Personal Reflections

And, finally, to end this series, I write a few words on my personal observations about … well, myself! Here there are, in no particular order.

*Author’s note: I strive to write honestly about the changes I have observed in myself. This is not a pity party on myself, but merely me being open and candid.*

My love for Spanish has been evolving. It’s so very complicated. I have days where Spanish just flows forth from my tongue and my ears comprehend all that falls upon them. Then there are days where I wonder why I ever thought it would be a good idea to study a language. I feel that I will never be perfect in it, nor understand it even in the slightest. Those are the days I feel isolated and unable to communicate myself to others. I feel uncultured and struck deaf and dumb. It’s frightening. That’s when I remind myself that I have much to learn and will always be learning (which perhaps is the reason that I choose to study a language in the first place) as language is always evolving.

Deciding to come home: This was not an easy decision. I hold myself to high standards, and admitting that I want to go home feels like failing to me. But I also know that my heart is back in the States. I love being in Spain, I love living my life here. I also know that I will be ready to go back come summer. I came here trying to do a job, trying to get involved in the culture and the people here. I just feel that I don’t fit, that I haven’t found my niche. I’m probably too American—and I’m damn proud of it!

This—being in Spain—is my life, not just an experience. I have a gym membership, I tutor, I have friends and plans and activities. Some people, after hearing that I will return to the States, say “So, this is just an experience for you?” But being here in Spain is not “just” an experience. This line of thought assumes that “an experience” is something that ends. It has a definitive termination point. Therefore, “living” is what you do when there is no definitive termination point. But doesn’t life end? So then isn’t life itself an experience? Regardless of how you feel on the subject, I don’t see Spain as “just” an experience: It’s my life regardless of where I am.

Another aspect of my life that I have come to terms with is the transitional style of my life for the past 10 to 12 years. Around middle school, I started shuttling back and forth between my parents’ homes. Then I changed from elementary to middle to high school then to college. Then I moved between parents’ homes and dorm rooms. Then I came to Spain. I’ve never realized how this transition has worn me out. There have been so many times that I wonder where my weariness comes from—I feel so old for being 22 some days—and now I think it has come from the endless shuffle that is my life. Don’t get me wrong, there’s a grand portion of this transition that I’ve been very happy to do. The difference is that I now recognize how much of my mentality has been focused on “Where to next? What happens next? What do I need to have? What are we doing after this? Am I prepared for everything?” This mentality accounts for the deep, dark guilt I harbor within myself for sitting down for more than an hour, or sleeping in, or not having plans all the time. I’ve known for years that this “live in the present” concept could be beneficial to me, but I’ve never understood why I couldn’t really grasp it. Putting my finger on this sense of constant movement helps me live in the present. Embracing the transitional person within me helps remind me not to focus only on where I need to be next, but on where I am presently. Embracing my transitional self helps my present self smile, take a deep breath, and enjoy the process of movement.  

Maybe it's the cooking... maybe I just like drinking wine

School: Oh, yes. School. All I can really say on this point is: I don’t think I’m ready to be a teacher, and especially not in Spain. A mentor, a tutor: yes, maybe, but not a teacher. And that’s ok with me: I have 3 great friends that are. Besides, I’m doing them a favor by not becoming a teacher and therefore leaving them at least one open teaching position this year J. (Ha! Just kidding! Don’t kill me!!)

I’ve been having a lot of fun learning to cook new dishes. I have two friends here who are obsessed with food. One is professionally trained, and the other, well… she’s just obsessed. I have learned so much and realize how much I love cooking.

Perhaps the biggest quandary of my inner thoughts and consciousness that I have yet to settle is how to stop trying to be Perfect. You know what I’m saying, that perfect vision of yourself (how you should look, how you should be, how you should act) that is served with the bitter side of how you think others think you should be. It’s exhausting, really. But apparently it’s what keeps me going, motivated, pushing, and being the girl that you all know—the girl who “If they don’t give you Fulbright, then they must be looking for machines.” I think I’m trying to be a machine, that’s the scary part. Ok, maybe not a machine. The point I’m trying to make is that I’m still in the process of figuring out what I want from my life, not what I think (or what I think you think) I should be doing. I’m a fantastic person (and you are, too!), so I’m learning to nurture her and love her.

On a health note: For the past seven or eight years I have had chronic heartburn. I have tried all types of remedies and prescription meds, seen lots of doctors, undergone a procedure, and seen multiple therapists— all to no avail. The heartburn persists and comes on as randomly as ever. Everyone’s favorite theory has been that it’s how stressed out I am. That used to be my favorite excuse, too. But then I realized that my body does something different to react to stress. I also noticed that it stressed me out thinking that I was stressed out, a self-fulfilling prophecy if you will. It also stressed me out to think that other people were thinking I was stressing out all the time. So, from here on, I ban any type of talk that I’m stressed out when it comes to my heartburn. Telling myself, and hearing from others, that I’m stressed out is not helping. It leaves no room for improvement. My new theory is this: Yes, I do stress, and it probably has some effect on my heartburn. However, I think I am just prone to heartburn or that it’s a food allergy. Considering the latter, I will now take steps to try and discover if that could be the case. And, you know what, if I continue having heartburn, I continue having heartburn. But let’s stop stressing myself out about it, ok?

Another health mention: I’ve been kicking out 9:30 min/miles while here in Madrid! I’m ecstatic. I thought I was doing 10:30s or 11 min/miles. I got a Garmin this Christmas (yea, one of those fancy running watch things), a­nd if it’s to be trusted, I’m rocking it! Normally I run a 5k 3x/wk through the busy streets of Madrid and around the calmer interior of Retiro, uphill and down. I would like to increase that distance just a bit.

  

On a last note:

Andrea, a good friend from Berry, and I recently shared some emails. She's lived abroad before and understands what it's like to live the good, the bad, and the fabulous of that event. What struck me from the latest email was the simplest of phrases: "You're going out, making friends, reconociendo Madrid (getting to know Madrid), learning Spanish, and traveling Spain - all the reasons you wanted to be a Fulbright in the first place!" And so I am! I have already accomplished so much in just a few short months regardless of how much I tell myself that I "should" be "getting out more.” The realization that I have done so much (and that I absolutely love it!) makes me how quickly 6 months flies. It doesn't matter where you are in the world, there will be good and bad days. But that's life.

What matters is what you create out of the bad days and what you savor from the good days—wherever you are.

Celebrating NYE with a Swedish friend

Reflections on Spanish Culture through my American Eyes

Spanish Culture:

Here in Spain, it is less common than in the States to invite acquaintances over to your house. There are less dinner parties for work, house parties, sleep-overs for children, etc. This makes me sad because I love having people over. I’ve enjoyed discovering bars and cafés, but sometimes, you just want to kick it old school at home with your homies. You dig? (Ok, I promise never to do that again…)

Spaniards also have a large drinking culture. Madrid is crawling with inviting cafés and bars, from the dark and dingy to the pijo (snooty) and posh. It’s not at all uncommon to leave the office with colleagues after work to go drink a few cañas (little beers) before heading home. With tapas, it’s traditional to receive a tapa with every drink you order, so of course this requires drinking booze. I’m sure you’ve picked up on how much I was (out) drinking from my earlier blogs. The truth is that I love going out with people, and meeting up in one of the many unique bars that are nestled here in the city, but sometimes I get tired of drinking alcohol. It is perfectly acceptable to not get alcohol here, but, really, is a Coke any better health wise?

Another beverage that is consumed in large quantities here in Spain is coffee. This is something that I have embraced fully. Granted, I can’t drink one after 2pm, or else my night is quite ruined, but there’s something to be said for that beautiful, warm, dark, and rich cup o’Joe. It’s gotten to the point where I tried to make it at home...I was unsuccessful, but I’ve got time to perfect it (and years and years of that wisdom called Mom).

I really admire all these classy, stream-lined Spanish women who walk around these ancient cobbled streets in their high heels. They are always dressed perfectly, and yet seem so efficient. They make the grunge look feminine. There is no bulk of layers (their outfits are flawlessly coordinated) and they somehow hide everything they need (from umbrellas to abonos) in their Mary Poppin-clutches. There is definitively different way of dressing here in Europe, and I crave to look as awesome as these women do. However, this means that my closet would have to grow enormously, and that I would have to actually care about fashion. Fashion is so important here, that every year, from January to March, stores try to dump last year’s merchandise during las rebajas, or sales. These sales are huge: we’re talking 50% discount on average with some up to 80%. I’m not sure I’m ready for that change in mentality; I like clothing, but I feel there are more important things in life.  Still, I will never be able to help myself from admiring these exquisitely dressed ladies that walk the same streets that I do.

The Spanish are old school in that they always greet and say goodbye to anyone around them. In the staff room at school, whenever you enter you always say hello or good morning, and anyone in the room is expected to respond back. The entire interaction occurs on some socially subconscious level. I’ve seen people, in the middle of a full fledge conversation, fit in a greeting while continuing to talk without even stopping to take a breath. This occurs in all manners of establishments, from clothing stores to banks, and especially in bars and cafés. It doesn’t matter if you don’t know the individual, you partake in the ritual. Spaniards take it as a very heavy insult if you don’t follow this little bit of social etiquette. For example, over my break, I went to Aranjuez, a small town with a palace and gardens. Realizing that after the palace, there was nothing left to see, I decided to get a café con leche before taking the train back to Madrid. I entered into a nondescript café and ordered. Shortly afterwards, two older men entered and did the greeting thing. I may be pretty damn near fluent in Spanish, but sometimes, particularly when I’m savoring my hot beverage and pouring over the town’s map, I just get lost in my own little world. Since I didn’t answer, one of these gentlemen took offense, leaning into me to see my face and attempting to elicit a proper response. When I finally cottoned on and gave an “¡Hola!” (which wasn’t even the right response to begin with), he seemed to realize that I wasn’t “from around these parts.” I have my days where I stumble over this fine greetings dance, but overall I have enjoyed the process of slowing down and greeting people before getting down to business.

Jana and I went shopping the other weekend at one of the malls outside the city. We stopped for a bite to eat in the food court, where, of course, my German roommate couldn’t help making a good-natured joke that being American I would want to go to the McDonald’s. After laughing, we had a wonderful conversation about food culture. It surprised her to learn that fast food in the States is (sometimes) cheaper than healthier food. I asked her how Germans, with their stereotype of sausage, beer, potatoes, and bread, managed to stay so healthy. She told me that they eat a lot more fresh fruits and veggies, something that she’s noticed even the Spaniards don’t do. As for Spanish food, I wouldn’t say that it’s any healthier than that of the States. I mean, Spain is known for wine, cheese, ham, fried seafood, and white bread. I have also noted the proliferation of junk food that there is. Not exactly healthy. So why do I see less overweight Spanish than I do Americans? I came to the conclusion, over Jana and I’s little snack, that Americans don’t know how to eat. Sure, we know what we should be eating and what we shouldn’t. What we don’t understand is when to stop, or how to compensate, for example, eating a MickeyD’s hamburger for lunch with eating less for dinner. At least the Spanish, where a big lunch and a light dinner (much later) is more traditional, have that figured out. Looking at how pushy advertisement is in the States, and with our “take all you can, leave no prisoners” mentality, it doesn’t surprise me that Americans overeat. Add our belief that we should always get more for our money (leading to disproportionately huge meals), or our guilt of “having more than the starving children in Africa” and no wonder we’re in trouble. I wouldn’t say that the Spanish are anymore internally healthy than the average American (I mean, I’ve seen these people eat… can you say high cholesterol?), but at least they aren’t overweight, bordering obese. It was an interesting conversation, and I feel like I learned more about myself through it. I would like to be able to eat “like a European,” where I learn how to balance my intake with my activity, and no longer see food as something to be conquered and demolished, but rather something to be enjoyed.

Another interesting conundrum about the metro: personal space. In bars, clubs, on the street, wherever, Spaniards have no problem crowding each other. It’s something that I’ve had to get used to—I don’t find it exactly relaxing to be smooshed up against others in the bar. But on the metro, it’s not at all rude, or uncommon, to see people slide into a recently vacated seat next to them to have more space. When it happened to me the first time, I thought it was because I smelled, but now I realize, it’s just something people do. Interestingly enough, people rarely get up and sit in empty seats across the way. Sometimes comical situations transpire in such that four people are jammed into a row together, with the facing row completely empty. I guess everyone needs to be touched sometimes.

Reflections on This Spanish Life

As of three days ago, I left the Good Ole U.S. of A. and disembarked in the land of my favorite second language, excellent cheap wine, tapas, and so much more, as I have come to learn. The following is a random collection of my thoughts and observations, in no particular order, about what I have seen, heard, smelled, touched, and lived.

*Author’s Note: since I have so much to write, I have grouped my reflections a series of 3 topics: Madrid, Culture, and Personal. I will post each over the next few days.*

  

Madrid:

I love Madrid. This city is absolutely fantastic. It’s alive and vibrant. It’s easy to manage and move around, being completely condensed. The different barrios inside the city are unique, filled with all sorts of restaurants, shops, boutiques, free exhibits, etc. There’s so much to discover. As a creature of habit, I have to remind myself some days to walk down different streets, just to see what might lie around the corner.

I also love that the city pastime is strolling. People are walking, night and day, conversing, window-shopping, and playing chicken with you on the sidewalk. This “aimless” walking, walking just to walk, feels so good.

Living in the city, and having traveled outside of it, I still am overwhelmed by how excellent the public transportation, train, plane, and coach bus systems are. If the metro can’t get me where I want to go, there’s a bus. Not having a car here is not a problem. I wish America would get on the ball and develop such systems. For instance, I can’t even imagine how much international (and national) money could be brought in by building a much better (and cheaper) network of traveling up and down the Coasts. Or even if, within the cities, people could have a more reliable and efficient busing system. I know I would use it.

I was hanging out with a friend the other night and, at some point, we began discussing our lives here in Madrid. I was telling her how I felt a connection here, how Madrid is familiar to me in so many small ways—including the fact that I now am starting to see the same people on the metro, in cafés, or just walking down the street. That’s when my friend said “Madrid is a pueblo” (a village). Here in Spain, everyone has a pueblo, the place where their family comes from, where you escape the city life and go back to your roots, and where you know everyone and everyone knows you. Americans don’t have this exact concept of village, this nucleus of family life and community. It’s true, however, that Madrid has its own sense of community—or maybe I just feel so comfortable here that I’ve made it my community.

This next observation could be offensive to some for not using political correct terms. For that I beg apologizes, and welcome instruction on what would be more appropriate terminology. I have noticed around Madrid a more active Down syndrome and “disabled” community. I have seen a larger range of age (from kids to elderly people) of those with Down’s syndrome than I have ever seen in the States. I see them walking around the city, in groups or with their (I assume) family. It’s astounding to me, I hate to say it, but it’s true. My astonishment comes from feeling like my culture hides those with “inabilities” away, but yet here they are, out and about and entirely active. I love it. I also say “disabled” because I’ve seen a fair amount of paraplegics, people on crutches, those in wheelchairs, and other various and sundry characters out and about, hopping on buses, working the metro, doing the shopping. For that reason I use quotes around disabled, because they are working the transportation system as well as I am. Perhaps it’s that there is more accessibility for transportation here in city, or a more open culture. I don’t know, but I do know that I like what I see and would love to see that change in the States.

Tipping after a meal is not customary here. Tips aren’t given partly because waiters are actually paid decent wages here and because it can sometimes be seen as an insult. Generally, people will leave extra change or round up the tab. The cycle is reciprocated by the fact that many times, if you don’t have exact change, merchants will round down your tab (we’re talking a coffee or a candy bar here, not a meal).  Now, if you do spend more than €100 on a meal, leaving 10% is more acceptable, if not expected. What is completely acceptable is giving money to the musicians and beggars on the street or in the metro. Part of the experience of taking the metro is getting to listen to the self-made artists that hop onto your car with an amp, karaoke music, and a microphone. Sometimes you get accordions, guitars, or even violins. Some of them are decent, some of them are good, some of them… well, they add to your after-work headache. It also makes the murky underground tunnels more alive and less vicious. I have my favorite spots in certain metros where I know the music is better or where there’s generally good show. What really surprises me, though, is, regardless of talent, these artists always seem to garner money from people. I think that if I were in a band, we’d hold practice in the Metro: not only would we get time and space to practice, but we’d also get some extra money.

Feliz Año Nuevo -- New Year's in Spain

New Year's is also an exciting experience in Madrid. On noche vieja, New Year's Eve, thousands upon thousands of people gather in la Puerta del Sol, one of the biggest and most central squares in Madrid, to great the New Year by eating grapes and popping cava, or Spanish sparkling wine. It's like the Peach Drop, but without the Peach. Instead, everyone gathers, or tunes in on the television, and eats one grape for each of the twelve chimes of the clock bell at midnight. You're also supposed to make a wish with each grape, but that's when it starts to get complicated. I mean there's only so much you can do if you're wishing, trying to stay caught up with the chimes, and avoid choking. 

The Spanish (who have foreseen such problems) also hold practice at noon on the 30th and the 31st. I happened to be in Sol for each (once on purpose, once on accident), and was told not to practice with grapes (it would bring bad luck), but I saw people eating grapes. They also popped cava and started hugging and kissing with chipmunk cheeks like it was really the New Year. Gotta love the Spanish for their love of fiestas.

I passed the New Year at a friend's place, eating well, sipping cava, and laughing. After shoveling grapes in my mouth, we went upstairs to the building's rooftop terrace and watched fireworks. This proved slightly difficult considering there were a lot of tall buildings between us and the shows. We still saw some pretty cool explosions, though. We then went out dancing for a few hours, until I could hardly walk. Overall, it was a good way to bring in the New Year! 

The Spanish holiday season will be wrapped up later this week with el día de los reyes magos, or the day of the wise men, or Epiphany. More of a kid's holiday these days, small gifts are generally given, the city declares another day off work, Madrid has a parade, and lots of roscón de los reyes, or King Cake, is eaten. King Cake is what the French normally eat during Mardi Gras, where a small prize is hidden in a baked cake. The person whose piece of cake has this small prize is considered lucky, and sometimes wins a few extra euro depending on family tradition.

I will return to school on the tenth of January, after a much needed break. I have spent most of this past week sick, so having an extra week to do..... whatever..... I want will be nice. To come: reflections on three months in Spain!

Una Navidad Madrileña-- Spanish Traditions

The exciting part about being in a Western-culture foreign country during Christmas is watching that culture get ready for it. For weeks leading up to Christmas, I started to notice long (and we're talking long here, people. Try around-the-corner-and-down-the-street-for-two-city-blocks) lines coming out of the lottery houses that dot the city. First, what is a lottery house? Well, from what I have gathered, the lottery houses here are government-sanctioned places to gamble where you can go and buy a lottery ticket, scratch-off cards, and whatever other gambling paraphernalia that follows in that general flow. These "houses" are more like a itsy, bitsy, super narrow niche squeezed in between two stores, and they are all over the city. So, when I first saw these lines, I didn't know what to make of them.  I mean, wouldn't it make more sense not to stand in the rain, the cold, the sun, the dark, the wind--whatever--for hours when you could easily just walk down the block where there was another one that didn't have a line? When I posed this question to my roommate Ana, an hour long response ensued. Yes, an hour long. Finally, multiple conversations and a bit of Googling later, I understood these long lines. And here I do present to you, O Reader, the shortened version:

taken from www.abc.es 

The Spanish Christmas Lottery (please note the use of uppercase--this is important after all!) is one of the oldest and the biggest lottery in the world. It was started in 1812 and pulls over a billion euros a year. From that pool there comes over a 1,000 different cash prizes, ranging from 200 to El Gordo (The Fat One) which this year was over 500,000 million Euros.

Each ticket, of course, is a number that has the chance of being pulled for winnings. However, each ticket costs €200. Yea, that's a lot. So, they break each ticket into tenths, or décimos, and sell them for €20 each. While this makes each ticket more affordable, it also means that the winning ticket will be split up between ten people. And thus, the first Spanish Christmas Lottery tradition evolves: everyone gets involved. Families go in on tickets together, friends buy tickets together, businesses and schools buy tickets. There's this whole feel of community based around this one lottery.

As for the long lines: Spaniards are extremely superstitious about the whole thing. Basically, to "ensure" that they will draw the winning lottery ticket, Spaniards will go to lottery houses that have been known to sell winning tickets from years past. Thus, the long lines. People travel to Madrid just to buy their Christmas lottery tickets. For example: This year, 3 million of El Gordo was drawn in Chamartín, or a northern section of Madrid. My roommate, Ana again, was lamenting the fact that she had been in Chamartín just a few days previous and had considered buying a ticket there but hadn't because she wanted to buy from one of the other "lucky" lottery houses. My guess is that next year there will be a large line awaiting that little lottery house in Chamartín.

The last thing I will say about the lottery is how the drawing is done. On December 22nd, the lottery is drawn. The numbers are pulled by children from the San Ildefonso Orphanage who then sing the numbers out. One sings the winning lottery ticket number, the other the amount of winnings. The kids rotate in pairs for hours (because that's how long it takes), and the country basically stops. The cafes fill up, radios and televisions tuned to the drawing, while everyone waits with bated breath to see if they won anything. Interestingly enough, the pair of children that pulls El Gordo also win a scholarship to university, which is apparently incentive for the kids to behave or something. I think it's slightly crap and unfair, considering the whole thing is luck. 

I'm also glad that Madrid does lights. It just made it feel more like Christmas in a city that didn't seem to be very Christmas-y. A taxi driver told me that there are normally many, many more lights, but with their own economic crisis, the city had to cut back a bit. It is still lovely to walk around and see them, however, few there may be this year. I will be sad when they are gone. 

As I was saying in the previous paragraph, Madrid doesn't really feel Christmas-y. It's true: there may be tons of Spanish Christmas tradition, but the city doesn't really get all gussed up for it. There were two types of decorations that I did notice out and about: nativity scenes and balcony hangings. These little Belén-s (Nativity) were in every shop window. They ranged from a small creches to huge extravagant landscapes depicting all of Bethlehem at the moment of Jesus' birth. The Spanish also hang over the balconies little Santas and Wise Men climbing up rope ladders. The idea is that instead of having a chimney, Santa (or the Wise Men, depending on who you believe brings the gifts) climb up over the balconies to deliver his cargo.

Taken from http://lahuelvacateta.wordpress.com 

As for actual Christmas, Christmas Eve is more celebrated here than Christmas Day. Families get together on Christmas Eve, there is a meal and sometimes midnight mass. Christmas Day is more a day for visiting with friends. Traditionally, being a good Catholic country and whatnot, Spaniards waited until Epiphany to open gifts, but that's changed. Now gifts are generally opened either the 24th or 25th, depending on the family.

For me, being in the city during Christmas was interesting because of how quiet and empty the city seemed. The biggest difference was in traffic: I could have walked down the middle of the street on some of the biggest (and normally jam-packed) avenues if I had wanted to. Madrid, for once, seemed sleepy and restful. In all this quiet, with the majority of my friends and roommates gone, I feel more intimate with Madrid. I may be walking the same streets I always take, shopping in the same stores, eating in the same places, but I feel so much more... peaceful when the city is this way.There were still stores open and events going on, but not to the normally extent. Even more surprisingly, I find, is the fact that the city really shuts down on New Year's Day (today!). There is nothing open right now. It's like the city says "Hell, it's a new year: we really shouldn't start it by working too hard. Besides we were up last night and I'd just rather not go to work today." I think it's a great concept. Wish we did that in the States. 

And that is how Christmas passes in Madrid.

Una Navidad Madrileña-- The Family Visit

¡Felices fiestas! Happy holidays!

I've had quite the busy holiday season. Ten days before Christmas, my mom, sister, and Ray came to Madrid to pass the Christmas season with me. They arrived the day after my sister's 20th birthday. I know I've said this about a million times before, but just so that it goes down in the blog: I am truly amazed that my sister is growing up! I really had to come to terms with it this year because I realized that our difference in age no longer matters. Back when I was 15 and she was 13, sure there was a difference: physically, emotionally, and in the way in which we processed and understood the outside world. Now, however, we've finally caught up to one another in all those areas. The next time that our age difference will be a concern will be when I start to go senile and lose my mind. Lindsay will then only have to wait 2 and then some short years before enjoying the same mental change.

After celebrating Lindsay's birthday, I acquainted my visitors with my life here in Madrid. I was able to show them where I live, where I grocery shop, where I work--everything! I enjoyed taking them around, showing them the city that I know, my personal Madrid, a feeling I never had with Buenos Aires. I also realized how much of the history of "my city" I don't know. When I went to Argentina, I was there to study and I was fortunate enough to take a couple of classes on the history and culture of Argentina. Here, however, I haven't had that same opportunity. I am planning on changing that and becoming more aware of the history that surrounds me.

We also were able to have our own little Christmas in the midst of the hustle and bustle of Madrid. My mom rented a small piso near my own. There, Lindsay and I cut out paper snowflakes and made paper chains to hang. Lindsay even pulled off a paper Christmas tree so that we would feel more at home. My mom and sister were kind enough to bake (and decorate with my help) over 8 dozen of our family's Christmas gingerbread cookies to share with my students. When we brought them to school, everyone--from the kids to the teachers to the staff--loved them!

I also exposed my visitors to San Gines and their chocolate con churros. San Gines is a world-famous chocolate shop that sells a limited selection of foodstuffs, mainly coffee, chocolate, and churros. I have to say that I like Mexican churros (fried bits of sweet dough) better than Spanish ones, but it is a truly Spanish experience to go to San Gines and eat them. The chocolate they serve is thick and more like dark chocolate than milk. You then dip the churro into the chocolate and eat it. The place is always crawling with people, from grandmothers in the afternoon to the late night partiers up at 7am. When I went with Mom, Ray, and Lindsay, we fought a line out the door, then crowded around a small table in a packed dining room, and attempted to not be knocked off our stools as the attendants rushed back and forth delivering churros and cups of hot chocolate piled high on trays precariously balanced over our heads. It may have been noisy and chaotic, but it was a great time.

Sadly, we all got head colds (thanks Lindsay...), which resulted in a lot less walking about and more drinking hot chocolate recovering, piled on the couch at the rented piso watching Christmas movies (White Christmas, The Holiday, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, Love, Actually, etc.) on my mom's laptop. My mom and sister's flight out on Christmas Day was canceled, so I was able to share not only Christmas Eve, but also Christmas Day with them. Never had better tasting breakfast for dinner in my life!

Still, it was Christmas in the best way possible: a little bit of tradition, mixed with a bit of new, wrapped up all pretty with having family around and topped with a bow.