by Sima Kalmens

The day draws near, very near. On October 2—this Friday—the International Olympics Committee will announce the host city of the 2016 Summer Olympics.

I look forward to the Olympic Games, summer and winter, biennially, but the 2016 bid is particularly important and exciting. Two of the bids are Chicago and Madrid (I actually had no idea what the other two bids were until I snuck a peak at Wikipedia, answer to all questions).

I am a bred Chicagoan, having lived there for the last sixteen years. I use linguistic aberrations such as pop when talking about soft drinks and some people pick up on my Midwest accent. So the prospect of the Olympics being held fifteen minutes away from my house (everything is 15 minutes away in Chicago) is horribly exciting. To think! No airfare, no hotel fare. Just gas money, horrible traffic, and time wasted trying to find parking.

What makes the bid even more interesting than the possibility of the Olympic Games in Chicago, is the fact that the other bid city, Madrid, is my current place of residence. Therefore, I cannot help but take part of the festivities. I consider it cultural immersion, not betrayal.

On Sunday, I attended the candidature celebration at La Plaza de Cibeles and contributed to the human mosaic of Madrid’s Olympic logo:

This is the aerial view of the incredible human mosaic, which thousands of madrileños assisted in making:

While it is entertaining being part of Madrid’s Olympic pride, my corazonada is for Chicago, because, well, I don’t need a $1,000 ticket to get there.

by Sima Kalmens

I remember getting on the train five years ago, during my last visit to Spain. The train was white and sleek with minimal purple writings. The impeccably neat interior boasted a relatively wide aisle and comfortable, roomy seats. The train took off smoothly and within minutes, Anger Management was playing on the video screens descended from the ceiling. En route to Seville, I gazed out the window as the brown and green Spanish countryside whizzed by me.

For those of us who prefer our transportation to stay on the ground, the Spanish railway company, RENFE, boasts the train that combines the comfort and convenience of ground transportation with the speed of airplanes. AVE, which stands for Alta Velocidad España and also cleverly, and appropriately, employs the use of the Spanish word for bird, is the gem of Spanish railway services.

AVE service premiered in April 1992 with daily routes between Madrid and Seville, conveniently in time with the 1992 World Fair that was being held in Seville. By 1994, the trains were running faster, cutting travel time from Madrid to Seville by 40 minutes and completing the route in two and a half hours. Madrid is 471km away from Seville.

The Madrid-Málaga line was completed in 2007 and the anticipated Madrid-Barcelona line debuted in 2008. Madrid and Barcelona are 600km apart and the trip takes a little under three hours, punctually ending at Barcelona’s Estacio Sants.

RENFE began offering middle-distance services via AVANT in 2004. Routes include Madrid-Toledo, which takes less than 30 minutes, Madrid-Segovia, Barcelona-Huesca, and Málaga-Seville.

AVE now has 1,835km of track in service throughout Spain and is well on its way to becoming the world’s largest high-speed service with the most kilometers of available track.

RENFE does not compete with airline prices and choosing AVE service over cheap airlines will not necessarily save you money. However, the convenience of train stations’ central locations beats the lengthy, and expensive, commute to and from the airport. Furthermore, you completely avoid the drama that is airport security. Same price, less hassle? I’ll take that anyday.

by Sima Kalmens

I am probably one of the few people in Madrid who did not take full advantage of La Noche en Blanco this past Saturday. That does not go to say, however, that I did not take part in the festivities. I did. I put myself right in the middle of the action on the stretch of Calle Alcalá between La Plaza de Cibeles and La Puerta del Sol, where it was difficult to stop moving even for a moment to take a picture.

Having been in Madrid for only a week and a half, La Noche en Blanco was, in a way, sprung on me. I found out about it the Thursday before and although I read about it, heard about it, and talked about it, I was still not sure exactly what it was until Saturday night when I exited the restaurant where I had eaten dinner and found myself among throngs of people walking this way and that.

First stop: Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofia. Being in an art museum at 23:00 is certainly not something I have ever done before. Exciting would not be the exact word I would use to describe this event, but for lack of a better word, it was exciting. I spent a large chunk of time in the museum courtyard/garden. Although there were other visitors strolling down the gravel paths, the dark shadows cast by the trees at midnight and the misty yellow lights created a very private ambiance. And there was this outside (I did not go inside because the line was too long):

Second stop: the migration from La Reina Sofia to La Plaza de Cibeles via the tiny streets in between (not quite a stop). It was packed. I lingered to look at some street vendor items, but too much lingering seemed to make people impatient, so I floated on. On the way, I noticed some interesting bars and cafés. For future reference, I suppose.

Third stop: La Plaza de Cibeles. In front of the behemoth of intricacy that is the Palacio de Comunicaciones, there was a ginormous screen playing a hip-hop dance lesson. I found it more interesting to observe others struggling with the choreography than dancing myself, although I am sure that my own moves would have been severely entertaining for others as well.

Fourth stop: the walk down Calle Alcalá (also not a stop). The view of the illuminated buildings and signs was incredible. Unfortunately, my probably obsolete camera did not do the scene justice:

On the walk down Calle Alcalá, I learned that sostenibilidad is not defined in the dictionary. I even got to write my own definition of the word (among many others’)!

The next day, I heard about a gazillion other events that I could have attended, but as I was not in the mood for metro hopping all night, I was content with my evening and my first taste of La Noche en Blanco.

by Sima Kalmens

I arrived in Spain from the United States last week with the awareness of cultural differences seated somewhere in the back rows of my mind. The rest of the seating area was densely occupied by my excitement. I was finally in Madrid!

Conveniently forgetting all the Spanish I know as soon as one of the Barajas employees asked me something, I incoherently mumbled something along the lines of es bueno while lugging my stuffed suitcases towards the row of taxis. As soon as I got into a taxi, I realized that I was completely clueless as to how tipping works in Spain; this preoccupied me for the entire 30-minute ride. I knew that tipping is not as big a deal in Europe as it is in the United States, but that was the extent of my knowledge. How much less of a big deal is it? What if I undertip and the taxi driver hates me? I realized I didn’t even know how to say “keep the change.”

The total came out to 34E. I decided it would be acceptable to round up, so I gave the driver 40E. To my confusion, I got 6E back in change. Apparently, expecting the driver to keep the extra 6E as a tip was a purely American thought, one that has not yet crossed the Atlantic Ocean.

Although I must admit that it is considerably easier not to have to fiddle around with a pencil after receiving the check at dinner, trying to figure out the tip (basic arithmetic is not one of my fortes), the odd feeling of leaving only 50 cents or so still remains. Which brings me to another point.

I am simply not accustomed to change being worth anything. In the United States, change is petty money. People often forget they even have any. Here in Europe, clanking change has more variety than anything with the word variety in it. There is a 2E coin, a 1E coin, 50 cents, 20 cents, 2 cents, and 1 cent. Seeing the number two on American money is rare, with the exception of $20 bills and quarters (25 cents), of course. A $2 bill in the US is ooh-d and ahh-d over, and kept as a collector’s item, while 50 cent coins are rare and 2 cent coins are virtually unheard of. So you can imagine my unrest when I leave a restaurant table adorned with a huge pile of coins; in the US it is considered disrespectful.

Cab fares and restaurant tips aside, in the past week I have come to the realization that the metro is a prime location for cultural observation. While it is not necessarily the corazón of Madrid life, it is nevertheless a bustling center of people coming, going, and interacting. Greetings aren’t hugs or macho slaps on the back. Quite the contrary; they’re docile kisses on the cheek full of cariño or hearty handshakes.

The madrileños seem genuinely interested in each other, a refreshing change from American indifference, where the phrase “how are you?” is usually a mere equivalent of “hello” and the speaker does not stop to hear the answer. Having gotten lost more times in the past week than I would care to admit, I have gotten in the habit of asking fellow pedestrians for directions and have discovered that they are more than happy to ensure that I reach my destination, even if they themselves cannot offer adequate directions.

I could get used to this.

by Helen Macrae

Well, September has sneaked up on us again and it’s time to get back to work. For all the English teachers out there especially, I hope you’re refreshed and con ganas after a nice long break without having to hear anyone utter “the people is”, “it depends of” or a mangled –ed ending pronunciation (argh!). I was fortunate enough to head off for a month-long jaunt around the USA, taking in 7 states and a HUGE amount of fun along the way. We saw the sights in New York, guzzled clam chowder in Boston, cycled over the Golden Gate Bridge and admired the views as we sped down Highway 1. We spent too much money in Vegas, ooohed at the Grand Canyon, hiked through the New Mexican desert and floated the river drinking beer with a bunch of Texans. It was my first time in the States and, in short, I had a blast.

Part of the fun derived from comparing the USA with Spain, which is where I’ve called home for the past couple of years. In our countrywide game of “Spot the Difference”, here are the main ones we came up with:

Size

There’s no getting away from it, the USA is one big mutha of a country. To someone who’s grown up in England, and a 45 minute drive to visit friends warrants staying with them for a whole weekend, flying 7 hours from New York to San Francisco and still being in the same country is simply mind-boggling. Granted, Spain is somewhat bigger than the UK, but it’s still pretty tiddly in comparison to a continent which has four of its own time zones, and more if you start counting all those other bits.

Other things we noticed came in giant size were all the cars, or rather those cars-on-steroids our American friends preferred to call “trucks”. They’re enormous! For our drive from California to Texas we’d hired what the car-rental company termed a “mid-size” car, which ended up being a massive family saloon and by the far the biggest thing I’ve ever driven (given that I’ve never had my own car and my parents have a penchant for hatchbacks), yet we were still dwarfed by pretty much everything on the road. Now don’t get me wrong, if you live in the middle of nowhere with only a dirt track for access then having a chunky off-road vehicle is perfectly acceptable, but surely the worst that most of the people we saw in those 4 x 4 monsters have to contend with are nice tarmac suburban streets on their way to drop the kids off at school. Give me a nice Spanish-sized car any day! And don’t even get me started on those ridiculous Hummers…

To match the massive cars, we also saw a few, er…massive people. However, I’d expected to see an individual the size of a planet on every street corner, and to be fair, we didn’t see that many really. Perhaps it was because they were all hiding in their trucks! After a detailed analysis (some might call it perving) in the various states we visited we decided that the general body type was pretty similar to the UK, i.e. with a hearty Anglo-Saxon feel about it, i.e. much bigger than tiny Spaniards with their svelte Latino frames. Afters many years of puzzlement I’ve come to the conclusion that the Spanish must just be blessed with fantastic genes, because there’s no other way they could pull it off with the amount of tortilla, jamón and vino they guzzle.

Or perhaps Spaniards are skinnier simply because they have a more sensible idea about portion control: generally, what you get on your plate in Spain is an amount that a normal person could eat in a sitting. Time and time again in the States we ordered what we thought would be light snack to be greeted with something resembling more like a three course meal. In Boston we ordered an “appetizer” of nachos as a warm-up to dinner, and I swear the waitress almost did her back in trying to heave it onto our table. I know it’s perfectly acceptable to ask for a doggy bag for your leftovers (whilst in both Spain and the UK people will probably think you’re just a bit of a skanky weirdo), but in all honesty I think I’d prefer to pay a quarter of the price in the first place and get a fraction of the food.

Eating out

Talking about portion sizes leads me nicely onto my next topic, which is the whole experience of eating out in the US. As we were there for a month and I can’t and/or won’t cook at the best of times, we dined out a lot. From street vendors and busy New York delis to classic diner joints and posh restaurants: you name it, we ate there. One thing I was pleasantly surprised by was the sheer variety of food on offer. Of course there were the staples I’d been expecting (McDonalds, KFC, Wendy’s, Taco Bell, etc.), but also a wealth of other choices: Japanese, Indian, Thai, Chinese, Spanish, Italian, Russian, Lebanese…and the rest. In Madrid we’re lucky enough to have this sort of variety but thinking back to when I lived in Zaragoza with its one (not very good) Indian restaurant, I have the feeling you’d struggle in the rest of the country. Of course, I realise that Spanish food is absolutely delicious and I love it as much as the next person, but I’m all for a change now and then, and in the States after drinking way too much on a river in Austin you decide you want something as specific as, say, deep-fried macaroni cheese and pickles, then deep-fried macaroni cheese and pickles you shall have!*

The amount of options within the different types of foods on offer was also slightly overwhelming. As someone who’s lived in Spain for a while, the sort of choice I’m used to is un bocadillo de jamón or un bocadillo de queso or (wait for it) un bocadillo de jamón Y queso. So of course when I walk into a New York deli and say “I’d like a bagel please”, I don’t expect to have a series of increasingly complicated questions barked at me whilst everyone in the queue behind me taps their feet and tuts because I don’t know exactly how I want aforementioned bagel. Plain, onion or cinnamon raisin? Scooped out or not? Toasted or untoasted? With cream cheese or not? With normal cream cheese or low-fat cream cheese? And so on and so on (and then I tried to order a coffee, God help me). As someone who normally avoids Subway because deciding which type of bread I want gets me in a muddle, at first it was a bit much. But after a while I got into the swing of things, and then soon I began to enjoy it, because who doesn’t want their morning bagel and coffee just they way they like it?

*I must just mention that I actually threw up shortly after consuming this, but it tasted good at the time. And it was probably the beer that made me sick anyway. Maybe.

Customer service

And so to the final big difference we noticed: customer service. Obviously this links back to my previous point on eating out, but applies to many places other than restaurants, such as bars, taxis, hotels and beauty salons (so I had to aprovechar and get my nails done, it’s a lot cheaper over there!). The one thing guaranteed to get a Spaniard confuddled is tipping since it doesn’t happen much over here, and in the States you tip for everything, and that means EVERYTHING. Even as a Brit I found it bewildering, because although we tip at restaurants and the like, we don’t feel the need to tip a taxi driver 20% or more. Unless they provide you with particularly scintillating conversation surely they’re just fulfilling their primary function which is to get you from A to B in one piece, so what extra service are you paying for? And giving the barman a dollar for every drink you buy (if you don’t want him to ignore you for the rest of the night that is), what’s that all about? Add these costs onto the tip you give your waiter plus the hidden taxes they spring on you when the bill comes, and it starts to be a lot more expensive than a night out in Spain.

I tell you what though, it was completely worth it for the amazing customer service we got over there. I know that when your waiter introduces himself, provides witty information about the specials, keeps your drinks topped up without you having to ask and brings you the bill in the blink of an eye, he’s on some miserable wage and is doing it all for tips, but if the service is that good I’m happy to pay extra. In some places in Madrid I’ve had the staff do their best to ignore me when I’ve tried to order, had my food practically thrown at me when it arrived, then been made to wait at least half an hour for the bill. Not everywhere of course, but it’s happened on more than a few occasions. I’d even go as far as to say that people in the US were more polite in general, seeming genuinely sorry if they knocked into you on the street or mistakenly jumped the queue. Even New Yorkers! Compare that to my first day back in Spain when I was elbowed out the way by not one but two abuelas in the supermarket. At least Spaniards are honest about it though, and don’t sink to that awful faux politeness we use in England, when someone yelling “Sorry sorry, excuse me!” as they barrel past you on the Underground really just means “Get out of my way…NOW”.

So there we go, a short summary of what were, to me, the most obvious differences between the two countries. I sincerely hope I haven’t offended anyone in the process, because I love Spain with all my heart (why else would I choose to live here?) and I absolutely loved my first taste of the US, despite the fact they have no ground floors, I still don’t know what biscuits are, and people don’t really go to the restroom to rest. I’m looking forward to my next visit already!