Meet My New Hero

Perhaps this is only interesting to my fellow travel writers, but here goes...

"Skyrocketing fuel prices. Unmanageable airline budgets. A declining U.S. dollar. International instability and America's increasingly dismal reputation abroad. The new age of travel is about more than waiting in line so that a sixty-year-old TSA biddy can wave a security wand in front of your crotch. In coming years, the way we travel will change significantly. Where all this leaves travel writing is an open question, but one thing is certain: the overly sentimental, cautious, and commercial tenor of travel writing is satisfying to almost no one beyond the navel gazers who write it and the 'hospitality' advertisers who sponsor it." --Smile When You're Lying: Confessions of a Rogue Travel Writer by Chuck Thompson

While I'm loathe to be called a naval gazer, I know all to well the b.s. of which Thompson speaks--and I've only been in the travel industry for two years, compared to Chuck's 10. It's a sad day when you realize how disgustingly the rest of the industry looks down on the genre you once so badly wanted to be a part of, not only because you wanted to travel the world, but because you wanted to tell stories, for better or for worse, of the things you saw. Instead, you're assigned to write articles constructed of sentences that end with, as Thompson points out, "a phone number, web address or other transparent plug for whatever tourist board happened to be picking up the tab."

Because today's travel "journalism" articles are mostly fluff pieces written by aging freeloaders who will put the entire contents of dinner's bread basket in their bag once you're not looking, I will never feel at ease being called a "travel writer." I sometimes wonder if pursuing this path did nothing more than brand myself as a talentless hack.

Photo: New York Times

UPDATE: Doree Shafrir manages to pull together everything I've been whining about this past week much better than I ever could. Please read. 

Mi Amigo

Antonio works across the street from our apartment at a café called Las Columnas. That's him in the picture, and here are 10 things I like about him:

1) He always greets us when we walk into the café.
2) He knows what we drink and readies one beer and one white wine the second he sees us.
3) He talks to us, though we never understand what he's saying, since he seems to speak some version of Spanish even Jenn can't decipher.
4) He's quick to smile, even though he is lacking teeth.
5) He has what looks like a prison tattoo on his fingers.
6) He gave us free jamon croquetas when Corrie was in town, making us look pretty damn cool.
7) He took pictures of us with his cell phone.
8) He asked for Jenn's phone number and e-mail address, which was ballsy, considering I was standing right there.
9) He yells out our food orders to the kitchen in very loud voice.
10) He's the closest thing Jenn and I have to a friend in Seville.

It's 4 p.m. EST. Do you know where your expats are?

If all else fails

...I can become a dancer at a vegan strip club. It would be like penance for all the bits of ham I've had since I arrived here. 

New Productivity Tool

Because of that damn bug (which has turned out to be a mosquito, by the way--yay, multiple bug bites are fun!), I have:

• caught up on e-mails
• had some green tea
• watched the sun rise
• done yoga
• and now, blogged
  

And it's only 8 a.m.

Meanwhile, Jay still has another three hours of sleep ahead of him. Slacker.

Who am I? Where am I going?

After reading Sam Kashner’s article in Vanity Fair, “Here’s to You, Mr. Nichols: The Making of The Graduate,” I’m totally crushing on Mike Nichols.

The quotes provided by the 76-year-old director made me laugh and contemplate things in a way that only a rich man who’s had the time and the means to reflect on life can. My favorite (and the article’s penultimate) quote is: “There’s nothing better than discovering, to your own astonishment, what you’re meant to do. It’s like falling in love.”

Sweet, non? It also reminds me of part of the reason to I came to Spain: to find what I guess would be my second calling, as my passion for writing slowly fades. (Yes, at 28, I’m burnt out. I’m over the competitiveness of the publishing world, the countless unrecognized résumés and seeing so many hacks get ahead, especially now that anyone with a blog can call themselves a writer—linkage company at right excluded.)

You see, the last time I spent a long period of time abroad, in England, I went thinking I would return home and become a kindergarten teacher. I always loved writing, but teaching was more practical (hey, that word again!) and just as underpaid, heh. Instead, walking the same streets and learning in the same classrooms as of some of my most favorite writers uncontrollably reignited my passion for pen and paper, and so, here I am.

And now, I’m almost right back where I started eight years ago, wandering the streets of some foreign city and waiting for inspiration, for that realization to strike, however corny and clichéd the whole idea may be.

At the time Nichols controversially cast Dustin Hoffman in the lead, he was reading Henry James’ “The Beast in the Jungle,” about “a young man who lets life and love pass him by while he waits for a cataclysmic event to transform him.” I plan to pick this book up on our next trip to the English-language bookstore; it certainly sounds apropos.

Image: Patricia Lin

The Music Sensation That’s Sweeping My Imagination

I’ve been thinking a lot about how a few of my favorite street musicians in Seville could join up and form a band, or really a supergroup—not unlike the Traveling Wilburys or Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. I propose we call them The Seville Street Musician Supergroup, or as converted into Español by FreeTranslation.com, El Músico Ambulante de Sevilla Super Grupo.

So, without further ado, here they are, ladies and gentlemen, El Músico Ambulante de Sevilla Super Grupo!!

On accordion: The two kids who are insistent about getting our change!
The two young dueling accordionists tend to perform together, and I think they primarily play the theme from the Godfather. They double team you and are not hesitant to mock you into giving them money. I relent about 30 percent of the time, mostly because I’m a sucker for accordion.

On upright Casiotone Keytar: The ululating Arab!
That’s him in the picture. He is my favorite and his song is very catchy. He ingeniously jury-rigged a microphone with duct tape to the top of the keyboard, which he wears like a guitar, so he can sing while he plays. However, I’m not sure he actually plays the Casiotone, but rather presses the “Bossa-Nova” button on the preprogrammed soundtrack. Still, it’s very good, and I dare you to try to get his Middle Eastern-flavored song out of your head within three hours of hearing it. I dare you.

On alto sax: The Spanish guy who only plays “Yesterday” by The Beatles!
He is accompanied by canned background music on a cassette tape. Think Kenny-G playing karaoke. He REALLY likes “Yesterday,” and he REALLY likes our street. When our windows are open, we can hear his rendition at least a dozen times during the siesta hours.

On tuba: The guy who plays tuba!
I actually have never seen him, so I’m just assuming he’s a guy, just because the demographic of Spanish street musicians seems to skew male. He’s somehow always out of sight, but always within earshot. Jenn thinks he plays “Puttin’ on the Ritz,” that 1929 Irving Berlin classic that was made popular to the MTV generation by Taco. I’m not so sure, though his song does sound a bit like that.

And there they are, El Músico Ambulante de Sevilla Super Grupo. I’d try to get more photos, but that would not come cheap since they live on tips. (The photo you see cost me €1.10.)

Another Day, Another Jesus

Are we boring you yet?

Alas, it is Easter and the end of Holy Week. Thankfully, Thursday's rain let up and we were able to see that night's processions, said to be the holiest of all Holy Week pasos, going all night and into the the wee hours of Good Friday morning.

The video and most of the photos are from La Macarena, put on by our quarter's church with some 3,000 Nazarenes, and representing the sentencing of Christ. It was the first paso we set out to see, having essentially stumbled upon the rest, and we really enjoyed watching it from beginning to end, despite the fact that it wasn't over until 2:30 a.m. Plus, nighttime viewing adds some intangibly special aspect to it all.

Even so, we're somewhat relieved to see Holy Week go. The onslaught of processions served as roadblocks, basically quarantining us to the Alameda. Though I must say I will miss the rare sight of a lone repenter in full get up, walking down the street, just going about his business. Its hilarity is something I will never tire of.

Finally, I feel compelled to note that I was not trying to be arty in blurring the photos. Using the flash overexposed the shots, so I decided not to use it, and as anyone who's taken a photography class knows, snapping pictures in the dark sans flash requires a steady hand—something I apparently need to work on. Before I left for this trip, I debated buying a new camera (one with triple shutter speed--perfect for action and nighttime shots!) and I stupidly decided not to, opting to pay taxes instead. Being less practical: something else I need to work on.

Nevertheless, enjoy and happy Easter!

The Whole Hog

Jenn and I have detailed how the Spanish enjoy their pork, but the ingredient list on a can of lentils with chorizo—aka lentejas con chorizo—further affirms this cultural assumption:

Ingredient #1
Lentils
So far, so good. You’d expect lentils to be the dominant ingredient in a can of lentils.

Ingredient #2
Cooking Water
Okay. Makes sense. It requires a good amount of both cooking and water to transform the lentil from its dried, stony state to the tender legume we all love so much.

Ingredient #3
Chorizo
Right on. The can mentioned that this tasty Spanish sausage would be present. Of course, the chorizo is broken down into its many subcomponents in parentheses—paprika, garlic, pork, something called “pork dewlap,” whatever that is, and a few other spices. Works for me.

Ingredient #4
Pork Lard
Hmmm. All right. Maybe the chorizo didn’t add enough porky goodness to the dish, so the makers wanted to punch that up with some lard. I’m not one to balk at gratuitous fat placement, which should make the healthy and humble lentil a bit more palatable. Fat is flavor, right?

Ingredient #5
Bacon
Holy shit! We have a trifecta! While chorizo offers a nice smoky sausage flavor, and the pork lard unleashes that lovely fat-laden unctuousness, the bacon will smack you across the face with a little more of both. Man, those Spaniards dig pork!

Ingredient #6
Pork Fat Bacon
What the fuck is that?!?!?! I swear this is what the can lists as the sixth ingredient. Is something lost in the translation? I have never seen those three words magically placed in that order: Pork. Fat. Bacon. What a reckless display of fatty meat usage. This is an affront to my high cholesterol and to Jenn’s wavering vegetarianism.

After that, the list grows a bit more mundane. Amid all that pork, the makers of this dish also found some room for salt, onion, white wine, parsley and pepper. This was to be my lunch today.

Alas, we don’t have a can opener.

The Honeymoon's Over, Kids

Evidentiary Support A: After two and a half weeks of beautiful weather, today is our second straight day of sogginess, quite literally raining on our parade, since rain = cancellation of the final and most revered of Holy Week processions.

Evidentiary Support B: Jay got visibly peeved at me today. (I emphasize "visibly" because it's very likely he's already been annoyed by me and I just didn't know. Or care to notice.)

Either way, I'd say 20 days ain't such a bad run.

Your Traffic and Weather Update

It is half past noon in Seville on what is sure to be another sunny and 70-degree Wednesday*. Meanwhile, the Lincoln Tunnel is backed up, making it tougher and tougher for those Jersey commuters to get to their New York City offices. When those commuters exit the Lincoln Tunnel, they will find it is raining and a brisk 41 degrees Fahrenheit.

How do I know all this?

Jenn is listening to WCBS radio. It streams over the Internet in crackles and buzzes. It talks of traffic, weather and a little news. And it serves as some sort of entertainment to her. Maybe, it's a reminder of home—familiar American voices talking about life's daily little things.

Or maybe it's something more sinister. Perhaps she is relishing in the misfortune of those poor tri-state area residents she has abandoned—at their cold, rainy March days; at their long, congested commutes.

Either way, two things are clear to me right now: (1) I'm glad I'm in Seville and not New York; and (2) I would prefer American television to American radio any day.

*UPDATE: I just had to gloat about the typically beautiful weather here. We got our first bit of rain this afternoon after 20 perfectly sunny days. It is now 60 degrees Fahrenheit with scattered showers. Still, I made the commute from my bed to the couch without incident. 

He Ate, She Starved, He Ate Her Portions

I’ll eat everything. If you know me, you know this to be true.
I will not eat everything. If you know me, you know this to be true.

It has been said that the Spanish eat everything on the pig except for the oink. I’ve joined them. I’ve eaten my way from the hoof to the hip with fine slices of jamón serrano. I’ve gotten all up in the pig’s face with tasty bits of carrillada, or pork cheeks. I’ve lusted in the loins of lomo de puerco.

I’ve picked my way around the bacon in “vegetarian” quiches and I’ve swallowed a croquette whole to avoid chewing the ham, whilst still getting its flavor. I’ve been turned off from fish after biting into a singular bone. I’ve eaten meals that consist solely of garbanzo beans that were unavoidably stewed in chorizo.

I ate that chorizo.

I’ve begrudgingly eaten salmorejo—delicious as the tomato-based soup may be—peppered with bits of chewy bacon, just to feed my starving body.

Oh, but you begged for a bite of my bacon-wrapped dates!

You weren’t supposed to tell!

Now, we’re off to a “vegetarian” restaurant. I’ll likely order the ham.

And I’ll have the bread basket.

I want to kill.

I’m a pretty non-violent person, even going out of my way to avoid stepping on ants on the sidewalk, but as of late, my attitude toward those of the bug variety has changed.

For the past week, just as I am in the throes of a deep sleep, this fly* has come buzzing around my head like the Red Barron, causing me to flail my arms like a three-year-old in the midst of a temper tantrum. The rest of the night has me listening for that damn bugger to come at me again, because I know he will as he always does, no matter how many times my big limbs have attempted to cease his existence. Then every morning, without fail, the room is completely bugless, as if it were all a figment of my imagination.

Short of going to the store and trying to describe “fly paper” to the clerk in Spanish, does anyone have suggestions on how to be rid of this problem? Sleep-interrupted reasoning once led me to leave the bathroom light on, remembering the wise words of Janet Jackson, that moths, or flies, or all bugs, no? are drawn to fire/light. It didn’t work.


*As funny and clever as the idea might be, the fly is NOT a metaphor for Jay.

Best KKK rally ever!

Palm Sunday marks the start of Semana Santa, or Holy Week, which for the Sevillianos, is a tradition of some 2,000 processions, some dating back to the 13th century. Today, we saw our first of what will likely be many pasos this week, and we were so moved by what we saw we may even go to church next Sunday. I’ll let you know how that turns out.

Here are some pictures from today’s paso, La Hiniestra (and others), and below is a video. Some background: There are men underneath carrying that float, certainly no easy feat (you’ll see it hoisted), which is why the day-long processions likely stop every five or so minutes. That, and the fact that it’s a tradition for bar owners along the route to come out with beer to refresh these He-Men. Perhaps floats get lighter as the men get drunker?

Also, some much needed explanation on the Klan-like hoods: Sevillianos don’t hate black people. The hoods are worn by the nazarenos, or brothers in the procession’s fraternity, as a symbol of repentance and grief. Other members wear a penitente, which looks like the masks worn by medieval executioners. These guys carry crosses over their shoulders—in some cases as many as four—depending on the amount of repenting that needs to be done. (Oh, those Catholics—always coming up with the craziest schemes to keep you from sinning!)

Kidding aside, the processions truly are sights to behold, what with Jesus on the cross, the funeral-like dirges played by the band and those cute little Ku Klux Klan outfits. It all makes for an eerily charming experience and I don’t believe we’ve even seen the best of it yet.

Temperature Test

The weather is warming here and so are we.

We can now navigate ordering at restaurants and the market in full Spanish, though the experiences have not been without mishaps. The other day, I attempted to order a vodka y soda at a cafe, subbing the pronunciation of the "V" as "B", as the Spanish do—only the bartender could not decipher what I was saying. Finally, he got it. "Ahhhhh, VODKA," he proclaimed, going on in Spanish, "I thought you were saying vaca, which goes moooo..."

Another time, Jay asked for the check at a restaurant. "La cuenta," which means "the check," is what one is supposed to say. Except he said, "cuanto cuestan," which essentially asks, "How much does all of this cost?"

As I said: We're just warm here. Not exactly en fuego just yet.

OMG!

This is the best thing my cable-deprived self has heard in a very, very long time:

"Rich kids are back: CW plots '90210' spinoff"

In other good news:

"Trouble Cooking for Ray Show"

Try as I might, I cannot understand why this woman has the career that she does. I've never met a single person who enjoys her dumbing down of "EVOO" and "yum-o."

Sexually Confused

We all learned back in our freshman Spanish classes (or, in my case, French—why did I take that?), that quite a few languages apply a gender identity to many words—some words are masculine, some are feminine and yet others are total trannies. In the course of navigating this strange and wonderful and confusing and frustrating language, I've noticed something odd.

Beer, or cervaza, which is probably the word I've grown most proficient at saying (sounds something like "ther-beh-tha" when you apply the obligatory Spanish lisp), is… wait for it… feminine! The word for sparkling white wine, on the other hand? Masculine.

Odd, no?

Be Our Guest: What you need to know before coming to visit

First, before I forget: bring a pillow. We have plenty of extra blankets and towels, but lack an abundance of pillows.

Second, details on navigating the Avé. Oh, the Avé. Luckily we made all the mistakes so you don't have to. To wit:


Though it is possible to purchase the tickets online prior to arrival, we decided to forfeit that option, as we thought it a tricky proposition, given that tickets are only valid for specific times and seats. With the state of air travel these days—we don’t need to rehash how bad delays have been, do we?—we thought it best to wait until we arrived at the station.

Turns out, not such a great idea. As previously mentioned, We arrived at Madrid’s Atocha Station a half hour before the 2 p.m. departure to Seville, which, in our minds is more than enough time to say, “Hola, que tal? Un billete de ida Seville, por favor. [Euros are exchanged; teller hands over ticket.] Gracias.” We now know that prompt service is not a high priority here. Plus, Atocha Station is pretty secluded from Madrid’s city center and is oddly designed with its own rainforest, helpfully adding humidity to irritability.

Lesson learned: buy Avé tickets on Renfe's web site. Note that when buying online, tickets must be purchased at least five days in advance of your trip. Just be sure to leave yourself enough time to get to the train station from the airport, which is about a 15 to 20 minute taxi ride, and don’t forget to account for possible flight delays. Overestimating in this case is a good thing—if your flight arrives on time and it’s two hours before your train departs, at least you know you can explore Madrid, go shopping or grab something to eat. The ride to Seville is a wonderfully scenic two-and-a-half hours.

That is all. Though should you feel so inclined, we've started a wish list of magazines: The Economist or Wired, for Jay; Vanity Fair, Real Simple or any celebrity weekly, para me. (God my list reads like some housewife's, doesn't it?)

Lost in Translators

When traveling in a country where the language is not your own, it’s important to have a fall-back plan, i.e., one of those embarrassingly touristy phrase books, or more covertly, an electronic translator, which if spotted in dim enough light, can look like a Sidekick.

We have both of these things and they have been occasionally helpful but more so completely useless. At times, the questions and answers are downright hilarious. Herewith, some of our favorites…

Using the electronic translator (good job Franklin Electronics!):
“I would like…” nets “I would like a laxative.”
In case you were wondering: “Quisiera un laxante.”

“I wonder…” nets “I think I’m going to be sick.”
In case you were wondering: “Creo que voy a enfermar.”
[Right. I’m about to vomit and the first thing I do is consult the translator.--Ed.]

“I need…” nets “I need a cane.”
In case you were wondering: “Necesito un bastón.”

From the guidebooks:
“I am diabetic/pregnant.”
In case you were wondering: “Soy diabético/a/estoy embarazada.”

“Can you help me? I have lost my daughter/son.”
In case you were wondering: “Puede ayudarme, se ha extraviado mi hija/mi hijo.”

"Do I need to see you again?"
In case you were wondering: "Debo verlo otra vez?"
[Meant for trips to the doctor, but we found it fitting in warding off potential suitors.--Ed.]

The Mediterranean Diet

After a few days here, between the walking and the biking and the tapas and the shopping at the fresh food markets and the generally smaller portions severed in restaurants, one starts to think, "I'm soooo going to become one of those skinny European bitches."

But then I forget that my version of the Mediterranean Diet involves vino, and when I have too much of it, I get ravenously hungry. Not truly stomach-growling hungry, just drunk hungry, which really isn't hungry at all, probably more like dehydrated, because isn't that what all the experts say--that mild dehydration is often mistaken for hunger? I know this--even in a wine-induced haze I know this--and yet every time, I can't help but stuff food in my mouth.

So so much for becoming a skinny bitch.

Last night we discovered a gem of a tapas place, Casa Paco, which happens to be just across the street from our apartment. Other places we've tried on the Alameda have been just so-so thus far, and though we noticed that the locals jam the place every night promptly at nine, when the kitchen opens, I cannot explain why it took a full week before we finally popped in.

Now it has been a struggle to not go there every night, given the delicious and deceptively simple dishes, such as tuna with peppers marinated in olive oil, bacon-wrapped dates drizzled with honey and the clear star of the menu, as it is escorted out of the kitchen every five minutes: queso de cabra au gratinada, which is basically a slab of goat cheese broiled until the top is crispy, then drizzled with honey and rosemary and served with a side of crostini. Our responses to these delicacies were very Rachel Ray á la her travel show, except genuine.

Is it los tourista or el tourista?

In New York they take to the streets with their fanny packs, cameras and IHeartNY t-shirts. They walk slowly, stretched four-long on the sidewalk, meandering and impossible to pass. The tourist is a scourge to New Yorkers.

After six years of living in that city, I’ve joined the throngs of locals who have grown weary of them. Unfortunately, I’ve brought that mentality to Spain. I am, more than anything, afraid to be recognized here for what I am: el turista.

Since we got here, I have stood at least 10 feet away from Jenn as she snaps photos (as only a tourist would take a picture of nuns going about their daily existance--JM), and I’ve been reluctant to speak to locals in my version of broken Castallano—my own bastard child of Spanish, English and ignorance.

Today, it dawned on me. I walked the few winding blocks to the Mercado Calle Feria, which is one of the oldest food markets in Seville, in search of a few items to cook for dinner. They had everything I could want: fish caught this morning, fresh vegetables, legs upon legs of Jamón Iberico, bottles of Spanish wines, flowers, et cetera.

I wanted to take a photo, but quickly reconsidered: How would I feel, in New York, if some Spanish dude was snapping photos of my freezer aisle as I was grabbing some Hot Pockets? Odd, right?

I returned home with nothing. Surely, if I spoke, if I touched the vegetables the wrong way, if I used the wrong word to order tuna, they would find me out for what I am.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the tourists in New York as I’ve gone about my days here and I’ve also thought about how I, and many New Yorkers I know, have treated tourists. Though we’ve griped about them among friends and laughed from time to time at their silly questions, we’ve always been helpful. We have given directions. We have given recommendations. We have given, at the very least, a smile to those wayward travelers looking for Times Square. And so I’ve decided: Tourists are not so bad. At least they speak the local language, right? I can’t even do that here.

Hopefully, the Sevillanos will offer me the same patience as I try to navigate their city. And I won’t even mind if they laugh at me once I’m out of earshot.

New York: 0; Seville: 2

As different as they are, it's hard not to compare life in New York with life in Seville. Today, the weather was reminiscent of a crisp and cloud-free fall day in Manhattan. Except I was in Seville. See what I'm saying?

Anywho, Seville has this community bike program, Sevici, that for just a few euros gives users access to numerous pick up/drop off bike stations around the city. Jay and I jumped on these bikes today (that's him, at right) and proceeded to pedal around town, which it turns out is not as small as we first thought. The bulk of the path was lined with orange blossom trees, which smell remarkably like jasmine. I almost got hit by a few cars as I however stupidly closed my eyes to truly take the scent in.

I first became scent obsessed last summer, during my stay in Provence, and particularly with lavender. Now whenever I smell lavender, I'm immediately transported back to that trip, which brought about some life predictions that eerily rang true in more ways than one today. As I pedaled and sniffed, I couldn't help but think about how New York needs a smell--something nicer than trash and dirty-water dogs. Scent is such an integral part of memory and I hate that the only time I'm olfactory reminded of home is when I walk by a trash bin. So here, Seville beats New York.

Seville again earns points with Sevici. The program is meant to be an eco-friendly way for residents to get about town, while also helping to eliminating roadway noise. Similar programs exist in nearby Cordoba as well as in Lyon and Paris, France. Why New York has not jumped on this trend, I do not know. Imagine the relief it could provide while they take another eon to build that 2nd Avenue subway line?

Of course, Seville lacks New York's attitude and available international cuisine—though not it's plethora of Starbucks, sadly. So I guess it's a wash.

Dear Diary,

We made a friend! His name is Joaquin--or Quino, as his friends (like us)--call him. He doesn't speak very much English, but whatevs, he is patient with our inconsistent Spanish. He owns a café bar steps from our apartment and he has a dog named Pipa (short for Josephina) who just roams around the place looking for attention. And he, like, totes invited us to his bar's anniversary party on Saturday. Like, we're so excited we may just need to go buy new outfits. Can't wait! More soon...

TTYL,

jm & jb
(P.S. Yay--photos!)

Tapas, Siestas and Speed Walking

It's no secret that the thing I dislike most about New York is its frenetic pace. I'm pretty go-go-go myself, but I've learned being a go-go-go person in a go-go-go atmosphere is exhausting. Which is why I was so eager to move to Spain, the land of siestas and drawn out mini-meals. I hoped, no matter how ridiculously, that the Spanish pace of life would rub off on me, effectively changing a core part of who I have been for the last 28 years. Will it--has it--happened? Damned if I know. It's only day four. 

(Somehow I am doubtful. For no matter how Sevilliano I look with my dark hair and pale skin, my speed-walk invariably gives me away as a non-local.) 

What I have noticed however, is that the Spanish way of life is less languid than siestas and tapas let on. I was surprised to learn that siestas are quite real--part of me thought that it was just some romanticized notion over-worked Americans have of Europe, whose lengthy vacation times have been well documented--because really, how can any business survive when you and all of your employees call it a day, every day, at 2 p.m.? But they do and somehow it works. 

Then there is the whole idea of tapas. I first pictured it as settling in at one place and ordering drinks and small plates all night long, but this is not how the Spanish do it. Instead, they are in for one beer (never more than two), a small plate of olives or meat and are on their way to the next joint. The whole process is often no more than 10 minutes. It seems so contradictory to the way everything else here operates. I don't understand the rush--with siestas in effect by mid-afternoon, where do they have to go? (Of course, this doesn't mean service is fast; just that the Spanish are better at getting what they want when they want it. Another lesson I need to learn.)

Sometimes I'm like a two year old, constantly asking why, why why. I need to stop over thinking it and just embrace it. Seems the process has worked here for the last 200 years--who am I to question it? 

Alive and online!

We made it, though the journey was not without its trials. But I'll get to the complaining later.

Seville is wonderful. It has been 70 degrees and sunny everyday so far and I didn't realize until our first day here that I'd forgotten what the sun felt like. It's true what people say about Seville being what you imagine Spain, and Europe in general, to be like. Narrow cobblestone streets taken over by Vespas and tiny cars, Old World architecture at every turn, and café, after café, after café, after café... I wonder if I'll get sick of the constant beauty.

Of course, it isn't all roses. People don't know how to pick up after their dogs and there is a lot of construction going on at the moment, so in parts it's not as nice as it will be. Our apartment--which is above a marijuana shop, hilariously--is in a great area that's slightly urban and less touristy, which only makes us feel more like tourists when we walk into one of the many tapas bars that line the Alameda de Hercules. (P.S. I've already succumbed to a small piece of jamón.)

So far we've managed to get our wants and needs across in Spanish pretty well; though I hate to say it, not many people speak English, like I expected. (Hoped?) When I think about being here for three months, I admit it's a little daunting, but I'm sure that will change once we get a better grasp on our surroundings. (It took us about a half hour today to find a supermarket in the basement of a department store, an odd pairing in itself.)

So, on to the complaining... As I mentioned, getting here was no picnic. First, my bank denied me access to my accounts, even though I called and said I'd be traveling abroad. Jay already had withdrawn the maximum his bank allowed, so, until I was able to call to correct the mistake, we traveled through Spain like little paupers, debating whether we should dip into rent money in order to eat. A quandary for sure, but not an unfamiliar scenario for anyone who lives in New York.

Our experience with the high-speed Avé train immediately made me miss New York (N.B. to our visitors: Sometime soon I'll post pointers so that you won't have to go through what we did). We arrived at Atocha Station at 1:30 p.m., hoping to catch the 2 p.m. train to Seville. To say the tellers operate at a snail's pace is being kind; it was almost a full hour before we got our tickets, leaving us to wait for the 4 p.m. train and kill time in the rain forest-like train station, with no money to burn.

In addition to all this, my luggage handle was broken, which made for all-around navigational awkwardness. We also hadn't showered or brushed our teeth in 24 hours and looked like it. We were so tired, both of us fell asleep for most of the two-and-half hour ride on the Avé, though I managed to catch glimpses of the Spanish countryside, with all of its olive groves and orange trees.

My day-three assessment: I get the feeling that just when I start to get a handle on things, it's going to be time leave.

(I do have a photos for you, but it turns out the Internet connection we're using has its limitations, so I may need to head to an Internet café to get these online. TBD.)

Sevilla Later: The Party

What a great time it was. We drank, we ate, we practiced flamenco and no one cried. Which, now that I think about it, kind of pisses me off.

Party pics here.


(Special thanks to Ilyse for creating the hilariously embarrassing invite.)

And now, my photo homage to everyone who could not be there and was very much missed. (Some of these photos are ooooold, which means we need to hangout more. If you don't even have a photo, then we reallly need to hang out more.)

Abby














Forever my art girls: Nicole, Lauren and Kelly













Casey















The CDs, although Corrie gets a pass since she's coming to visit














Dawn and Gina, who I think took this picture, which is why she's not in it












Debbie, who was in Meh-he-co














Erin














Kerry, who would kill me if I put a photo of her on my blog














Lloyd


















Mariel














Megan














Molly














Renee, Danielle, Brendan and Arielle














Ratterman














Sue














Vicki














Ysolt

My Mom's Better Than Your Mom

...because she's on ABC!


You'll have to go here to see the actual video (seems ABC isn't quite as technologically savvy as CBS' Andy Rooney). She was selected for the segment based on her outstanding volunteer work with the New Jersey chapter of the American Chronic Pain Association. (She also has her own alternative therapy practice.) Moms has become quite media savvy over the last few years; so much so I think her industry contacts are now far better than mine, as is her forward bend.

Oh well. Yay, Mom!

Sevilla Later: FAQ

Ever since the announcement of The Move 2.0, Jay and I have fielded a lot of the same questions about the decision. They are, of course, all valid, as our friends don't share the same brain, but because I'm procrastinating packing, I've decided to round up the eight questions we're consistently asked, for your inquisitive reading pleasure.

Q: How did you guys decide to do this?
A: Well, the frou-frou answer is that we both love to travel and living abroad is something that we've both always wanted to do, before we even met. Now, that's mostly true. But the honest answer is, after I initially (and half jokingly) presented the idea, he later called my bluff on how serious I was. Then I called his on researching an apartment. Next, he called me out on putting a deposit down, and so on and so forth. So, here we are.

Q: Why Seville?
A: We were split on where to go. I wanted Italy, he wanted Spain. After a few weeks of deadlock, one afternoon we were at Sunswick, talking to a 20-something bartender who had grown up all over Europe. We asked what his favorite place was in all of Europe and he said Seville. We researched it, and loved that it's a university town and is pedestrian friendly. Plus, the idea of daily siestas, nightly tapas and warm weather was a huge draw. Oddly, neither of us have ever been to Spain.

Q: Do either of you speak Spanish?
A: After six years of Spanish classes in high school and college, I'm conversational, at best. Jay can say, "Hola! Que tal? Me llamo Jay!" I think we're in for a big shock upon our arrival.

Q: Why just three months?
A: Because that's the longest you can go without needing a visa. After that, if they find you, they kick you out and you are not allowed back into any country in the EU for at least two years.

Q: Are you sure you'll come back?
A: Yes. We both have leases to get back to, plus, I imagine getting paid in dollars but living with the euro can't be sustained for very long.

Q: Will you travel around while you're there?
A: Absolutely, as our budget allows. We have earmarked Morocco and Paris specifically. (Suggestions on where to go are welcome in the comments below.)

Q: Are you nervous/excited/packed?
A: Yes/yes/see above.

Q: OMG, you're soooo coming back engaged!
A: No. Not that I've asked--more like relayed the recurring question--and have very gently been told it's not going to happen.

Sevilla Later: Binge Edition

The day I returned from my month-long stay in England, my parents, driving me home from the airport, asked what I wanted to do on my first day back in the states. "Go to a diner," said I, a born-and-bred Diner State girl, and the 'rents promptly obliged. Therewith, I proceeded to pig out on mozzarella sticks, potato skins (this was pre-vegetarianism) and other various and nefarious fried foods that are hard to come by abroad.

So, with less than a week left before the move to Spain, I made a list of all the foods I knew I could not get (or wouldn't be as good) overseas and therefore had to eat before my departure. These included, but were not limited to: a bagel, sushi, a slice of pizza, popcorn, cheese fries, pickles, et al. This weekend, I went on a bender, aided in part by the free pizza available with every drink purchase at Crocodile Lounge. The evidence...

First, on Saturday night, the pizza:



Then, the morning after, I ate like I was on vacation.



From left to right: pancakes; cheese fries with gravy on the side (for people who like that sort of thing); onion rings (not pictured); grilled cheese with bacon and tomato; mashed potatoes; roast beef sandwich (I did not partake); BLT (not pictured, also not eaten, though I did snag the pickle); scrambled eggs; and a Diet Coke, which is more syrupy here than the Coke Lite available everywhere else in the world.

It tasted oh-so-good going down and I expectedly felt disgusting the rest of the day, both physically and emotionally. In fact, I feel so full I don't think I'll need to eat anything until I actually arrive in Spain on Saturday.

The dude sooooo got grammar hammered

The New York Times writes a laudatory article about a subway ad that properly uses a semicolon (a lesson we know a few of you need to revisit), only to have to later amend the story with this correction:

Bizzaro World

"The first year and especially those first few months can be really isolating. Sometimes just getting out for a cup of coffee can be the most entertaining thing of the day."

That's a source I recently spoke with for an article. She was talking about having a baby, but I think it also speaks well of going freelance. Does this mean I'm ready to be a mom now?

T-minus 10 days...

Witness the cannoli-filled cake that wishes us well in French for our upcoming trip to Spain. Bit internationally schizophrenic, but delicious nonetheless.

Out With The Old

Does anyone actually enjoy Andy Rooney on "60 Minutes"? If you do, please tell me why, because I'm having trouble understanding how this dated, unfunny old man still gets paid. To wit, his recently aired segment on the Super Bowl:

Screw Union Square's farmer's market

I've always complained about the poor-quality produce in Astoria, which is why I'm so excited about this:

"...[Dan Wood and Amale Andraos have] convinced P.S. 1 to let them fill the museum's courtyard with... um, crops. Wood and Andraos have won the institution's Young Architects Program competition, which means that by summer, they will have stood dozens of giant cardboard tubes on one end, filled them with dirt, and used them as planters for cabbages, lettuce, tomatoes and herbs."


The veggies will be harvested and distributed--perhaps to the local Key Foods? For the love of God, please?! The project also calls for:

"...two sound columns--one that plays farm sounds when you sit down, another in which you can look upward, see stars and hear crickets. There is a phone-charging column, a children's grotto of columns with swings, an herb-growing column with circulating fans dispersing scents like basil or lavender [Ed note: Yay!], and a juicer column where fresh juice will be made and sold."

There's even talk of growing barley and hops to brew the first P.S. 1 beer, as all of this will be constructed around a pool, in an outdoor space dedicated to summertime dancing and drinking. The space will debut just in time for my return from Spain, so guess where I'm having my welcome back party? (Sorry Jay, you get no say in this one.)

It's likely I'm the sole person who gets excited by the idea of an urban farm, but what else would you expect from a girl who only knew cows as neighbors until the age of six?

Photo: Work Architecture Company (The example photo they released kind of sucks, but the web site has much better depictions, which unfortunately cannot be downloaded.)

Could this be the beginning of the end?

This post is at risk of over sharing. Consider yourself forewarned.

Around that time of the month, I tend to get severe cravings, usually for chocolate or salt, which, as every menstruating woman knows, is a big no-no, as caffeine and salt only make cramps worse. This month, however, has been different--I'm craving meat.

As a vegetarian, I know that having meat on the mind usually means I need to up my protein intake, but thus far that tactic hasn't worked. I happen to have a bit of pepperoni in the house, as I made the coveted pepperoni bread for Corrie's Super Bowl party on Sunday. By and by, I've been cutting off just a sliver and eating it. I didn't realize how often I'd been doing this until today when, on a recent trip to the refrigerator, I horrifyingly realized there's only about a quarter of the 'roni left (about half of the stick went to use in Sunday's bread). That's a whole quarter of pepperoni in three days, people. I'm so ashamed!

Perhaps there was something prophetic in what Jay's friend, Gabel, said to me on Sunday, after he found out I made the pepperoni bread: "You know Jenn, some people say pepperoni is a gateway meat."

A preview

...Of our apartment in Seville! I've been meaning to post these photos for a while and I figure my standard 3 p.m. procrastination hour is as good a time as any. Behold:



The living room, with what we hope is a futon so that when people come visit, we won't have to share a twin bed (more on that later).



The uneventful kitchen. Since I don't cook, its sparsity doesn't bother me much, though I'm not sure how well Chef Boehmer will manage.



The bedroom. Just like Lucy and Desi's.




Bathroom. Fascinating, yes?



The view of the Alameda de Hercules from our shared roof terrace. It doesn't look like much here, but we've been told that in the warmer months this is where las personas de Espana come to relax in the evenings over a bottle of vino. (And therewith, is about the extent of my Spanish. That, and "Donde esta el bano?")

photos: Seville5

All is right with the world

The Giants just had to win the Super Bowl, because I couldn't stand the thought of Tom Brady pulling off the unbelievable trifecta of knocking up Bridget Moyhahan, leaving her to bang Gisele and leading an undefeated team to a world championship win.

Plus, last night's win managed to raise my father's excitement decibel from Eeyore to Charlie Brown.

Good work, team.

Upon discovering PetFinder now features video...

Eat Me, Pray for Me, Love Me

My instinct is to hate this blog. Reading it generates the same "ugh" feeling I got after taking in a few pages of Elizabeth Gilbert's "Eat, Pray, Love." (Truth be told, I didn't hate the book, just Liz's pig out across Italy. Her determination to successfully meditate at an ashram was much more fascinating to me.)

Why all the hate, you ask, especially since I'm about to embark on my own similar journey?

Well, I'd like to think that it's only partially because they got the recognition or scored the book deal before I did. Mostly what bores me is yet another story of a glamorous Manhattan media-type who takes off to some far off land because she got dumped/dumped someone/thinks she deserves more both psychologically and spiritually than what her current living situation offers.

Enough already! These stories are on the fast-track to Clichéville and smack of self-importance. It bothers me that such quests have to be wrapped in a cloak of spirituality and tied with a bow of meaningfulness in order to appear purposeful. Come on, kids, lets call these journeys of "self-discovery" what they really are! Exercises in self-indulgence! (As evidenced by The Lost Girls' media inquiries page and Gilbert securing the book deal for EPL before she embarked on her trip). Unless you're going to Africa to give malaria shots to orphans or to Peru to help rebuild a city after a devastating earthquake, the trip ultimately helps no one but yourself, no matter (or perhaps in light of) how many copies you later sell.

This is true even of my own experience. People often ask me, "What prompted you to move to Spain?" and for a while, I had trouble answering the question, because the truth sounds so selfish, and no one wants to sound selfish.

But simply put, I'm moving to Spain because I can. No psychological crisis necessary. Although a book deal would be nice.

Exclusive! Media Use of Exclusive is Spiraling Out of Control

A magazine I used to work for tended to get a little out of hand in its pursuit of the "exclusive" slug, tagging it on items as meaningless as some exec saying they might maybe do something about that thing soon. But none of that matters, because this Us Weekly "Exclusive" takes the cake, and makes me so happy that I am not required to be that inane for a living.

Signs of a Frequent Flyer

JEOPARDY! is not my game. Usually I'm a Wheel watcher, mostly because it requires less thoughtful effort. But this week, I happened upon JEOPARDY! and managed to kick ass in one category, "Landing at JFK." I got every question right, and while I was elated at first, my usual stupidity in every other category quickly set in, which made me feel less smart and more like a female version of Tom Hanks in "The Terminal." You are what you know, I guess, and so, in an effort to keep that feeling of smart superiority going, this quiz here is meant to determine whether or not you are enough of a quick-thinking frequent flyer to hang with me. No cheating!

For $200:
Located at Terminal 3, this company with a Greek letter as its name offers 1,500 daily flights.

Answer.

For $400:
This airline at Terminal 4 was formed by the Irish government in April 1936 and has been in the "Aer" ever since.

Answer.

For $600:
Now at Terminal 4, this company's first flight, from Amsterdam to London on May 17, 1920, was letter perfect.

Answer.

For $800:
This Terminal 4 company was founded in 1984 by Richard Branson; over million people flew it by the end of the decade.

Answer.

For $1,000:
On February 20, 2007, this Terminal 6 airline introduced its "Customer Bill of Rights."

Answer.

I'll take friends that score $1,200 or better, Alex.

Mice on a Plane*

First poop, now this:

"Chinese inspectors found eight mice, dead and alive, on a United Airlines flight [from Washington, D.C.] to Beijing after the airline reported the stowaways to local quarantine officials upon landing Sunday afternoon, Xinhua news agency said."

I'm not so concerned about mice on a plane, per se. They're kind of cute, minus the tails; and really, any diseases these rodents might bring are just China's karmic retribution for shipping us all those lead-tainted toys this holiday season. What gets me is that these mice, both dead and alive, were found (among other places) in the pillows supplied to flyers for their comfort.

I happen to have two of those neck pillows made for flying (basically the frequent flyer's equivelant of fanny packs) and when Jay and I were packing for Scotland, I asked if he wanted one. He declined, replying, "Why would you lug that around when they give them to you on the plane?"

At the time, I couldn't think of a viable reason for such geekiness, but now, about a month later, I have one, and it will forever be my excuse for flying with those lame-ass looking things.


* yes, its an obvious title and I'm certainly not the only one to think of it, but I'm feeling especially uncreative today.

So this is the new year

...And I feel somewhat different. Mostly, hungover. But, in other news:

• I severely fell off the vegetarian wagon New Year's Eve, thanks to another of Jay's stupendous stylings in the kitchen: these delectable little ham croquettes (pictured here). Yes, they look suspiciously like Jay's famous risotto balls, but these croquettes are on another level. Never have everything I usually avoid ingesting tasted so great: meat, cheese and milk, all wrapped up in fried panko break crumbs. Never fear, I'm back to my veggie-eating ways as of today.

• Spain is happening, people! Most of you know this, but for those of you that don't, Jay and I are moving to Seville for three months beginning in March. Just for the hell of it, really, but largely because of this. All are welcome to come visit and I suspect I'll see more of you making the six-hour transatlantic trek than I did when I moved an hour away to Queens.

• As I mentioned before, I've quit my job. People have asked why I would quit a job that allows me to travel the world on someone else's dime and the answer is two-fold: Mostly, it's in preparation for Spain, but also because some times the dream jobs are, in actuality, nightmares.

• So! I begin life as a freelance writer in the next few weeks. All of your well wishes (and leads) are mucho appreciated, as are your encouragements that all will work out. I promise to do my best to remember to brush my teeth and shower every day, even though I may not leave the house. In the coming months, you can see my words in Zink and starting soon, I'll also be a regular contributer to HotelChatter. Plus, a shamelessly self-promoting web site is on its way.

Feliz ano nuevo!

Thank you

I'm the type of person who looks for signs. Signs that what I'm about to do is the right thing; signs that I did the right thing; signs that I missed an opportunity. Sometimes they appear; more often than not, they don't. But when they do appear, I feel a confidence that no person or words can otherwise give me. Whether these signs come from God, fate, the universe, or are just mere idiotic coincidence, I don't know, but they are nonetheless comforting.

Yesterday, I turned down a promotion and quit my job. Honestly, I had sort of expected to panic the second I left my boss' office, much like I had when I plunked down the hefty deposit for my own apartment in New York. I'd be lying if I said I didn't experience a little anxiety over the move--especially after the guttural "What?!" my usually laid-back father uttered when I told him--but in general, I felt calm. Still, on the subway ride home, I asked for a sign. A sign that I had done the right thing in quitting my job--and not just in quitting my job, but in uprooting everything I know and truly testing the strength of mine and Jay's relationship by moving to Spain.

This morning, in yoga class (of all the places this may be completely apropos or incredibly cheesy), my instructor read the following quote from Anais Nin at the end of a particularly challenging hour and a half:

"It takes courage to push yourself to places you've never been before, to test your limits, to break through barriers. And the day came when the risk it took to remain inside the bud was more painful then the risk it took to blossom."

I got my answer.

The suite life

Jay said it best upon our arrival at Gleneagles Hotel in Perthshire, Scotland: People don't even honeymoon this good. Below, a video of our suite (forgive our giddiness, we had just arrived) and here, photos.



Now the run down:

Day 1
Despite its royal reputation, Gleneagles is anything but stuffy. (In 2005, the G8 Summit was held there, and in 2014, the hotel will host the Ryders Cup on its famed golf courses.) In fact, the only thing I found stiff about this hotel was my starchy napkin during breakfast. We arrived at Gleneagles just in time for breakfast, a stroke of luck, as we’ve heard wonderful things about its buffet from dear Corrie, who visited earlier this year. It certainly does not disappoint, offering up tailor-made omelets, classic Scottish haggis and an array of delicious pastries, which we had no problem devouring every morning.

After breakfast, we were escorted to Gleneagles’ hunting school, where Ian schools us in the craft of clay pigeon shooting. Given that the only hunting Jay and I have ever taken part in was through Nintendo’s “Duck Hunt,” we need some work. We each hit a few, but I'm told I have a quick trigger finger. Guns are heavy things, so afterwards we head for massages, natch. Every day should be so difficult.

Day 2
The day we venture to Edinburgh happens to be the coldest day of the year so far for Scotland, as my occasionally forced smile in the photos will show you.

Day 3
When I told people I was going to Scotland, those who know I haven’t eaten meat in six years scoffed, “Good luck!” Surely there’s more rabbit, lamb, and haggis on every menu here than I’ve likely seen in my entire life, but that doesn’t mean the country has turned a cold shoulder on its herbivore residents and visitors. In fact, they’ve even managed to come up with a vegetarian version of haggis (a Scottish dish similar to sausage), made of lentils and other beans.

But it's no doubt that Scotland tested my animal-loving limits. First was falconry lessons at Gleneagles Hotel; followed by gun dog training. When William first introduced us to his collection of hawks and eagles, I thought I’d feed the birds some seeds and watch them do some tricks; I had no idea we’d actually take them into the surrounding fields of farmland to hunt rabbits.

On the three-hour trek, our birds of prey, Saunders and Victor, were 50/50, netting two kills out of four attempts. Watching the kills weren't as heart wrenching as I thought they would be—after all, I wasn’t the one killing the rabbit, merely following the bird that did. (Although one rabbit did manage to let out a heartbreaking scream during one kill, which slowed my enthusiasm a little.) William was careful to make sure the animal didn’t suffer; discreetly ensuring the rabbit was dead (i.e. breaking its neck) and not just in shock before he disposed of it. (The deceased are later taken to a nearby rehabilitation center to serve as food for wounded wild animals, so at least it's not all for sport.) In truth, it’s the chase that’s thrilling; but you’d be mistaken if you thought I looked hard to spot rabbits for these hawks to swoop down and kill.

Next, gun dog training. Having grown up with dogs and now being residents of New York with small apartments and no yards, Jay and I were in terrible dog withdrawal, and may have been more excited to be out playing with dogs more so than they were to be out of the kennel and playing with us. Here too, the animals are well cared after and the trainer was delicate yet stern with the more rambunctious animals. The trainer also tells me that once the 11 dogs, which are between three and four years old, become too old or are injured, and therefore no longer are as spry, they will be found good homes, rather than dispensed to a shelter. I’ve already signed up to have Debbie, a three-year-old black lab who nuzzles your leg for attention, to be shipped to me when the time comes.

Day 4
Back to reality in coach on Continental. Oh well. Being nouveau rich was fun while it lasted.

Doppelganger Strikes Again

I've already gotten my second congratulations-but-sad-to-see-you-go e-mail about this news from BizWeek:

"The Wall Street Journal hires Jennifer Merritt (jennifer.merritt@wsj.com) as 'CareerJournal' editor."

Sadly, it's a success of JM 1.0, not my own. Truth be told, it's slightly annoying having to deflect these e-mails, as it only reminds me of how stunted I am in my current position. For sure, when I vacate my current post, no one will give a hoot--and not just the folks at BizWeek; even more likely, my own boss.