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It’s not often that I climb aboard my soapbox to preach about the morality of modern day pop culture icons. So infrequent is this in my repertoire of daily existence that I had to give my soapbox a solid dusting before I begin. Being a product of the 80’s I am well versed in the sudden overexposure and constant interest in the lives of celebrity and sports personalities. I have seen intrusions into their lives that even a fame-whore would blush at. But no matter how intrusive the lens, or how obscene the question, the general public chalks up the constant media feeding frenzy as coming with the territory, and to simply deal with it.
Normally I balk at this statement. People are people and they need their own share of privacy. There are times though, when I hesitate and wonder when the line between intrusion of privacy and a public’s right to know coincide and become a fine line that is blurred. Of course by now, I am sure that by reading the 10 million headlines pertaining to this figure you have figured out that I am referring to a recent scandal of one of sports all-time-greats, Tiger Woods. I can’t help but feel a bit of sadness at the recent fall of golf’s “golden boy.” Tiger was one of the good ones now fallen from grace. Is the public scrutiny of his numerous affairs too much, or simply the manifestation of a general public outcry of a loss of yet another sports hero. Tiger was the epitome of the “American Dream” a concept that many people living that dream see slipping through their fingers at an alarming rate. Perhaps the fall of another representative of that dream has caused their panic, their disgust and their intrusion into an otherwise private existence.
Do I care if he had affairs? No. Do I care that people have one less person to look up to, perhaps. Having read myself the countless articles, I can’t help but think, where have all the good ones gone? Are there none left that don’t have an army of skeletons in their closet waiting for their chance to surface? How can it be that each time this happens the public is surprisingly surprised? Until the next scandal breaks and another public figure in which many have looked up too disappoints us yet again, I come down from my soapbox. This time, I am hoping that it has time to accumulate more dust.

My first day “alone” in Madrid and I was already on Spanish time. I left the hotel at noon and wandered across the Plaza Santa Ana to have breakfast at a bar. Since there were no churros left, I had a donut with my café con leche, unmistakably one of my favorite drinks in Spain. Having no particular plans and all afternoon free I decided to do some sightseeing and to follow the Itineario 1 in the guide book which would take me from the Puerta del Sol- the first business area and true “center “ of Madrid and Spain- to the Palacio Real- the official residence of the Spanish king. The luxury of having what seemed like so much free time to roam the city at my own rhythm (after the past couple of days apartment searching) was more than appreciated and reminded me of previous travels where each day began with deciding what new direction was to be taken to explore uncharted territory.

I explored the Calle de Alcala, the social and merchant capital of the nineteenth century, that is still home to many famous architectural masterpieces like the Real Casa de la Aduana, la Real Academia de San Fernando, and the Banco Espanol de Credito. Unfortunately, as I crossed the street a man was closing and locking the doors to the Iglesia de las Calatraves, built beginning in 1670 by monks from the military order of los Caballeros de Calatrava. The reddish-pink façade was a welcome change from the other cement-grey colored buildings that lined the streets and I knew immediately I must come back to see the interior.

After crossing the Puerta del Sol I wandered down some of the best shopping streets in Madrid, so I had been told. I headed down the Calle Arenal, named after the sandy surroundings of medieval Madrid, or Mayarit “madre de aguas”, as the city was called by Arabs centuries ago. The majority of the buildings are characteristic of XIXth and early XXth Centuries, about four stories tall with large windows. A small used book store near the oldest church in the city, the Iglesia de San Ginés, reminded me of the fact that I was still in Europe. I soon arrived at the Teatro de la Opera, unpleasantly surprised to see yet another famous square under construction and I could only hope that by the end of my stay everything would be finished…but at the same time knew the unrealistic possibility of this happening. A short break sitting on a bench in the shade of the illustrious Plaza de Oriente, with a view of the Palacio Real and a few of the many statues in the distance, provided a relaxing moment among the hustle and bustle of city life…

A 10€ menu complete with Gazpacho, Spanish ham, tostadas, croquetas, eggs, potatoes and café con leche…wandering through what at the moment were deserted streets, as after all it was around 4 o’clock…leaving my hotel that had become home and saying goodbye to the mother and daughter who had offered advice and also done my laundry…a variety of tapas- Spanish olives and chorizo among other things…staying at a friend’s apartment that felt like being with family…leaving to go out at midnight…the Plaza 2 de mayo full of life and energy at all hours of the night…overall an excellent introduction to the city that would be my home for the next five months…

By Veronica Mendez

With the cheese bocadillo and the whistle lips given to me at the door, I entered the Sala Heineken into publicity spectacle of ” The Night of the Ad Eaters.”

The venue was packed with a young, laid back crowd; people sat on tables, on the floor, or stood on the terrace watching the mega-screen above the dance floor. It was like walking into an outdoor movie theater- the only difference was that we were watching commercials. Not just any adverts though, but rather the 400 funniest advertisements from all over the world.

The “Noche of the Ad Eaters” dates back to 1981 where 600 people attended Kinopanorama in France to watch five reels of advertisement. Since then, the “The Night of the Ad Eaters” has been to 40 countries and 160 cities. This past Thursday, the Mecca of advertisement made its way to Madrid for the first time.

To some the idea of watching non-stop commercials does not appealing. But you don’t feel like you are watching advertisements, instead it was more of an audio-visual projection of fun and corky ads. I watched as two kids engaged in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon combat—for a McNugget. And Cadbury eggs splattered the camera in caramel to a battle song. Even a group of guys scream like little girls when they walk into a refrigerator full of Heinekens.

With live bands coming on between the forty-minute “breaks”, the free donuts, and the cheering whenever there was a particularly great commercial, it was much more than commercials—it was a party.

By Veronica Mendez

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!

by Isaure Cointreau

When all Spaniards return from their vacation, Madrid will be having the first retrospective on Henri Fantin Latour to be had on the Iberian soil. Coming from French, English or Italian museums and galeries, the Thyssen-Bornemisza will gather 70 pieces of the illustrious French painter’s work.

In 1863 he was part of the group who initiated Impressionism although he was far more inspired by Realism than by the search for light and the study of movement. His friends were no less than Manet and Whistler however he remained difficult to classify. On the other hand, poet Gustave Kahn defined him as the link between the painters of his time and Romanticism, and he might have been just right.

What is the exhibit about? It is about a painter whose artistic talents were neglected in his home country as he didn’t apply to the modern rules. However much more appreciated in England, as his style would recall a Courbet or again Millet influence, his portraits and still lives gained a wide popularity. The exhibition is to set things right, as to honor the masterpieces and the talent of a forgotten artist.

Madrilenians will have the pleasure and delight of having this exhibit from the 28th September until the 10th of January of the following year.

by Isaure Cointreau

The 13th of May the San Miguel market reopened its doors to the public. After years of refurbishing it has become a gourmet center where gastronomy it top notch. What a fantastic place, it was worth the wait. Not only is it a market but it combines as well the function of a bar and tavern, though all in style.

The Iron architecture of the place make you think of Charlie Chaplin and its Modern Times, however through this wink to an industrial era it apparently was designed as inspired by Les Halles de Paris. Although it relates to the French 1900 market’s style it was revisited as to suit the southern culture and rhythm.

The ceramics that can be found all around the ceiling recall the precious Sevillan azulejos and the variety of products on offer present only the best of Spain. Because the Calor is part of the culture, the fans and water sprays have not been forgotten and that for the very pleasure of its customers. The composition of the building has been well thought through as to prevent from the heat to invade the market, that’ll explain the wide glass composition. Although it does underline the apparent refurbishing of the place the crystalline walls actually add to its charms a little modernity. Therefore like an oasis in the Madrilenian summer everything has been put together to prevent you from melting while shopping or enjoying your wine and tapas.

Have your pick there is everything one would wish for such as oysters, fish, sweets, bread and wine. Everything looks delicious and ready to go. It however has nothing to do with your local Dia as your wallet would say, though you’ll find there wonders. Bringing to you the sea side gustative pleasures and as many kinds of Vermouth you would ever dream of, let’s say it is a little piece of paradise for any mouth to fill. As much variety of cheese a British could ever dream of, as many fantastic breads and pastries that would make any Frenchmen jealous, everything is brought to you on a silver platter.

A few days ago I wanted to try it myself with a group of friends. The center of the market has been arranged as a sitting area, with tables and tall stools, where people can enjoy their drink until midnight. Having a seat we were amazed how the place had chic written all over it. Every architectural and design detail is a pleasure to the eye, and the people all well dressed with poise and smiles give to the market a very soothing ambiance. However be prepared to sip slowly your wine as it can get pricy.

At midnight a bell will ring and a voice will notify you of the closing doors, though no one will actually push you out right away. Hanging out a little longer, we witnessed the cleaning up and the closing of the little stands. At some point, the venders and the waiters were moving from one shop to the other as if bearing gifts. They in fact had put away on a tray some leftovers and were sharing them with the others.

While we were about to leave, the bakery had put a selection of croissants and brioches on the winery stand. Our eyes saw them gleaming in the light and while people were hanging out with the shopkeeper, we stopped by. Chatting a little bit with the group, we found out that they were all good friends and that the exchange of Oysters, sweets and pastries happened often has it would otherwise be wasted, thrown in the trash. Wouldn’t it be terrible to see such delicious things not appreciated by anyone? Seeing that our stomachs were speaking for themselves through our passive leering at the tray, they offered us to take whatever we wanted. Grateful and thrilled to see our wish fulfilled, we left only a half hour later. We were the last customers and even the doors didn’t want to let us out, was that a sign? However we left then and plan to come back pretty soon.

by Jeanne Reidy

I had heard that college students in Spain are in little rush to finish their schooling. Some stay at their university for 6 or 7 years. I guess the cost is not pressuring them to finish as they pay a very small amount for classes and the vast majority live at home which saves on room and board costs.

Still, everyday, I was surprised by the fact that the cafeteria and courtyards were always more crowded than the library and computer labs. The students never seemed to be stressed about homework or tests, which could’ve been thanks to the forgiving curriculum or to the fact that they were not being hounded to finish school by their parents, teachers or loan collectors. Perhaps the difficulty of getting a job in this economy is keeping them enrolled for as long as possible. 

But what happens after the eventual graduation? Due to the limited housing in Madrid, the expense and most of all, tradition, these twenty-somethings are encouraged to live at home. They are not being forced into the work world nor do they need to as they have very little to pay for on their own with their rent, food and maybe more are paid for by their parents. So, from my understanding, most young madrileños do just that. They live at home, help out around the house and put off the work world a bit longer. Most Spanish children, if fact, live at home until close to the age of 30 or marriage- whichever comes first.

My señora’s daughter amazed me. She was an unemployed college-educated 27 year-old living with her mother. Now I understand the job market is tough right now and Spain’s unemployment rate is brutal- about double that of the United States’. However, she never seemed to be looking too hard for a job either. She seemed content living at home having her meals and laundry taken care of by her willing mother.

I always compare her to my sister of the same age. Since graduating from college, my sister has fulfilled a two year contract with a respected law firm in New York City, where she paid her own over-the-top Manhattan rent, moved back to Chicago for Law School for which she is currently searching for a job to pay for her looming loans. Now, I don’t say this to look down upon the madrileño and pat the American on the back. I just find the cultural differences fascinating. And who is to say which way is the “right” way.

One of my teachers at the Complutense said in regards to this topic that even though Spanish parents complain about their older children living at home, “we have created this problem”. The “problem” being that the kids live at home much longer than usual. He explained that parents actually prefer it so they can monitor their children and not worry about them living on their own. I understand this point of view, but I doubt most American parents would feel the same way.

I recently read an article in El Pais, a Spanish newspaper, that identified this age group, ages 18 to 34, as “Generación Ni-Ni”, a generation that “ni trabaja ni estudia”, neither works nor studies. Basically, the article explained that with a growing number of graduates who aren’t finding jobs, a new generation has been born. At the same time, this is a group of people who have grown up in a time that has always experienced and believed in continuous economic development, until lately. They are used to living conditions, with their parents, that are constantly improving and don’t feel like they should experience anything less. In other words, if never having lived and paid for their own apartments, they don’t understand living any other way than in their parent’s established homes.

The wanna-be Spanish side of me wishes she could live in her parent’s home forever with meal and laundry service. The “hardworking American” side of me knows that until I live and pay for my own starter apartment, I won’t understand what it takes to pay for and build a home like that of my parents.

Maybe it is the sense of freedom the young Americans gain when they move away from home for the first time. I mean, young Spaniards can drink from an early age and stay out until 6 a.m. without a single question from their parents. So why would they want to move out? They have all the freedom they need already, plus meals and laundry service on top of that.

As much as I think I’ve adapted to the Spanish culture, I don’t think I will ever understand this phenomenon. I can respect the reasoning behind it but I think I speak for most Americans my age, I hope not to be living at home at the age of 30. No offense, Mom and Dad.

by Mary Doman

After a month in Madrid, I had expected the late nights, alcohol, miles of walking, olive-oil overdoses, and boiling heat to get to me, somehow. A little tummy ache? A sunburned shoulder? The slightest hangover? Though none (miraculously) of these symptoms have crept up on me yet, I still await the effects of my extreme lifestyle change to pounce on my poor body soon. When the time comes, though, I won’t be afraid. I know there are pharmacies waiting for me at any hour, on any street.

They’re everywhere. Almost every corner in this city has a bright green cross on it, glowing 24 hours a day: “farmacia.” Why do Spanish people need so many pharmacies? I wondered. The massive number of cervercerias is an excess I don’t mind a bit. The neverending tiendas de alimentación are curious, but convenient for chocolate, candy, and soda cravings. But pharmacies? What can explain this over-abundance? I took some down time to really focus on the dilemma (tears, empty coffee cups, chocolate bars…you know how these things work themselves out) and came up with a few ideas.

Some things I’d read a while back came to mind. When I was getting ready to leave for Spain, I thought I’d do a bit of research on the healthcare system in Spain, just in case something happened. I took a big sigh of relief because I realized that drugs are quite easy to get in this country.

Drugs! Without a prescription! And cheap, too. MadridMan writes about how his $20 prescription in the states only costs him 2.40€ in Madrid! What a steal. I also read about a lady who used the same British prescription slip in Spanish pharmacies for over a year. When she forgot the prescription, she just asked for Prozac or showed the pharmacist an empty pill box. Ta-dah! Antidepressants at every corner, no hassles. Of course now, the woman reports that actually doesn’t need her Prozac anymore because sunny Spain keeps her happier than the grey days of England ever did!

Another aspect of the Spanish government’s unique drug regulation system are the requirements for pharmacy store hours. At least one pharmacy must be open at all hours within a certain catchment area and, while some stores never open at night, there are plenty of farmacias that rotate an all-night service. So I suppose in a large city like Madrid, keeping a pharmacy on every corner is a pretty sure way to make sure all the residents, and especially all the pharmacists, get a healthy night’s sleep.

But simple regulations and drug availablity couldn’t be all that was keeping so many pharmacies in business, was it? I thought I would go to a farmacia myself to look for more clues. Taking a 30-second detour on my walk to work, I stepped into a farmacia and had a peek. Here I realized that the Spanish concept of “farmacia” doesn’t directly translate into the English word and American concept of “pharmacy.” Instead waiting seats and long lines, there was 90s music and aisles stuffed with snacks and drinks. The amount of creams, lotions, hair and dental products was impressive. The pharmacist was friendly and customers purchased everything from bottled waters to birth control.

Since the pharmacies have to be open so late and have so much competition, it’s no wonder that they pack their shelves with goodies and snacks, play fun music, and try to appear as appealing as possible. I almost wish my Spanish lifestyle would hurry up and take its toll on me so I could go for a chat with my friendly pharmacist! Not really, but if it rains I might drop in for some Prozac.

by Kameryn Westling

Last weekend some girls from my program and I went to Barcelona. We had heard so many great things about Barcelona from people all around the world. But while I was there, I couldn’t help but wonder many times “Why does everyone love Barcelona so much?”

We took an eight-hour bus overnight, which was miserable because it was like sleeping in a freezer, both because of the cold and because of the hard, icy surfaces. When we arrived the next morning we were sore, exhausted and starving. We checked into our hotel on the famous “La Rambla” – one of the dirtiest and run-down hotels I’ve ever stayed in. The water smelled like liquid shit and the tub was rusting, I thought I was going to fall through the floor while I showered. I realized that my own stench smelled better than my skin after showering there.

After dropping off our bags we went to an outdoor restaurant on La Rambla for brunch. The prices were not listed on the menu (a marketing tactic to trick tourists). It turns out that eggs and toast – 15 euros, a glass of sangria – 12 euros and a glass of orange juice – 8 euros! Outrageous! And it wasn’t even that good. Our waiter clearly didn’t like us and we waited for our bill for 45 minutes.

Next we bought tickets for the double-decker, narrated, hop-on/hop-off tourist buses. We took the northern route of the city and went to La Sagrada Familia, the famous unfinished church of architect and artist Antoní Gaudí. This was breathtaking. It’s 9 euros to enter with a student I.D. but well worth it and the profits go directly to the restoration of the church. We took the elevator up in the tower and then walked down the stairs, circling in the tower all the way to the bottom. From the top of the tower you can see the Mediterranean and the ports of Barcelona. We continued to ride the bus back to the beginning of the route. It was relaxing and refreshing after our overnight journey by bus. I must say Goudí’s architecture is phenomenal and definitely worth seeing.

The next day we went to the beach for the majority of the day. It wasn’t anything too special, a lot like the beaches of the East Coast/Mid-Atlantic region of the US (dirty and artificial), with the exception that you could take your top off. The water was refreshing and I felt cleaner in the sea than the shower in the hotel, despite the floating diapers, band-aids and plastic bags I was swimming with. The highlights of the day were the men selling beverages saying “sexy cold beer,” the women selling massages saying “masaje-massage, masaje-massage” and a man selling pieces of coconut with an unidentifiable slogan that sounded like “Da-do-da-do-da-do-da-do” to advertise their products. We also spent hours trying to find a specific tapas restaurant that we heard about and tried to ask for directions with no avail. Every person we asked purposely gave us the wrong directions in order to screw us over. We ended up walking in circles.

After the beach we went to the “Magic Fountain of Montjuic” (La Fuente Mágica de Montjuic). It was this giant fountain with changing heights, shapes, colors of the water all choreographed to music including anything from opera to songs like “Apologize” by Timbaland and One Republic. It reminded me of something you’d see at Epcot Center at Walt Disney World. It was absolutely mesmerizing. We ended up staying there entranced for three hours.

We asked the man at the front desk of our hotel for suggestions of restaurants to eat at he spoke both Castellano and English. He suggested some places in Port Olympic along the water but we got lost on our way there a couple of times. We started asking for directions in Castellano and every person was hostile towards us, laughing and pointing us in the wrong direction. We were able to get a little farther by using English but we were still lost and ended up settling on the first restaurant we found because we were starving. Now I know that customer service in Spain isn’t great but the waiter at this restaurant was terrible. He didn’t bring us utensils or plates for our tapas. When we ordered most of the people I was with ordered paella, I ordered salmon. He said “Why salmon?” I said “Why not salmon? I like salmon.” He said “The paella is better you should get that” and then continued to give me a hard time about ordering salmon, which I was adamant about and it turned out to be delicious! But later in the evening, I went to the bathroom inside and he was sitting at the bar as I walked by and proceeded to whistle at me, wink, and yell “Guapa!” while making kissy noises! He’s got some nerve!

The rest of the night included us being screwed over by a cab driver who took us out of the city and back in to go only five blocks away from where we were staying and then charging us 15 euros. Then, us trying to get into a club where our Venezuelan friend got in an argument with the bouncer because he called her an ignorant, Venezuelan whore completely based on her Venezuelan-Castellano accent.

We made our way back to La Rambla on our way home where we came across swarms of prostitutes of African decent ranging in age anywhere from 13 or 14 to late 20s. It was such a bizarre experience, which broke my heart. It was very primitive like a pack or lions or wolves hunting their prey. They would literally chase down and cling onto any male in the vicinity, even if he was with his wife, girlfriend, significant other. It was so sad and pathetic. We counted 29 prostitutes in matter of five minutes. Seven of them tackled this one man and stole everything out of his pockets. He responded by running down the street shouting for the police and yelling “Putas! Putas!”

We were getting ready to give up on the night and head back to our hotel when we heard a male, British voice say, “Where are you going and how many of you are there?” We told him there were seven of us and he said “Perfect! I was sent to find six girls and now I’ve found seven. Follow me!” We were a little worried but intrigued at the same time. He lead us to this café-bar that he worked at which was already closed for the evening but him and his friends, including the bartender/owner – a Brit, two Argentineans, two French and a Spaniard – were just hanging out listening to music and talking. So we joined them, had a few drinks and all went to the beach to talk and watch the sunrise. It was GORGEOUS – a huge ball of fire laying on top of the water!

Then we got on our bus back to Madrid. It was the best experience, but it was an experience nonetheless. We learned that we were better off speaking English than Castellano because the Catalanes despise Castellano because of their separatist feelings towards the rest of Spain. But they don’t like English with an American accent either. They love tourists and any other English accent, besides American, is fine. But as soon as they hear Castellano or English they are ready to screw you over. Someone commented that they are like New Yorkers but I completely disagree. New Yorkers aren’t mean, they are focused and busy and know where they’re going but they don’t purposely try to screw you over or have mal intent. If you ask a New Yorker for directions they’ll gladly give them to you and be on their way. Catalanes, clearly do not embrace the “no pasa nada” lifestyle, probably because it’s Castellano.

So here is a message for the Catalanes: Calm down, “go stick your heads in the fridge.” There’s no need to be this hostile towards anyone. It takes too much energy. You’ll be a lot happier just letting it go.

Finally, back in Madrid – clean water, nice people, Castellano! So long Barça, hopefully next time will be better!