The Curse of Circumstance in the Kitchen

At every turn, I am thwarted in my efforts to defeat Rachael Ray as Be'elzeboss and become the King of Cooking.

First the lack of sizable containers prevents quality sweet tea.

Next, not so much the lack of Rice Krispies (Smacks work OK) but instead the lack of pure marshmallows and forced substitution of a blasphemous half-mallow half-strawberry mix prevents Rice Krispy Treats.

And tonight, I was almost done with my most daunting undertaking yet: Creamy Garlic Mashed Potatoes. But they have to be mixed on "low." And the mixer we had only worked on "Jet Engine." So instead of fluffy and light mashed potatoes, I ate thick soup. My roommates like it as a bread spread.

Barstools & Dreamers

On Friday night, after watching Volver and eating pasta by my lonesome in my habitación, it got to be about 12:30, and some Erasmusvolk were having a good time at the Bar Negrito (after watching Crash dubbed in Spanish, "negrito" is their word for what Bull Connor would have called Martin Luther King Jr.). So I decided to amble on over through the Ciutat Vella (old city) and join them.

Some of the people who were bound to be at Fox Congo - not a place for me - were here at the Negrito, but left shortly thereafter. The remainders - Sarah from Madison, Stefan from East Germany, Vidar whom I went to see The Long Winters with, Ian from the Netherlands, and Vincenzo from Italy - remained and we talked about music, how Europeans don't put a focus on lyrics but instead on beautiful women dancing to techno in the street (words attributed to a fellow nomad), the same old stuff, and what it meant for Italy that Prodi had asked to resign. Eventually there was only Ian and myself left.

Ian remarked that he was tired of the same old Erasmus gatherings, which were not exactly immersing us or expanding our boundaries. I agreed. We both live with Spanish people, and we agreed then that if either of us had access to a particularly cultural undertaking, that we would invite the other. It was toasted to and agreed.

Yesterday at four (an hour after I had awoken, I have GOT to wake up earlier) Ian called me. House fiestta in La Canyada, a pueblo outside of Valencia, to last all day. No question about it - soon we were on the tram line going all the way out to B-zone (that ain't Valencia). When we arrived in La Canyada, it was about six-thirty. He called his compañera and she and her friend drove to pick us up at the tranvía. This is when we noticed something interesting. Both of them were dressed in unusual costumes and had on face paint. When we asked about this in the car on the way to the house, we learned that it was because the party had a theme, "fantasia." So upon arrival we had to paint our faces and put on strange clothing, because these people went all out. And I believe that if you're gonna do something, you better do it right.


The Spaniards had not only decked out in their costumes (or disfraz), they had also constructed considerable decorations for the room with numerous butterflies and a large holey board covered in colored translucent paper to make tinted light.










At first it was unusual, but as these things usually do at fiestas, they got more interesting. Before long we were playing a game called "Gestas" (which is just like "bitches, bitches" except with hand motions instead of vocalizations), and later on some of them began dancing flamenco. Also the Spanish are "cool," as in "Hey, man, are you cool?" When dinnertime came, we raided the fridge tapas-style until there was nothing left and our hunger was mostly sated by circular hot ham-n-cheese sandwiches, ham-n-cheese pizzas, potato chips, and olive loaf.

When it was time to go, our driver (Ian's roomate) spent thirty minutes driving lost through the neighborhoods until we finally found our way back onto the highway and back into Valencia. That was an interesting night. Even though I did not go to Paris or Madrid this weekend, I had an auk-cellent time with the Spaniards.

I did not figure out until this morning that we were all dressed up because everyone was celebrating Carnaval.

For My Brother

I was pretty useless this weekend except I went to see Valencia CF v. Barça Sunday evening across from my piso. The first half was uneventful but the second half saw Valencia score twice between the 50 and 55 minute mark, then there were some yellow and red cards because of two near-brawls, and then Barça scored late in the second half. So Valencia won which is awesome. Rooting for Barça when you live in Valencia is like rooting for the Yankees. Period.

All this sleeping and the Spanish lazy lifestyle caught up with me. I slept until about two or three every day for a week, because I just don't have class after Wednesday, and not on Monday until five. Then on Tuesday, when I have to be at class at nine - which means I have to be in the shower no later than eight - I slept about two hours because of "too much" sleep. I guess my body needs it because definitely since the middle of December and probably long, long before that I have been way overworked, between preparing for WSC as an OC member and preparing for Mexico SDL as a faci, and actually being there and getting about three hours of sleep in a week, then having to wake up for class in Gandia for two weeks. Now I suppose is the time to get in gear and go all out for whatever I should go all out for.

A female friend from Barcelona told me a bad tale. She is on an Erasmus exchange in Maastricht, the Netherlands (birthplace of the EU) and there they have the best Carneval celebrations in the Netherlands. She was out with her friend from the US (another female), and according to the Barcelonan, the US girl was dressed "like a hippie" so like everyone else, indistinguishable. Some revelers asked her, "Where are you from?" and she replied "The US." Then they said "AMERICAN WHORE," and such, and began to push and shove her, and eventually kick her. The Barcelonan tried to intervene and became caught up in the same mess. Someone who took pictures of the attackers had their camera smashed on the ground by them. Then when they went, bruised and crying, to the nearest Dutch police car, they rolled their windows up and drove off. The next morning at the police station, the police said did not care again. Why does this happen? Sure we're "the US" and all of that, but why would these people just attack her like that (especially Western Europeans?) and then the police not care at all? That's a question that's been with me since I heard it.

Anyway, I woke up too early on Tuesday having gotten so little sleep, and then there was no first class. How does this happen. It happened again this morning - my first class again. That doesn't make me happy.

Tonight I saw The Long Winters with Vidar. Thanks to my musical and Alabamian comrade Matt Wurtele for heartily endorsing them one hour before the show because they were very good, and in an intimate setting. I wonder how many of the Spaniards there could understand the lyrics, because Spaniards as a rule probably don't know much if any English.

I will post pictures from these events next time. I meant to write more but I'm tired. Looks like no Paris / Decemberists for me, maybe Madrid this weekend.

Levanta

Last night I went with my roomate Joséluis and some of his Spanish friends to a ticket-entry open bar. I had eaten one doner kebap three hours prior to leaving. I also, at the behest of my roomate and his friends, promised to do it like the Spaniards: drink only whiskey- or rum- or vodka drinks.

I don't usually play by those rules. Last night was quite fun at first, but after all that heavy alcohol in my not-so-full stomach, I felt kind of like old syrup by the end of the night - which was like six o'clock. I woke up today at three, still feeling bad from the lactic acid buildup.

Today was relaxed. Everything here is just relaxation. I asked Joséluis what he was going to do about going to work today and he replied, "Por? No pasa nada!" (Why? There's nothing wrong!) He skipped work today - and that's okay. This is the greatest culture in the world.

I also recall the two things that I ate at dinner that time. The tiny mussels are called tellinas, and the yellow liquor is called orujo.

The person who was going to go to see The Decemberists with me in Paris backed out. If I get a suite deal on some plane tickets the night before or something, I'll pack up and go; but Paris aint' a great town, and the weather isn't so hot right now either, especially in Northern Europe. But I am absolutely certain I will be taking some kind of trip next weekend. Perhaps Barcelona or Madrid if not Paris. The next weekend I am going with my roomates to Grenada. And the Fallas loom ever closer.

We're watching Clerks II right now in Spanish. Isn't so easy to understand.

My birthday is Tuesday.

Are you feeling better now?

Yes.

Because, my last-ditch email for course approval yielded all transfers - so now, I have a better situation than I could have imagined.

The intensive language course went through for three hours, which is awesome for two reasons: I only have to take nine equivalent hours at UPV, and that completes a scheme where I now get six free elective hours because I get SPAN1001 and 1002 filled in on virtue of higher-level completion and the classes I took in hike school.

Two of the classes I am taking went through for ECE (my major school) credit, one as three hours of 3xxx credit and the other as a direct transfer class, ECE 4330, Power Electronics. Finally there is Spanish Regional Economy, which I did not go to this morning because I chose to sleep through it, and which will be worth 3 ECON hours. That's 13 hours when I needed twelve.

Oh, and I only have class between 1700 Monday and 1700 Wednesday. So's theres gonna be lots of Eurotrips and Hispanotrips.

I am, needless to say, extremely happy about this arrangement. I still don't believe that everything turns out for the best, but I am quite amazed at how well this has turned out.

Now I just need to plan my trips. My companion for the Paris trip to see the Decemberists backed out... I could do it, but I kinda don't want to go alone, and Paris isn't a great town. Whatev. I shelled out what it takes to go see Valencia play Barca this Sunday. Yes, the game is across the street from me.

There is something else that has been on my mind which must be stated.

I don't really think of anywhere as "home" - I realized this when I was in Tuscaloosa one weekend in 2004, and we were out and it was late, and I said, "let's go home" - meaning to my friends' dorm room. I realized, however, that I meant home. It just meant base.

So, I really don't get homesick or want to be back somewhere, like the South or the US or anything. But there are two things - just two - that I want here, and both of them have to do with food. The first is an establishment open late-night where you can grab some grub on the cheap. Waffle House is the most obvious answer, but I'm looking for anything - a doner, tapas, you name it.

The other thing is Jefferson's Bar and Grill. The original Jacksonville, Alabama location served as the spiritual equivalent of Tolkein and Lewis' Eagle and Child Pub to the high potential and extremely bored young population of Gadsden, Alabama. Though every one built since the Jacksonville original, including the one in Gadsden, has not so much character (my friend David refers to them as "shitty nice Jefferson's"), the most important factor remains: they have the best buffalo wings I can possibly imagine. It doesn't matter when or where I am, I dream of Jefferson's wings.

If you are reading this from Kansas or St. Louis, you will go to one of the nearby Jefferson's restaurants.

Just When I Thought I Was Out...

THEY PULL ME BACK IN.

Our true enemy, has not yet, shown his face.



FREDO! FREDO!



This is a parallel to how I felt Friday night when Georgia Tech kindly announced to me via email that all but two of the classes I am taking are worth credit. So I was mad.

And it was an even lower low, because I woke up on Friday, finally, to an email from the person responsible for AIESEC Valencia. He expressed that the stall in development is due to "legal issues," but that these should be resolved soon, and that we should meet up later this month. Sweet. Also emails furthering the development between me and the professor for the one-on-one electronics class.

Which was one of the classes stated as simply "no credit." I felt so angry and stressed that I ate at Burger King.

That night was a house party at Raisa's. I spoke Spanish with a girl from Castelló, and I was confident in my speaking ability. I elected not to pay the ten euros to go to the discoteca.

Saturday was a good day. Jessica, one of the other students from GT, and I went to the Fallas Museum, which was nice. Then my roomate Raul took us to a restaurant in the Barrio del Carmen, the oldest part of the city center of Valencia. That was pretty cool, because Raul, being from the Valencian region himself (he hails from Alicante), knew where to go, what to order, and all that kind of stuff. Not having eaten out much in Spain (largely because it is so expensive), I learned a few things. For example, in the Valencian region, it is customary to order some small steamed mussels as your first tapas. I can't remember what they're called unfortunately. We split a bottle of Rioja wine, Spain's most respected wine, between the three of us. We had about five tapas plates, all of which were delicious, and then afterwards we had some allsome desserts (it seems that getting dessert here is very common). Another thing I'd never have known about was that after the cena (dinner), as the very last thing you do (before talking for thirty more minutes before leaving) is to order this particular liquor, in shot form, to finish off the dinner and (I suppose) prepare yourself for the downward slide into the next six hours of revelry. That stuff was so strong, I'm surprised my stomach lining is intact. I also cannot recall the name of that drink (I learned a lot of words last night, only a few of them stuck). The whole thing lasted about three hours, and it cost sixty-five euros in total. That's why you don't eat out much in Spain. Which is also why I'm learning to cook.

After that, Raul showed us a pub in Barrio del Carmen called Radio City. We entered. That's the first place since Bar Varadero I've enjoyed myself. Instead of high cover prices and indecent techno, it was no cover charge and some pretty groovy DJ mixing, most of the stuff didn't have words or anything, and when there was a recognizable song, it was either sampled Aretha Franklin (RESP....RESP....RES..RES...) or Bob Marley. There will be returnage to this place.

Today I just walked around the Turia and began taking care of my final possible credit push. If this one fails, then uncharted territory has been entered: that of loss of insurance money and scholarship money. Which is obviously all my fault.

That's why I'm up so late, in fact, because I had to find all the course information (one class I could find nothing for) and for two of the syllabi I had to translate them myself, and I was already tired.

There was a lot more I was going to talk about in this entry, I think, but damned if I can remember any of it now. But here are the pictures of my apartment you were promised.

The view from my door into my room. Pardon the mess.

View of the desk.

View up from the window. I'm on the eighth piso (floor).

View down from the window.

This is essentially the "entrance salon" or hallway.

This is the back part of the combined dining - living room, which is where we eat.

This is the front part, the living room.

This is the view looking straight out from the balcony. That is the shield of F.C. Valencia, on the Mestalla, which is the name of the stadium.

This is the view turned north on the balcony, up Avenida de Suecia.

This is the night we watched the match between Spain and England. From the left: flatmate Raul, Jose (Pepe's amigo), and flatmate Pepe. The food was good.

And honestly, that's all I have the strength for right now.

Text-Only Application

I would gladly show you pictures of my new habitación, but Blogger is bloggering. So I can't.

What I can do is relay that while credit approval is still extremely frustrating, it is slowly advancing. Most interesting is that I signed up for two classes that I later discovered conflict with each other, time-wise. I decided to go to one which starts earlier and leave to go to the other one, to see which I should choose. Both were in English. When the professor came to start Electronic Technology (op-amps, diodes... the stuff I've been doing at ROHM) I was the only person there. While we were talking about what to do if I were the only student, then another professor came into the room to begin class. She was there to teach statistical methods in engineering - the other class I had signed up for, but had yet to start for two hours - but she was here to teach a Spanish block of it. Apparently they had accidentally double-booked the room. The professor for electronic technology told me to meet him after this class was done. So after listening to the Spanish and doing the statistics (it won't be an easy class... subject matter is simple, but getting the instructions in the language at this point is not) I went with the other professor to his office. He explained that he had talked with his colleagues and they had produced a solution: I could come into his office for less time than normal on Tuesday mornings and learn the material one-on-one. In exchange, I would review their English language presentations and correct them. Considering since if GT gave me credit it would be a 4-hour class, I think it's a good deal.

Last night we watched England vs. Spain (Spain won 1-0) while eating a good dinner - my flatmate Pepe had an amigo over, Jose, and along with me and Raul, another flatmate, we had between us some good sausage, varied cheeses, Pepe fixed up some good sauteed mushrooms, and some picante olive spear type things. It was good.

I am also quite interested in how the Spanish are so much healthier than we are, yet the stuff they eat is just as unhealty. A lot of potato chips, a lot of french fries, a relative of mayonnaise with much of the tapas, chorizo is quite greasy and fatty, and of course olive oil with everything. Perhaps it's just that they don't super-size it all.

I'm mulling over taking a trip to see the Decemberists close out their European tour in Paris.

He asegurado un piso!

Finalmente! I have found and secured an allsome apartment. More amazing than finding that such a place actually exists is that out of 20 people I was chosen as the rightful inhabitant. Here's a google-mappage of where it is. Yes, it's across the street from the football stadium. And it's also right where all the fan-bars are, three minutes from the metro, and ten minutes walk to the university, and five to ten to the "river park" and beyond to the old city. Which is nice.

Ah, the things which have and have not occurred since my last blizz-ogging. Notable in my own personal vision and development in the medium-term I shall relay in this anecdotal story.

Friday evening was the Erasmus dinner, which was to celebrate the end of the two-week intensive language course (which I passed, gracias por Dios!) at the slightly early time of 9:30. In an interestingly AIESEC-like fashion, everyone was to bring a dish from their own country and complete a banquet of international tastiness (complete with two provided barrels of sangria and "agua de valencia.") Now I cannot cook, and there is not even an oven in the apartment in Gandia, but I had a great and simple idea to bring these Europeans the taste of the South: I would fix up some sweet tea.
So I checked a recipe online and I got the necessary ingredients from the store (sugar and tea). And I followed the instructions as they were written (or so I thought - realize that there are no measuring instruments in these apartments): I put about three or four cups of water on to boil and I put a cup and a half of sugar in as well. Threw in ten teabags, left it to boil for an hour (like I thought the directions said) and went to someone else's apartment.
How the apartment smelled and was hazy when I returned an hour later. Smelling of burnt glucose. When I opened the pot of boiling sugar water/tea, it was no longer boiling. I was reminded of the scene in Terminator 2: Judgment Day in which Sarah Connor visualizes the nuclear attack on Los Angeles, and sees the parents and children at the playground turn into black casts of themselves from the heat before the blast blows them away like so much ash. Well, that's what the pot looked like. Everything was blacker than Mordor, and burnt sugar was all that was left. It even overtook the teabags, which crumpled to the touch. That pot is still not wholly clean after three washings with boiling water.
I was extremely frustrated and disappointed after that, but I just realized that I had to take the pot off the heat when I threw the teabags in and let it steep for an hour. I still had an hour and a half and ten more teabags, so this was easy. I just did it again with the crucial step of removing from heat. After an hour, I poured the syrup into a container and poured in a right amount of water (just like the recipe said!) and got barely, barely sweet tea. Not even worth bringing to represent Arkansas, much less Alabama. So I didn't bring it.
And on the walk to the university, I came to the conclusion that one of my great challenges will be to become a "master" chef by the time I return to the land of the free. I'll have to start out slow - my first victory will be successfully completing a pot of sweet tea - but by the end I'll be able to cook for eight guests so well that they will all have to remark about it in between mouthfuls. Of food.

The other thing I will challenge myself with is starting AIESEC in Valencia. This way I can meet Spanish people, stay involved in AIESEC, and keep challenging myself, as well as bring AIESEC to this amazing corner of the world.

The other day in the metro I saw someone reading a book with the title La conjura de los necios and then I saw this picture on the cover:


The glory of A Confederacy of Dunces has been brought to Spain! I doubt that all the linguistic jokes can translate well, however.

I've been meaning to type this for some time, but I always lose time, but now I have time. A week before this past Friday in the language class, our professor was asking for adjectives that were negative about things or people. I proffered "fascista," the professor said, "SI! SI!" and threw it up on the blackboard. A few minutes later, one of the Finnish dudes said, "comunista," and she looked confused and said, "por que es mal?" I experienced a few thoughts and emotions at this time. Of course I was glad at her appreciation of the real meaning and good things of socialism, and more so that she would be able to counter that it was not a bad thing at all. Almost immediately afterward, I thought about how that could never, ever be uttered in the United States - yet our societies are both Western European derived societies. Why is it universally hated in the United States while it is taken seriously and debated seriously in Spain?

The answers lie in several places, most of which do not include the Cold War (which is the most recent reason for U.S. outright dismissal of that kind of society). One of the most interesting and influential clashes of ideology ever was the Spanish Civil War, in which the left fought the right. The right won. But during the war (especially in Catalunya) the left proved that its system worked for real. Which is glorious. The point here is that after the dictatorship of Franco, the people of Spain recognize a socialist society as both the democratic alternative to Franco and as the thing to achieve after what they have experienced under dictatorship.

Anyway, tomorrow is the day of matriculation and settlement. Cheers to all from Valencia.

There is still no apartment. I'm not too stressed, but others are managing to get them... I'm wondering where they see things I don't? So many of the ads are either for apartments too far away, non-students, or girls only. I even called one number that had no specification and was turned down because "solo chicas."

I went to Valencia again on Tuesday, and saw three apartments. I really, really liked the first (and I have a fair amount of hope I can get it!). The second was quite boring, the people were boring, and he was happy to show me the "cleaning schedule" they all have. The last was pretty good, but they prefer girls.

Of course I'll look back on all of this and laugh in the future. Of course, you can look back on anything and laugh. I don't believe everything turns out for the best, I don't believe that if you don't get something it was meant to be, and I sure as hell don't believe that when "God closes a door, he opens a window" - because God's not the one closing the door, and the window's there whether God is or not.

Today was the exam for our Spanish test, so tomorrow is the last day of class. I hope beyond hope that GT will let me put it as SPAN2002 credit, or any serious Spanish class credit at all. If not, I'll rip something open because I'm having quite a hard time getting GT to realize they're partnered with this school at all.

However, now that Gandia is about to be behind me (until I come down for warmer weather) here are pictures of Gandia.

Taken from the jetty of the Grau, only two blocks from our apartment in Grau de Gandia.

Me on our balcony, on the ninth and top floor.

Time to go fix my quick ravioli. Tonight is the "American party," which we hope will be the real big thing after last night's so-called "Orgasmus" party was billed as "The biggest Erasmus party ever!" and did not warrant even a passing reference to its neologistic merging.