroke had gotten a room. 

Once I'd locked up the room, handed in my deposit and gotten the keys I knew it was just a matter of packing and organizing the move. That and getting my deposit back as well as being brutally honest with him regarding what transpired. 

I had been rehearsing for days what I was going to tell him, each time I told a friend my story I would end with what I was dying to tell him and that moment came Thursday afternoon. 

That afternoon he began by asking me if I'd cleaned the bathroom per house rules of cleaning, to which I replied "no". He proceeded to lecture me on why that was one of the reasons why he was kicking me out, that that affects living together and I bit my tongue (because I can give a shit about cleaning this week, I had this tiny thing called moving out of the place I called home for the past 7 months coming up). 

Once that money was in my pocket I let him have it. 

"Listen, Asier, I need to get this off my chest before I leave and I want you to know before I begin that this isn't going to be a conversation or debate, this is a speech and I just want you to listen." 

I reiterated the two points I made above and told him very clearly that "we're not parting ways as friends and that what he did was wrong". Within a couple of minutes I'd made my points and was ready to leave but he also wanted to get something off his chest and, out of courtesy, I listened patiently. He spoke for damn near 10 min, and even threw me a curveball, mentioning that he was going through something and that he thought I'd been passive-agressive (which makes me laugh, I think I'm the last person you could accuse of that, it smelled of the pot calling the kettle black if you ask me) but aside from that it was regurgitated points. After ten min listening to him I cut him off since I still hadn't eaten breakfast and had to head to work. 

As I was eating my croissant and sipping my coffee I was mulling over what happened when I received a What's App message from him. In it he said that perhaps my sense of smell is off and that my room smelled and made a couple other points. Whether that was truly the case or not I thought it a low blow and cowardly, he didn't have the nerve to say it to my face when he had the chance. I was two seconds away from responding but I thought it imprudent, I won't get pulled into a tit for tat. Good riddance. 

As I reflect on my experience there are a few lessons. Living with friends is a dangerous circumstance, it can turn out well or it can end disastrously. I would think long and hard before making such a decision. I do need to be more considerate with my roommates, though it's worth noting that my other two roommates were sad at my leaving and angry with him. I've said it before and I'll say it again, I'm aware of my shortcomings and am always ready to listen to any criticism, no matter how harsh, but I do think where I'm lacking I make up for it in other ways. I should've signed a contract, something, a verbal contract ain't worth shit and now I'm left to pay the price for it. 

Ultimately, I think in the future I'll either live on my own or with my girl, this roommate shit is for the birds. 

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.

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!