humans are funny

Category: madrid

  • Campeones del MUNDO. El MUNDO! That’s huge.


    I never get to brag about my ethnicity because I’m always unsure of it. I know I’m American, born in a sterile American hospital like the majority of us. But my father’s side is Spanish! I am half Spanish! And I really love that half. Because it drinks wine and eats tortillas and dances flamenco and takes cafes-con-leche at all hours and tried Marlboros at an early age and calls juice ‘zumo’ and eats grapes at midnight and loves tapas and stands at the bar to eat churros y chocolate and shares bocadillos in the park and takes strolls through plazas and rests in the day and occasionally reads El Pais and La Guia del Ocio and is in love with Javier Bardem and wants to be like Almodovar and expects olives and nuts with every bar order and calls underwear ‘bragas’ and glasses ‘gafas’ and hates gilipollas.

    Maybe these things are too stereotypical. Because I’m HALF Spanish, I always feel on the fringe, like a Spanish faker.
    But today, I abolish this ethnic insecurity. Today is the day that I reclaim my Spanish roots. Because I’m fucking Spanish. And we’re champions of the world! EL MUNDO! And I’ve always wanted to be a champion of something! So now I am. Gracias, Epaña, por darme los bragging rights. I love you and your men and your passion for soccer and emotion and tight pants and food.

    Campeones del Mundo!


    Even after all the hullabaloo of the Spanish victory, though, I have to say that [this] is my favorite part of the World Cup hysteria. Who knew that one day Fozzie’s words would grab a global audience? Wocka Wocka.

  • Dear olives, bow ties, and ham drawings: I love you!

    Madrid is alive. With people. With culture. With men who have sexy accents. With retired couples who hold hands and take walks at night. With loitering teenagers. With street musicians. With people and more people enjoying dinners on patios throughout the city.

    It’s metropolitan, and everyone walks with purpose through the maze of the city, around behemoth government buildings and through the cozy cobblestone streets. But that’s not all that I love about it. There’s also: the smell, the fresh bread, the people, the accent, the olives, the plazas, the way everyone talks with such emotion, the fact that you order a wine and they automatically give you a tapa, the possibility to see Javier Bardem around every corner, the sangria, the tradition, the bow ties worn by waiters at traditional cafes, the churros and chocolate, the theaters, the beautiful beautiful coffee, the park, the men playing futbol in the park, la musica, the cheery voice on the metro that tells you what stop is next…

    but especially the people. I was sitting alone in a plaza smiling, of course, because I was observing the magnificence around me. A hunched old man walked passed me, turned towards me on his cane and said, “Que cara tan bonita tienes! Tienes cara de muñeca.” (What a pretty face you have– it’s the face of a doll.) The fact that we were both enjoying the other’s presence almost brought me to tears. Ah, Madrid. Estoy enamorada.

    How could you not love a city where they draw cute little hams to advertise their meat section:


    Or where old people sing their hearts out and play accordions!:


    Or where random drag queens congregate:


    Or where they sell horchata with big farts (adding -on to a word in spanish means ‘big’):


    Or where you can get a free fake mustache with the purchase of any two wigs:

  • I am different this time. I swear.


    I left India feeling lighter. Refreshed. New. I knew I was a cliché, but that’s the thing– I didn’t care. I felt like I had shed the load of caring about what others think. Thankfully, this was discarded along with my need for make-up, new clothes, and all material goods. In my previous life, I always swung on the fence between hippiedom and yuppiedom. It seemed dreamy to have a nice house and comfortable car, but in India I finally confirmed that it feels nicer to not have. To me, being able to travel with one pair of pants beats worrying about a mortgage.

    Phew. Glad I realized that. No more brand names. No more high heels. Done.

    Then British Airways lost my backpack.

    “What’s that you say? You say the airline usually reimburses about one-hundred Euros per day?”

    Immediately I became one of those shoppers with glittery packages. The moment I bought the first tight-fitting jeans, my seal was broken. Like an addict looking for a spoon, I was on a rampage. I happened to be in Spain during their semi-annual countrywide blowout sale, and my hands couldn’t flip through the discount racks fast enough. I had to have that dress. And those shoes. And pajamas. And of course a purse. And look at that– a whole store filled with stuff I wanted to buy in India but didn’t. I fluttered through dressing rooms and beeped through register transactions.

    When my backpack finally arrived three days later, I am ashamed to say that nothing I bought fit into it. I then had to buy a suitcase to carry all my new purchases.

    I hung my head in shame.
    But then I put on my new heels!

    Just this once. I swear. I need to feel feminine for a short time– then back to stinky shirts and baggy pants. I hadn’t realized how grimy I’d felt over the last eight months. It’s nice to remove leg hair, wear jewelry, and put on deodorant once in a while. I’d forgotten. Our minds and bodies have the ability to get used to anything. What you thought was crazy before just becomes your life, and there you have it. Strange. I bet I could have acclimated to sleeping on a bed of cockroaches if I’d really wanted. Maybe next I will choose to get used to… being unemployed and living with my mother until someone invites me on another 9-month holiday.

  • What’s the matter with you people? Why aren’t you staring at me?

    I feel misplaced and awkward sitting here sipping a perfectly frothed café con leche, wearing a pair of jeans, and watching passersby loaded with Coach bags and packages from glittery department stores. It feels like just yesterday I was peeing into a hole, caught in a monsoon with my backpack on, and bribing rickshaw drivers to take me to the airport while trucks splashed me with mud and mean Hindi expressions. Oh, wait… that was yesterday.

    Just a few stamps in my passport and divided trays of food and here I am in clean, expensive Madrid where nobody sleeps on the train station floor and showing shoulders isn’t considered sin. It’s like I’ve traveled through space; how can such different worlds exist on one planet? How do so many people from either world not know what it’s like to be in the other? How long will it take before sitting here sipping a coffee amidst shoppers and sangria feels normal? Do I even want it to feel normal?

    A bus stop in India where I jumped out, peed in a hole and bought a pair of samosas.

    A metro stop in Madrid. What is this place? Where’s the garbage? And the goats?

  • I’m in the West!

    Holy mackerel! Everything is expensive.
    Holy mackerel! Everything is so clean.
    Holy mackerel! Everyone is so white.

    Holy mackerel! Everyone is a slut!