I've come a long way since Stanhope, NJ.

Not only have we been living above a grow shop for the last two months, but we just recently caught on to the fact that "women of the night" (and day, in this case) hang out around the corner from our apartment, right near our favorite gelato shop. And yet! None of this phases me.

I feel so bohemian, circa 1970s East Village.

These Dreams

Ever since I arrived in Seville, I’ve been having really disturbing dreams. Like, for reals. One was about the natural death of someone close to me, another involved me letting someone die for the sake of saving myself, while another had me at a round table interview with Gwyneth Paltrow, my lovely friend and editor Dawn, and my dad, who totally monopolized the interview with thoughtful and engaging questions. All of these dreams leave me equally terrified.

Last night’s was a particular standout. I was badgering Sarah Jessica Parker about why she didn’t like me. I kept asking and asking, like a three-year-old in his why stage, and she refused to answer me. At last exasperated, she shouted, “Fine! You want to know why I don’t like you? Because when I look into your eyes I see nothing!” I was rendered speechless and felt that pang in my chest--you know the one you get, like when you overhear a friend say something nasty about you--and I felt like a completely worthless being, because in this case, SJP was the Dali Lama in a gray frock and too-tight ponytail. I woke up sweaty and shaking.

Weird, right? I’ve been feeling really unhappy with myself here, mostly because I'm so unkempt, being too chicken to go to the salon and ask for an eyebrow wax, manicure and pedicure, so, perhaps that’s it. Plus, t-minus 31 days until the SATC movie opens!

Hi!

We haven't forgotten about you, dear readers, it's just that we're in the midst of 20 straight days of visitors, with whom we've been traveling around Spain; plus our bosses still expect us to work during the week--if you can believe that audacity--so please forgive the sparsity of posts as of late. The good news is, all of this has produced a wealth of material--that is, once we have the time to actually write for fun. In the meantime, here's the lazy blogger's antidote to too much going on, with too little time: a listicle of recent happenings.

• If you're traveling at all in the next few months, you might want to make sure you arrive at the right terminal or even that your chosen airline still exists.

• I've got a new blogging gig, turning celebrity hijinks into valuable parenting lessons. Check it out and comment--just don't mention that I don't have children.

• You can get a little insight into my Andalusian travels by reading some of my recent posts on HotelChatter. Come next week, not all hotels will have fared so well in their reviews.

• Speaking of HotelChatter, the site was just acquired by CondéNet, the online arm of CondéNast. I wonder: Does this now make me a Nastie, once removed?

Exit Interview: Sarah McGinnis

The editorial staff of See Jenn Blog has developed a questionnaire for guests, fielded the night before they leave, to get their impressions of the city. Sarah, our second guest, was a very willing participant, prefacing the interview with, “Can you guys get your shit together and ask me the damn questions?”

Jenn: What was your favorite thing about Seville?
Sarah: Sevici. The bikes, absolutely. Especially riding in a dress the one day—that was an episode. The construction worker I passed liked that one.
Jay: And it wasn’t until you got here that we actually worked up the nerve to go through the city streets.
Sarah: That was probably the best part, riding through the city. People look at you like you’re weird, but who cares? Zooming in and out of the people and just getting around was great. It’s an excellent way to see the city.
[Jenn starts to ask the next question when Sarah interrupts.]
Sarah: And, of course, the company! Can’t leave that out.
Jay: Nice afterthought.
Jenn: No, that’s just a given.
Sarah: Exactly.

Jenn: What was your least favorite thing about Seville?
Sarah: The first thing that comes to mind is Corrie’s response about dog poop. [Ed note: Little did Sarah know that later that evening she was to step into a big steaming pile of it]. I’ll have to mirror that, but also come up with something original. Least favorite: The rude waitress that told you you were ignorant for not knowing Spanish. [Yes, I got reprimanded quite harshly recently—JM]
Jay: That’s risen to the top of my least favorite thing, too.
Jenn: Well, she’s just one out the million people who have been patient with us.
Jay: She is the exception, not the rule, but, yeah, she sucked.
Sarah: A close runner up to that would be the lack of street signs, especially when driving.

Jenn: Was there anything you wanted to experience but didn't?
Sarah: The convent. We missed it because of the time delay we had. That would have been interesting to go inside of a convent.

Jenn: What was the best part of your trip?
Sarah: Getting to see so much and having the time to be able to see so many different cities and experience so much of Andalucia. I’m going to put another plug in for it, but Granada is beautiful, although I love Seville and I’ve had an absolutely fabulous time here, Granada is amazing as well.
Jay: I like how you picked the one city neither of us accompanied you to.
Sarah: That has nothing to do with it. If you guys had been there, you would have been in awe.
Jenn: What was it that you loved so much about Granada?
Sarah: The views, the smells, that the people were so nice--much more outgoing I think than the other towns, but maybe it’s because I was on my own that people felt they could talk to me.
Jenn: Do you think you’ll go back again and spend more time there?
Sarah: I don’t know. I’ve seen it and I don’t know if I’d fly back just to see it again, but I definitely recommend other people go there. Seville and Granada were my two favorite cities. Though it was great seeing all the other stuff, it wasn’t the overall five-senses experience I had here and there.

Jenn: Who would you rather be stranded in a foreign country with for three months: Jay or Jenn?
Sarah: [seemingly nervous] Did Corrie get asked this question?
Jenn: She did!
Sarah: That’s a difficult question because I’ve been to Mexico with Jenn [I hate Mexico—JM], so that was a different experience all together. I might say Jay because at least he can tell me where to go. For no other reason than that.
Jenn: [to Jay] We’re one for one.
Jay: Thanks for including me. That was a very diplomatic answer.
Sarah: I think there were a few times—and Jenn you’ll have to forgive me this—but where I was like, “Jenn! Where am I turning now?!” and I was getting impatient. My lack of patience can be annoying at times, so, sorry!

Jenn: Could you see yourself living in Seville? Why or why not?
Sarah: Absolutely. It would mean weekend trips to Granada! I would definitely live in Granada and I would live here, too. I love Spain all around. Why wouldn’t I live here? What reason is there not to live here? Except for the fact that I don’t have a job here.

Sarah and a Series of Firsts

There is a first time for everything and it just so happens that a lot of firsts occurred with the visit of our friend and my former roommate Sarah. (She's an adventurous gal, so it makes sense.)

These first times included, but were not limited to, biking through Seville's city center (exhilarating, as we usually stick to the designated bike path); a bullfight (nauseating--or so I hear); driving through Spain (anxiety inducing); and a flamenco show at the renowned Casa Anselma, (fun, if not exactly as described by the guide books, which are becoming more useless every day, perhaps not surprisingly, given all the recent scandal).

Here are pictures, and above a video of said flamenco, which features an extremely sweaty man and a pretty bartender Jay totally would have put the moves on if I wasn't around.

UPDATE: The gauntlet has been thrown: Sarah has posted a whopping 526 photos on Snapfish.

Time Warped

On March 30, 2008 at 2 AM, the residents of Spain turned their clocks forward one hour—all the residents but us. For two weeks, we operated on Jay And Jenn Standard Time (JAJST), unwittingly sharing the Greenwich Mean zone with Iceland and parts of the Atlantic Ocean. All the while we would say to each other, “I’ll never understand the Spanish schedule.”

Finally, A Device That Kills Our Buzz

The mosquito problem is over thanks to a little contraption that plugs into our outlet. I didn’t read the manual, but I assume it emits some sort of vaporized insecticide. Now, when mosquitoes fly into its deadly path, the noxious vapors stop them mid-flight, forcing their little mosquito carcasses to plummet upon our sleeping bodies. Though our bed is converted into a mosquito graveyard by morning and the fumes may poison us both, it beats being awakened by a buzzing in the ear.

Serenity Now

Actually, the serenity took place yesterday, on the way back to Seville from Cordoba.

The Meanest Candy Guy In The World

General Franco is alive and well, and he is working at the candy kiosk on the south end of the Alameda de Hercules. I discovered this a week ago. It was a normal Friday evening in Seville—sunny, warm. The locals were enjoying tapas and vino at the cafes that dot our street. I, the lonely stranger, an American, stepped into the night to buy wine at the liquor shop. Jenn’s last words reverberated in my mind: “Grab me something sweet while you’re out. Something chocolaty.” I didn’t want to feed her all-consuming taste for coco and sugar—the brown stuff, mocha, black velvet. But I knew if I didn’t comply, her condition would deteriorate, perhaps into convulsions.

My bag was full of Rioja and vino blanco—the seco kind, not that dulce stuff—when I stepped to his booth. “Uh… uh… Uno Kit-Kat, por favor,” I timidly spoke through his little speak hole, the kind that adorn candy kiosks in Spain. His eyes were cold, his temper fomenting. His words shot back at me like cruel, mocking bullets that could not properly hit their target—for those bullets were in Spanish, and the target spoke none.

“Uh…uhmmmmm… Unos Keeet-Kaaaht, por fah-bor!!!” I fumbled, speaking louder, pointing my staccato finger for emphasis at that delicious confection alluringly hugging the window like a stripper in one of those peep booths. I grew panicky. I wanted to retreat, but then pictured Jenn on our apartment floor, needing the sweet, that dark chocolate rain. I’m sure by now she had grown desperate, gripped once again in the clench of her fanged sweet tooth.

He looked at me, said something I cannot repeat, for it was in a strange tongue. And then, in a tone befitting a cruel dictator at the crescendo of his angriest speech, he spoke: “Keeeeet-Kaahhhhhht!!!” His uncaring fingers impatiently pulled that delicious candy from its perch, his glare singed my eyes, and then he released the Kit-Kat before me. He said something. I handed him a Euro, cowering as I awaited my change.

But there would be no change that day, my friends. For, apparently it costs a Euro to buy a Kit-Kat in Spain. But I knew I was lucky to escape from General Franco with those four light, crispy, chocolate-coated wafers and my life.

It finally happened.

Last night, tired of cooking and sick of tapas, we decided to try this sushi joint we stumbled upon a few weeks ago. Big mistake. It was as if, in lieu rice, they soaked white bread in water and wrapped it around the contents of a California roll. Further adding insult to injury, this sushi's craptasticness only made me long for the indomitable Watawa in Astoria.

So it's back to tapas, which doesn't make me homesick.

Lunchtime Poll

Aliens (aka upcoming visitors) land on earth (aka Seville) and say they're going to make you (not really) attend a bullfight (aka bullfight), the same day you caught glimpses of a bullfight on TV and decided you couldn't handle it. What do you do?

Seriously. Bullfight season is in full swing and when Jay and I happened upon a televised fight at a bar today, I started tearing up the minute the poor thing pranced into the ring, unawares of what he was walking into. The whole thing is, in fact, worse than I imagined. Horses are involved, as are these spears, which look tiny but produce a nauseating amount of blood from the animal. I had no idea if the poor creature made it (it is, of course, doubtful), because Jay just kept telling me, "Don't look up. Just finish your drink and we'll go. Don't look up."

But the decision isn't the no-brainer it seems. Bullfighting is an incredibly integral part of Spanish culture, and Seville in particular. The stands are packed full of men in three-piece suits and women in their best archaic Sunday attire. If the whole point of this excursion is to immerse oneself in the day to day life of a Sevilliano, how can one not attend a bullfight? It seems so righteously uptight to not attend the spectacle based on principle, especially since I have been a far-from-perfect vegetarian since arriving here.

I await your advice in the comments.

Sangria Is For Suckers

Since arriving in Seville, I noticed about 30 percent of the patrons at any given café will be drinking what looks like Sangria on the rocks with a lemon slice. However, a confused exchange with a local bartender revealed that many Spaniards prefer another wine-based cocktail instead of the famous drink many Americans associate with Spain, and some with Mexico (for no apparent reason). Our bartender was kind enough to write the name down on the back of a receipt: Tinto de Verano, which means “Summer Wine.”

Since then, the fizzy, fruity and mildly sweet cocktail has become the base of my food pyramid—occupying the large slot the FDA reserves for whole grains or vegetables or something. It has what every man desires in an effervescent, wine-based cocktail, and goes great with tapas, fried foods or long days of work. I’ve since noticed that even when we’ve run out of eggs, bread and milk, our fridge will hold the makings of a slim, dainty glass of Tinto de Verano. I’m drinking one right now.

Let me break it down for you:

- Drop a few ice cubes into a glass (The Spanish seem to like a tall, slender glass or what bartenders know as the Collins Glass)

- Fill halfway with cheap red wine—if it has a cork, you paid too much

- Fill the rest of the glass with La Casera, a Spanish soft drink* that’s a cross between sparkling lemonade and Sprite, though not as sweet as either

- Squeeze a slice of lemon in there

- Drink

- Repeat up to nine times every afternoon, or until groggy

*I realize the use of “soft drink” betrays my Ohio roots, where “pop” is preferred. At least I refused to relent to Jenn’s insistence on “soda,” a word reserved for East Coast elitists like her. I’m still a “pop” man at heart. Go Buckeyes!

All work and little pay makes Jenn an angry girl.

Ed. note: This is my last whiny media-related post, I swear. Well, at least for a while anyway.

It ain’t easy freelancing. Those of you who are successful at it, I salute you, because honestly, I do not know how anyone can earnestly earn a living at it anymore, given the inconceivably crappy pay days I’ve come across as of late.* To wit, a recent smattering of compensation rates I’ve been unfortunate enough to actually click through to: $15 for 300 word articles, $20 for 300-500 word articles, $25 for 500+ words. Granted these are small articles, but it only gets more pathetic as the word counts get higher. I want to tell these people, are you effing kidding me?! And I rarely use exclamation points, so when I do you know I mean business.

And you know whom I blame for this rapidly descending pay rate? Bloggers. (Oh, the irony.) Those scores of wannabe writers who link to their blog posts as writing samples and will take any rate at the sake of having been published somewhere other than their self-fashioned web site. And you know what I want to say to these people? This “hobby” that you’ve taken up as a way to obtain some fulfillment that lacks in your career as a human resources manager—which likely pays you $80,000+ annually—is detracting from the fulfillment I’m striving for, namely, being able to, oh—I dunno—buy an apple every now and then.

The fact that I went to school for four years laboriously learning how to construct a lede, the time I spent debating the use of series versus Oxford commas, means nothing. Basically, I spent thousands of dollars learning a craft that you’ve managed to destroy with the advent of Blogger/Wordpress/Typepad et al.

God help me if Tumblr really takes off.

OK. Rant. Over.

*Chris, Gina, Ysolt, this post is in no way directed at any of you. Your regular use of my skillz helps me pay the billz, yo.

Exit Interview: Corrie Dosh

The editorial staff of See Jenn Blog has developed a questionnaire for guests, fielded the night before they leave, to get their impressions of the city. Corrie Dosh was, as she put it, the “first visitor to J&J Music Factory.” Here is a transcript of her exit interview:

Jay: What was your favorite thing about Seville?
Corrie: The food—fantastic food. I love the idea of tapas, just crawling around and eating as you go, taking little plates, though little plates added up to more little plates. So, whether I ate less, I don’t know. But I definitely got my exercise going from bar to bar.

Jenn: What was your favorite dish?
Corrie: The cheese! The rosemary-baked goat cheese… a little taste of heaven. I definitely recommend the cheese. Also, the picnic was a favorite. There were day-to-day favorites, but overall the food was great.

Jay: What was your least favorite thing about Seville?
Corrie: Dog poop (Sevillians don’t curb their dogs or clean up after them--Ed.) and maybe how fast Jay walks everywhere.
Jenn: I know! Now I’ll be all by myself 10 feet behind him for another week and a half. But that’s just Jay, that’s not life in Seville.
Corrie: Poop and Jay—those are my least favorite.

Jay: Was there anything here you wanted to experience but didn’t?
Corrie: The flamenco. I did see it, but it would be good to see a full-on performance. Also, a bullfight—those are the two main things. I’d also like to experience one day of Semana Santa, maybe not the whole thing where I’d be trapped in [one area], but one day. But that’s for the next trip.

Jay: What was the best part of your trip?
Corrie: The best is just seeing two great friends of mine in a great country and having an adventure with them, getting to connect with them in a new way. The people I met, even Eric—the slightly skeezy guy who showed us the bathroom very helpfully but tended to be a little clingy.
Jenn: He thought you were muy bonita!
Corrie: He thought I was muy single… I also loved Italica, just to have an adventure and get out and see stuff. I like old stuff.
Jay: It was my first Roman ruin.
Corrie: Yeah. It was a good intro. I should go to Rome next.

Jay: Who would you rather be stranded in a foreign country with for three months: Jay or Jenn?
Corrie: Jenn, because she speaks the language. I can use Jenn. I loved the whole part of the trip where people would speak to us and we would just turn to Jenn.
Jenn: Though Jay has better directional abilities than I do.
Corrie: True. We would go through a maze of Seville streets and end up magically at our destination thanks to Jay.
Jay: An hour later.
Corrie: For all I knew, we were on track the whole time.
Jay: It probably seems like a much larger city to you.
Corrie: Yes, Seville is a huge, sprawling city.

Jay: Could you see yourself living in Seville? Why or why not?
Corrie: I could see myself living here for the culture—also it’s just so relaxed. Basically, all people do here are eat, talk and relax—those are things I like to do. Also, I think the bikes are one of the best things about this city. The whole idea of picking it up somewhere and if you get to your destination within a half hour, it’s free. I think every city should have a bike system like Seville. I’d like to spend springs in Seville, I don’t know about the rest of the year.

Comped With Corrie

Our guests' visits are sort of evolving into a "Choose Your Own Adventure" series and in Corrie's case—who is the perfect guest because she is so c'est la vie—the trip culminated into "Spain: The Land of the Free." During her time here we netted complimentary jamón croquettas, a round of drinks, a separate round of shots and entry to Italica, the nearby Roman ruins. With the exception of Italica, these gracious givings were all at places Jay and I frequent on a weekly basis, places where we've gotten to know the bartenders and wait staff--at least to the degree our limited Spanish will let us. How generous the Spanish are! That, or they know how much we Americans like to impress one another.

Either way, having our first visitor was a blast and not just because she provided us with someone else to talk to. Have a look at mine and Corrie's 100+ photos from her visit.

Meet My New Guitar

Juan Luis Cayuela Bachiller is the third-generation luthier in the guitar-making dynasty Cayuela family. From his workshop in Seville, he handcrafts beautiful instruments for many of Spain’s flamenco greats, delicately bringing dead wood and nylon strings to life.

When I stepped into his shop this week, he was sitting in the corner hammering out a flamenco tune on one of his flawless instruments. I was awestruck by the guitar, highly glossed and perfectly constructed. There were dozens like it lining the walls—all carefully crafted pieces that asked prices up to €4,000. His siren song, plucked in clearly resonating tones, beckoned me to max out my Visa, indenture myself as a lowly servant or barter my girlfriend.

Luckily, the Cayuela guitar shop also offers more affordable models that cater to the flamenco guitar needs of housewives, kids and tourists. Though another Seville-based manufacturer assembles them, I picked one up and haven’t regretted it. That’s it in the photo.

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!