Adventures of Avenida Reina Mercedes 19b

Frequent happenings, by definition, are ordinary experiences in our lives.

In certian cases these experiences might actually be odd or downright outlandish, but we never realize it because of the regularity its occurence. It is in these instances that it is more than worthwhile to step outside of the normalcy of our lives in order to appreciate the depth of peculiarity.

I invite you into one of mine that takes place in my very building of Avenida Reina Mercedes 19b.

There is a woman (God help her) who lives in my building who is unfortunately very ill. I think she might be schizophrenic, which is hard. I want to specify here that her sickness is NOT funny at all, I wish I knew how to help her... but rather that some amusing situations result from these adverse circumstances.

I have now been living in Spain for two and a half years. Before I ever knew this woman lived in my building, I actually coincided with her on the #6 bus my FIRST week of life here. Vaya casualidad. And it was a pretty memorable experience.

At the ungodly hour of 6:45 in the morning, she climbed onto the bus SCREAMING (remember the ungodly hour) and demanding she be taken to the police station, never mind that she had no money to pay for a ticket, because her purse had been stolen. She held up our bus until the following bus caught up to the first. The rest of us passengers unloaded and boarded the second bus hoping to move on with our Tuesday morning, only to realize that she had in fact followed us to bus number two as we watch the first bus peel away in triumph. There are more details, but suffice it to say the episode lasted 45 painful early morning minutes, including dramatically advising potential passengers not to board and "save yourself while you still can" as if we were incarcerated, making compatriots out of strangers as only mutal suffering can. I spent the rest of that year exchanging knowing nods each time I boarded the bus and one of those particular other passengers was present. But I digress...

To explain a little bit more about my beloved building of 19b on Avenida Reina Mercedes, as is typical in Spanish apartment buildings, most of the flats have windows which give to an unexciting, inward patio housing some sort of generator and providing a space for the multitude of necessary clothes lines and such. Now, upon first moving here, I had the bedroom closest to the stairwell with one of these windows to the patio. Then, it only took about a month or so for it to begin.

The screaming.

Sometimes late at night.
Sometimes early, early in the morning.

It was from the stairwell... or from the patio... I don't know. But I recognized the voice. Oh how could I ever forget that voice from the shrieking session on the #6 bus that fateful Tuesday morning.

And it's the what that she screams (present tense, it still happens) that is so bizarre, too. Sometimes you can't make it out, but at othert times it is clear. "¡¡Asesinos!! Murderers!! They're trying to kill me!!"

I would wake up and hear it. After a while, I came to expect it. I learned to just try to go back to sleep. Herego the frequent happening that became ordinary.

A few months ago, I moved to another bedroom in our apartment, and my new roommate Maca moved in. She is hilarious and embodies all of the Andalusian art of humor in the world. She'll start telling a story and have me rolling, with tears flowing in about two minutes (which might not be saying much because I realize I laugh easily, but seriously, the woman is stinkin' hilarious.)

The first night she heard it, she came to me all worried.
Maca: "Julie... ummmm... there was a woman screaming last night that someone was murdering her."
Me: "Oh yeah... she does that. Don't worry, the poor thing is just ill. She can't help it. You don't need to be scared."
Maca: "Hmm... you think you could have mentioned that."

But now, it's this totally normal thing. And bizarre bit is that the WHOLE building that has windows that give to the patio have this unspoken, mutual knowledge and tolerance of this woman's eccentric habit of screaming at blasphemous hours. And furthermore, she doesn't just scream while sitting inside her house, she purposely goes to the window and leans out to scream so everyone will hear her.

One night she started screaming her usual "¡¡Asesinos!! Murderers!!" at 4am, and some brave (dumb) neighbor decided to politley ask her to stop, "Señora, silencio por favor, Madame, silence please." Well, she kept hollering, but changed her rant to "¡¡No me pienso callar!! I will not even think about quieting down!!" for the next hour and a half in protest to his grievance.

So now, as Maca says, this woman starts a session of bellowing untrue, absurd accusations and the whole building just lies in bed in silent endurance... everyone knowing that everyone else is awake as sleeping through such boorish declartions is impossible... clinging to the hope that she will quiet down... and praying that no one says ANYTHING... because they all know that if someone dares... they can expect another hour of the theatrical broadcasting of her objections to the complaint.

So there you have it, one of the best kept secrets of Avenida Reina Mercedes 19b.
It's as normal as bread and butter.
You are all invited to experience and partake.

Snap, back to reality

Well, kids.

After a beautiful month of vacation in the Western Hemisphere including the following:
a divine week under the golden sun on the beaches of Turks and Caicos (absolutely nauseating, I assure you) with my hilarious family (yes, matching baby blue polos with the emblem "Burandt 2008 Holiday" on the right breast pocket were definitely donned for Christmas Eve dinner)...

a refreshing visit to Washington DC over New Year's/my 25th birthday...

a quick, thoroughly entertaining jaunt down to Nashville...

and a nostalgic and replenishing weekend down to Winston-Salem, NC home of the alma mater Wake Forest and a stop-over in Charlotte...

each sojourn complete with precious hours of quality time spent with friends so inexpressibly dear to my heart...

I found myself one week ago today back in Sevilla, Spain where I had a quick, bitter dose of reality.

As we all know, one coolest things about "real life" is paying bills. (For those of you who may have happened upon this musing and therefore might not know me extremely well, read sarcasm.) Let me also assure you, that paying bills in another language and a foreign country where they do things just different enough from the US so as to confuse you does not make it any cooler, but rather, more frustrating (imagine that). In fact... I went all fall waiting and waiting for power bills to reach my mailbox so I could pay them, but they never came.

So when I arrived in my piso (apartment) last Sunday afternoon to find two backed up electricity bills comfortably coated by a substantial mantle of dust and total dishevelment of personal effects, I greeted reality, acknowledged "I don't think we're at Club Med anymore, Toto," and wondered what in the world my roommates could have possibly doing while I was gone that they couldn't some how prevent or at least soften the current hazardous state of our piso. But, I digress. I put myself to work, paid some bills and cleaned.

The following day, Monday, consisted of a day's work followed by an enjoyable lunch and afternoon with my ex-roommate Sylvia. Then, my current roommate Lidia called me with the bomb. She returned to our house that day to find it without power. Curious. Did I know why? No, in fact, I just paid two bills the day before. I tried to problem solve for her from Sylvia's house to no avail, and ended up coming home to a FREEZING piso and putting myself to bed by candlelight, resolving to talk to the doorman in the morning to see if he had any help to offer our predicament.

Tuesday, I woke up as an ice cube and went to pay another community/water bill (yoohoo) to turn in to the doorman as I asked him about our electricity. (See how I know how to work the system?) So I gave Paco the receipt to the communidad and asked if he knew anything about our electricity. That's when he laid it on me. "Yeah, they cut off y'all's power yesterday."

WHAT?

Excuse me? Did I hear you right? They CUT OFF my power? Couldn't be. I hadn't gotten a notice. I paid two bills yesterday online. He suggested I go call and check it all out. She-yeah.

I pick up the phone. Time out... it's wireless therefore doesn't work without electricity... guess I'll call from my cell. Might as well bust out the computer to try to pull up my online proof of payment for our conversation. Time out... there's no internet when the WiFi in the house needs electricity to run.

This is when it hits me. I didn't realize this actually happened to people, like not in the movies.
I thought you had to be like a red-neck, white cracker to not pay your bills and therefore have your power cut off.
Awesome. I AM that red-neck, white cracker.

Well... an hour later which consisted of talking to two different phone operators, getting hung up on, reciting myriads of payment information, and suffering through an extremely painful version of someone singing "the sun will come out tomorrow" while on hold... as if the power company somehow knew that the clients utilizing their help line would be desperate and in need of a little reassurance albeit in the form of cheesy music, not to mention sung in a language that the wide majority of Spaniards don't understand.... we finally came to the conclusion that there was yet a THIRD bill that has still not arrived in my mailbox, that I paid over the phone then and there with a debit card. Sweet Moses. She said she'd send for the notice to get my power back on ASAP and reinstate me as a respectable citizen of the earth who pays their bills.

The fact that I am able to write this and put it online is proof that I have internet and am paying my bills. My only worry now is that Paco may never look at me the same.

party time, excellent.

I woke up this morning and my hair resembled that of Garth Algar, co-host of Wayne's World.

The similarities were a little too close for comfort.

Thank God for flat irons.

I no longer look like him now.

if you were a fly on my wall...

It's currently 1:21am.

If you were a fly on the wall of my room right now...

1) You'd be freezing. According to the internet... it is currently 8 degrees Celsius (around 20 degrees Fahrenheit) which means it's probably 6 degrees Celsius inside my bedroom because, in fact, my piso works much like a refrigerator... rejecting any and all heat attempted to be generated by my mini-radiator and minute space heater.

2) You'd be listening to an endless string of Sevillanas (the branch of flamenco, in both dance and song, specific to Sevilla), and you wouldn't be able to stop it nor figure out where it's coming from. It's not coming from outside as I've checked my window multiple times, so I've concluded it must be coming from the apartment above me. I know it's not coming from the apartment beside me because an old couple lives there... I can hear them mumbling/shouting their conversations at night.

Bed time.

spicy sports

Keeping in step with the "sporty" theme of life... the other day a few of my students, Mercedes, and I participated in Sevilla's Carrera de la Mujer (Women's Race) to support breast cancer research. Translation, a 5k (about 3 mile) race that both started and ended in the Plaza de España. The experience was rich, to say the least.

Highlights:

The fact that any woman who actually desired to run this "race" had to navigate through a sea older Spanish señoras who placed themselves the front of the starting line wearing long skirts and tennis shoes, carrying purses, and sporting their women's race t-shirts with their official numbers pinned to them.

It is also worth noting that these same señoras did not actually complete the 5k as I saw them mosey-ing through the park on the other side of the race barriers as I was completing my second loop of the park. Cunning foxes they are. Foiled again.

At the end of the "race" was what I consider a fairly good representation of the female stereotype in a society attempting to break-free from its machista roots. That's right... a massive AEROBICS class held in the middle of this national monument. Let the record show that the majority of the class was led by MALE aerobics instructors. Ha. Ha.

I must say, participating in a gi-normous aerobics class with hundreds of Spanish women in the middle of a renown Spanish superstructure (featured in George Lucas's Star Wars: Episode II, which I have never seen) was nothing short of hilarious. Not many can claim that. However, after a few grapevines and box steps, it did lose its luster and we peaced out, but not before milking all the sponsors' booths for all the sweet free stuff they were distributing (ie the BEST part of any race.) I am now the proud bearer of a number of things that no women should live without such as pink breast cancer awareness shoe laces, a tube of chapstick on a cord to hang around your neck, a new pair of socks, a pink quick-dry towel, and a pink sporty knapsack thing in which to deposit it all.

Good healthy fun had by all.

it's good to have American friends in foreign countries...

... because then you can have a conversation such as the following and fully appreciate it.

Scene: Julie Ann and Beth walking down typical Spanish street filled with motorcycles (motos).

Julie Ann: You know, I have to admit... motos are pretty hot.

Beth: Well, that depends.

Julie Ann: On what?

Beth: Well, like if it's a Harley or if it's a "got-room-for-one-more-if-you-still-wanna-go-to-Aspen."


Few things satisfy more than a well placed quote from an endearing American classic such as Dumb and Dumber... even more so when the people with whom you interact daily are (to no fault of their own) incapable of appreciating such genius.

"LLOYD, when I think you couldn't be any dumber, you go and do something like this... and TOTALLY redeem yourself."

Now Beth and I play the "hot or not" game with the motos we see. In case you're wondering, the new Vespas = hot.

Special thanks to Beth Smith, Lloyd Christmas, and Harry Dunne for making this blog possible.

sporty spice

So, I only like writing a blog entry when I have something of potential interest to impart to my following of voluntary readers. Since my last rather melancholy, transitional post, I have been happily shifting into regular life here and waiting for "blog-worthy" experiences to occur. But of course blogging requires much more than simply the occurrence of events worthy of recording... it also necessitates the correct writing environment.

Now on this beautifully poetic rainy Saturday morning of monochromatic, indecipherable skies and rain drops invisible to the ear and eye until heard and seen dancing off the railing of my open window... accompanied with an appropriate rainy-day music selection of Tracy Chapman, the aroma of a tiny "mandarin-cranberry" Yankee candle, and the soothing effects of a pomegranate green tea... I have found the ideal circumstances for blog writing. Enjoy.

Like I said, I've been settling back into my daily Spanish routine with work (which has been wonderful), siestas, a Madonna concert, and spending time with friends (including a trip down to Málaga to visit Patri and Miriam). But looking at the not-so-common aspects of my life as of late... the theme would have to be "sporty."

A few weeks ago, I woke up to head to work and discovered my transportation (aka my bicycle) had a flat tire. Optimistically, I filled it up in hopes that the re-inflated tire would successfully carry me to work. It got me about half way there. But upon arriving to work, Leslie (my fabulous director/boss) informed me about a nearby bike repair shop and suggested I go immediately. (Yes, I realize my job is beyond-words amazing.) So I went, and for the small price of five euros I obtained a new tire and the knowledge of their bike club that organizes constant bike trips outside the city, the upcoming and most unique one being a night trip which they schedule for every full moon.

So, shaking off any and all fears of arriving and not knowing a soul (if I've learned one thing by living here for two years, I've learned to dominate the apprehension of situations where I know NO ONE... that's basically my life)... I arrived at the specified plaza and found out 40 people... only about FOUR of which are women.

We donned our helmets and bike lights and headed out of the city towards the country. It was such a singular experience riding on paths up massive hills, across fields, and through orange tree groves all bathed in the gentle glow of the moonlight. I think I spent most of the trip repeating "shut up, SHUT up, shut up, Lord, are you serious?" in my head. I was also able to meet some people (most of whom happened to be men, I mean, what do you expect from the percentages), all of whom , at the realization that I was from the United States, had the common tendency of recanting any and every travel they had ever made to North America... for instance "I've been to Montana." Hmmm... that's nice.

I was talking to one guy, and another decided to show off by zooming past in between up, but only succeeded in colliding into the dude with whom I was talking bringing them both to the ground in a heap of mountain bike and Spanish men in spandex. A lovely look, I assure you.

Also, the owner of a tetería, an Arabic style tea shop found all over southern Spain, also participated in the mini-trip and invited the whole group for free drinks afterwards. Yup, a Monday night I was out mountain biking and drinking a juice of exotic fruits till about 2am. Only in Spain. PS... I'm not in many of these pictures that I swiped from the store's website. But here in this last one I'm (clearly not in the foreground, but) in the background... riding with no hands, I might add.

My second sporty event was actually last night... Sevilla's annual night race around the Guadalquivir River. I had never been able to do it the past two years of being here, so I was pumped to sign up for this free event. Let's see... 10,000 participants (probably fair to say about the same ratio of women participating in this event... or even less... than in the bike trip... aka lots of dudes.)

I was most excited about running around Sevilla through the streets at night... there's something incredibly freeing about running down main thoroughfares that you've been on in cars of buses just with your own two legs... plus Sevilla is just beautiful at night.

However, I will say that I do not think that the main challenge was completing the 12 kilometers, but rather the avoiding of contact with the grotesquely sweaty men through the narrower routes of the race. These guys had NO problem brushing up against me with an entirely saturated appendage, it makes me ill just reflecting on it now... OH the humanity.

Let me also say how I thought the amount of "attention" given to the participators was slightly exaggerated at the end... massage therapists and podiatrists after 12 kilometers (roughly 7.5 miles). Come on people, this is no marathon... this is like a weekend run. Which also brings me back to the bizarre Spanish phenomenon of not only the presence of beer for sports PARTICIPANTS (not just spectators), but also the HEALTH BENEFITS of said beer. I don't think I will ever come to understand that... somehow every required health class I ever had in high school and college in the US missed that apparently obvious fact. But I'm not complaining... at the end of the race, I received an apple, a cheesy medal with a rainbow ribbon, and a t-shirt that resembles the color of a highlighter. Yoohoo.

Don't worry... my sportiness doesn't end here. Next week, I'm participating with Leslie, Mercedes, and some students in a short Sunday morning 5k "women's race" sponsored by the city to benefit breast cancer research all around the Plaza de España and Parque María Luisa. What can I say? I like to be active, and I like to be outside. Except on rainy days like today... these are perfect inside days.

Today is a day for baking cookies... watching movies... and maybe (if the rain allows) a trip to Starbucks which I have pending. (You see... Starbucks is so ungodly expensive here that it is a true treat and only allowed when "Spain" does something so frustrating to you that a trip to a ridiculously expensive American franchise is not only deserved, but is also pretty much the only thing that will keep you from collapsing to the ground in a pile of defeat. I have one of those saved up from this past week.... yesssssssss.