Visa Hunting in Miami

24 hours later, I forgot that I had gone. January and I drove down to Miami, paying toll after toll and mindlessly eating an assortment of fast food and Pumpkin Spice Starbucks Frappuccinos. The angry Hispanic man on the phone had told my mother that we should be in line at the Consulate at about 7:00 am, even though the consulate doesn't open until 9:30. January and I, thinking ourselves the most intelligent human beings in the world, awoke even earlier and stood in the light drizzle at 6:30. There were two people in front of us. At 8:30, when they opened the doors, the four of us waltzed into the consulate, all a little worried that there was no huge line clamoring at the gates. Was there a secret, hidden line somewhere? What were we doing wrong?

Spanish Mercedes quickly attended me, and I heaved a sigh of relief as she stamped all my documents, including the "Doctor's note" that my aunt the nurse signed for us, my technically illegal passport, since I had stayed in Spain longer than six months, and the half-heartedly filled out visa application form. She cheerfully told me that the visas have been arriving amazingly fast and that I should get it in the next few days. I kung-fu gripped my passport tightly and told her I had a Very Important Trip to make on the 7th of January, and I Need This Back. She leaned in, winked, and told me that if I bring her an overnight envelope, she'll send me my passport on the 5th, with or without the visa. I am overjoyed.

You Cannot Retract The Jihad

[With chagrin]

I opened the lonely folder in my backpack for no real reason except a tiny, tiny mental itch that whispered a little "What if...?" in the back of my head.

My visa application, magical work permit from the Ministry of Labor, and assorted paraphenalia popped out, like children playing hide and go seek. They had hidden well. I mentally kicked myself and physically slapped my forehead. A trip to Miami is in the next 12 hours, after delaying it needlessly. As wise philosopher Cher once said, "If I could turn back time."

My parents and I believe that my baggage is still in North Carolina, although Alex the friendly USAirways robot continually assures us that our baggage has not yet been located. The jihad on USAirways is still in effect. This changes nothing.

Above All: Don't Drink The Water

The water dispenser from the refrigerator makes an odd, creaky noise. I briefly glance at it and continue talking to my parents. Later, during lunch, I take a look at my almost empty cup of water and see little black specks floating in it.
"What is this?!"
My Dad looks up from his meal for a moment. "Do you have black stuff in your water?"
I show him my cup with a worried look on me face, but he just shrugs.
"Don't worry about it; I forgot to tell you that the water filter is broken. It's just trash."
For some small reason, I didn't really feel comforted.

Merry Christmas.

Putting A Jihad On USAirways

My sad piece of luggage, in reality a carry-on that to my disasterous misfortune was not, indeed, carried on, sits lonely in some ginormous warehouse in North Carolina. Will no one sort it? Can no one in the world find it? My Visa application, along with all sorts of rotting candied presents, patiently sit while the workers eat ham sandwiches and go on break.

Read about my homeless luggage sitting in North Carolina:
Airlines struggle to solve glitches

Harry Potter and Other Unsung Christmas Heroes

We're doing a small Christmas crossword puzzle. Christmas, even though it is celebrated in Spain, is nowhere near as important or popular as it is in the States. My students are continuously confounded by my Christmas cheer. "Aren't you excited about the holidays?" I perkily ask them on a daily basis. They shrug nonchalantly, implying that there truly is nothing to be so excited about. True to Spanish form.

3 Down: A Stingy Old Man.
My student looks up at me. His forehead wrinkles in deep thought. "Harry Potter?"
I look at him disgustedly.

7 across: Santa's little helper.
No one can get this answer. I try to help them out. "You know, like Legolas from Lord of the Rings!" One student brightens up immediately. She knows this answer!
"A Gnome!" she says excitedly.
I try to picture Santa surrounded by his little Christmas gnomes.

Not The Good Kind Of Crazy

In the short 30 minutes between my last two classes of the day, I sometimes run down to Burger King and wolf down a quick meal. This particular visit I chose a small seat in the back of the restaurant, in front of an older woman perusing a magazine. I began to eat my french fries. RRRIIIPPP. The sound came from behind. Was she ripping up her magazine? I shrugged quietly, and took another bite of my fries. RRRIIIPPP. What is she doing? Does she not like the picture? RRRIIIPPP. Accompanying the rips of her magazine, the woman began to mutter to herself, unintelligible and loudly. Curiosity overtook me and I turned somewhat, pretending to rifle through my bag. I sneaked a peek at her. She was systematically ripping page by page of her magazines into small squares and placing them into small piles. Suddenly she looked up.

There's always this moment where, when caught doing something you know that you shouldn't, you do the first thing that pops into your mind. Normally this action, not being one that has been thoroughly thought out or planned, isn't always the best. Once I was at a stoplight staring at the person in the car next to me. The person suddenly looked at me, and I, in shock, stuck out my tongue. Saywhat?

She looked up, an angry look on her face. I had interrupted her in the act of crazy. I turned around quickly, too quickly, making obvious the fact that I had been staring. I plugged iPedro up and prayed that she wouldn't begin to talk to me.

Days later, I was walking down a nearby street. The wind had picked up as the crazy scientists continued their evil weather battle, and I huddled into my big coat a bit. A small square of Brad Pitt flew by my head, and I smiled a bit, thinking of Crazy Burger Lady. I looked down and realized that the entire street was littered with these small squares of celebrities, all meticulously ripped into fours. Did she drop them in haste, running from someone? Or was this her master plan, tiny paper bombs? I smiled again and continued the long walk home.

Forecast: Sunny, with a High Chance of Mullet

Having reserved my appointment at the too-hip-for-you Juan, Por Dios! (Juan, for the love of God!) a week earlier, I've been growing my hair out as fast as I could and waiting eagerly for my fancy new hairdo. I walked in, and they served me a Coke as I waited. Immediately I was impressed, but I calmly withheld judgment until actually meeting my hair stylist. Her name was Bea(triz). She cracked a joke about the Pope and I decided that she should be my new hairstylist forever and ever. I allowed her to work her styling magic, only stopping her for a moment to tell her that I am an English teacher so it couldn't be anything too... I hesitated at a proper adjective. "...Extravagant?" She suggested. I knew right away the kinds of extravagancies she could come up with. I nodded my head.

She snipped and pulled as little as possible, saying at one point, "I'm sorry, does this hurt?"
I began, "Well, not really..." but was quickly cut off.
"Sweetie, Fashion is Pain." She whipped my chair around dramatically to face the mirror.

Where's My Paint?!

It's cold. No wait, it's hot. Madrid's situation on a plateau makes its weather go haywire, like it's being simultaneously controlled by two evil scientists who are definitely not happy with each other. As the temperature slowly drops, though, the lovely geriatric ladies of Spain have been rifling through their closets and busting out their nice, expensive, very real fur coats. Have you ever seen a dead fox hanging from Granny's neck? Even better: a fur scarf, mercilessly headless but with little paws still attached? Yikes. Now, I am by no means a card-carrying PETA member, but I find all this fur a trifle outrageous. Or very outrageous. Can I justify me eating meat or wearing my leather shoes? Um, no. But I still find myself reaching for a can of paint that isn't there whenever someone, cloaked in the skin of dead Yeti, passes on the road. Insert contemptuous sneer here.

ain't she glam?

It's Everywhere You Want To Be

The office staff applauds as I walk in. It seems my application for a work visa was approved today. What it is exactly that they are applauding is beyond me. Should I step aside so that my résumé can take a bow? Should I pat my past work experience on the back?

God Bless My Genes

As he prepares the poster I'm buying as a present for Australian Katie's birthday, he tells me he's really glad that someone has finally bought this print. It is a cartoon picture of Madrid's main square, and it's a different view from all the postcards and typical posters. He says as much. He really likes this poster. I smile and say that yeah, it's nice; I tell him that I also think that the one of Barcelona, by the same artist, is really cool. He shrugs somewhat and says "Yeah, but this is more, I don't know, Spanish." His capitalizing comes through clearly in his speech. He winks at me conspiratorially, and we are suddenly both two feisty Madrileños downing the oppressive separatism that plagues Barcelona and environ. I suddenly decide not to tell him that I'm learning to speak Catalan. He continues praising the poster of Madrid, telling me that the artist is that famous guy who did all of the commercials in the 80's, don't I remember? I stuff my Georgia Driver's License back into my wallet hastily. This man thinks I'm Spanish. I pay in cash and purse my lips, determined not to breathe an incorrectly pronounced syllable. My grandmother's Puerto Rican genes, weakened as they are by two generations of intrusive American DNA, shine through still.

Heed Your Horoscope

Giving in to the wild urgings of my horoscope, which told me this week to ask for what I need and don't be afraid of the answer, I talked to Nice Natalie in the office about dropping some of the hours I've been saddled with. We came to the conclusion that I should be able to drop about five, putting me down to a respectable 25 hours a week, with virtually no problems. The only possible problem is the fact that the Academy is graciously giving me a work visa, and that's something that very few places are willing to do, no matter how quality you may be as an English teacher. They may think that I am an investment too valuable to lose for five hours and crankily refuse me. Nonetheless, the next step is talking with Miguel, who is the big boss and who I furtively avoid every time I step into the office. I'm planning the perfect pout as we speak, trying to judge just how pathetic to look while I plead my case.

You, too, should pay attention to what Free Will Astrology says about your future.

Jonesin' For Marzipan

On the long weekend, (praise be to Catholic saints and their ever-present holidays), we take a daytrip to Toledo, famous for swords and marzipan. The former I'm not too interested in, not having sold my soul to the Lord of the Rings and not yet feeling the need for a reenactment of the battle of Minas Tirith. No, it is the marzipan, unlike the swords, which has become an addiction of mine these past few weeks.

For those not in the know, marzipan is basically clumps of sugar shaped into small figures. The most common of the figures here seems to be either a trumpet or a whale. I have vague memories of the movie The Marzipan Pig from when I was younger, and my brother and sister and I always did wonder what marzipan was exactly. The fact that it is edible was apparent, as you can see from the picture above: the pig is laying on its side while being snacked upon. That's one scene I won't forget. Marzipan is made of crushed almonds and the best marzipan here is apparently made by nuns who aren't allowed to show you their faces or speak. They open a small door in the convent, you stick your money in, and they shove some marzipan at you. It all seems quite shady, like the old nuns are in fact manufacturing crack in-between bible studies and rosary clicking. Can't I just buy my marzipan out in the open?

In addition to me and the nuns, it would seem that Martha Stewart loves it, too.

Winter Wonders

I celebrated the beginning of December by planning a week of classes in advance. In between bored lesson creations I check my horoscope, which pleads with me to stop thinking of future and past plans and focus on the present. It has been my thought lately to have a talk with powers that be at American Language and reduce my hours somewhat, in the hopes that I can actually feel like I'm in Spain. It's been a recurring complaint in this blog and in my life, and perhaps it is time to do something about it.