Some days

Some days you wake up and you know. You immediately start to worry. Nothing in particular is wrong. You just feel like the forces had been aligning when you were sleeping and there’s something brewing. Today was one of those days.

Though I had every good intention to go to class all day long, Monday is my longest day. Class straight from 11 a.m. to 7 p.m., sin pausa (without a break), and I awoke without my usual fervor. I showered to wake myself up and I listened to Spanish guitar on my iPod during my 45-minute hike to school from my apartment, in hopes that I would feel like my typical, eager self, ready to seize the day. No such luck.

By the end of my first class, Spanish, I was half falling asleep. My second was so painful that I began to bargain with myself in order to keep my eyes open. The idea of focusing was more of a joke than a reality. When my third class rolled around my heart was begging my body to bolt, and the thought of a fourth class made me nauseous. The snip bits of class I did catch in between my heavy-lidded blinks weren’t making it easy for me to sit still.

In Spanish, we reviewed grammar and prepositions. As always, my professor had us play games as memory aids and today, she had us create sentences about our dreams – the dreams of our childhood, our current dreams and the dreams we have for our futures. While students in the class elected to write about their desires for 10 cats, to become ballerinas or to have a small house with flower-filled terraces, I chose a slightly less superficial approach. The sentence I wrote to read aloud was: “Ahora que tengo 20 anos, sueno con disfrutar mi vida cada dia,” or “Now that I am 20 years old, I dream of enjoying my life each and everyday.” [Thought to self: Great KP, good thing you are stuck here in this classroom.]

My second class, Comparing Media in Latin and Anglo-Saxon countries, preached the growing role of the Internet for media sources. One of the pluses (or to some, the negatives) of the online world is the ability of the reader to customize the news he or she chooses to receive. We read a New York Times article called “The Daily Me” about how mass media is becoming individualized media because people’s intentions these days are more selfishly driven and they only want to read what they chose. [Thought to self: Go ahead, KP, be selfish. It’s the direction of the world.]

My third class, Advanced Spanish Oral Expression, consisted of my class playing a game about the history and “gems” of Barcelona. Because I have been just about everywhere in this city and have gone on at least ten tours (some guided by professionals, some guided by my guide books), I knew just about all of the answers. [Thought to self: Well KP, you wouldn’t have won the game if you didn’t explore and ask questions to waiters, policemen and locals on the streets.]   

So for once, I decided to apply what I learned in school: Today was going to be all about me and me alone; I was going to enjoy the day to the fullest; I was going to discover some new gems. After this past weekend of exploring the little streets in Gracia, biking along the beach at Barceloneta and randomly hoping on a Renfe train simply to get off where my friend and I felt like it, I was itching to get out of the classroom. Fourth class, Society and Politics of Spain, simply didn’t stand a chance. So I walked out. Out of class. Out of the building. Out of campus. And I decided to explore Barcelona by my lonesome just for the fun of it.

I took the Metro to Jaume 1 and began to walk. I walked down every single street that I wanted, without having to ask anyone if they minded. I found a beautiful store called IVO & Co. that sells kitchen goods, a coffee shop called La Clandestina, whose boho feel inspired me, and then I found Caj Chai (pronounced Chai Chai) – a tearoom unlike any other I have ever been to, whose hip drum music in the background was matched only by its young, avant-garde clientele.

Caj Chai’s dim lighting was sexy, the stonewall along one side of the narrow café had character and the loud chatter produced by the guests told me immediately that this was nothing like the tearoom you find in England. 

The mix-and-match rattan chairs coupled with high tables and low tables and bar stools provided a yard-sale-inspired atmosphere, and the twinkling Christmas lights hinted at a majestic air. The menu, enveloped by flimsy bamboo, offered a lengthy list of teas – from China, Japan, India, Korea, Nepal, Russia, Taiwan, Morocco and Turkey, with every flavor and color imaginable. With so many choices, I asked the waiter for some suggestions – something sweet with natural sugar, something with no milk added and something a little fruity. He and I selected a black tea from China with leeche nuts.

 For the fun of it, I also questioned him about the interesting looking desserts. I told him I wanted to try something I had never tried before and so he brought me “daifuku con fresa y nata,” or “daifuku” with strawberries and cream. Turns out this delicacy is a Japanese dessert made from very sticky rice, called mochi, jacketing chunks of strawberries and sweet cream. And though the consistency was something like a really soft, incredibly sticky gummy bear, it was absolutely delicious and the perfect pairing for my tart tea.

After a few sips followed by a few bites, I decided it was time to reflect. I believe today marks a milestone in my life: KP’s first day of “playing hooky”….ever. And while I would love to say it was my first and last, I’d be lying.

Some days the forces are aligning. You’re inspired to do or become something. To get up and go. To explore for the sake of exploring. To get lost because you can. To eat for the sake of eating. To sit alone in a café. To escape from the world for a split second. To write.

Today was one of those days. 

Sugar and spice and everything nice: La Nena

There comes a time in every girl’s life that she gets sick of Catalan and Spanish food. Not because it’s not flavorful (in fact, it is) and not because there aren’t enough choices (between Iberian ham, Manchengo cheese, tortilla esapana, bocadillos galore, calcots, tapas and croquettes, I’ve got plenty), but simply because she can’t escape it. And as much as I tried to avoid it, it happened to me three months in.

To break the routine of Spanish food, I invited Irena to join me for crepes in my absolute favorite part of Barcelona, a little district called Gracia. Gracia boasts chic, one-of-a-kind clothing stores, precious apartment facades, plazas with playgrounds and the best part: unique restaurants owned by locals. Though I had only walked by the storefront of the creperie once, I made a mental note to myself that I would need to return. As Irena and I wandered off of the Metro, I had not the slightest idea of where the restaurant was located, just the faint memory of a worn-down sign. By some miracle, Irena and I walked directly up to it. Though the lights were on, a man was mopping and the door was locked. So much for crepes.

But then I remembered a seemingly adorable café off of a plaza that I had strolled by once. Destined to get away from Spanish food, I swindled Irena into walking around yet again without a definite location, just an inkling.     

And then I saw it - La Nena, with its chalk-written signs outside and child-sized, brightly colored wooden chairs welcoming me to come in. If ever a name were to be a perfect fit, this would be it. “La Nena” literally translated means “the baby girl,” and this hidden café was everything that a baby girl should be: lovable, rosy and engaging and above all, her aura should make you smile. La Nena was like a sweet dream brought to life.

Its entire existence is based on an infantile spirit, as if Mother Goose herself were to have opened it. The old-fashioned wooden shelves lined with fresh, loose-leaf tealeaves in glass jars resembled a traditional apothecary. The artwork adorning the walls were hand-painted and hand-written. My favorite was the rather large sign that read (in Spanish, of course), “No alcohol served here.” The wooden piano in the main dining room had music books sprawled across it and the bookshelves in the candy-colored backroom were full of antique books about chocolate. I felt as though I had been invited into someone’s playroom for a cozy meal. And what better to serve at a snack bar called The Baby Girl than sugar and all things nice? Perfectly in tune with its character, La Nena serves chocolates, pastries, hot chocolate, teas, coffee, infusions and light meals. Better yet, it only uses organic ingredients.   

To begin, I ordered my typical “cortado” – or an espresso cut with a dash of milk. I have found that fastest, most accurate way to decipher if a restaurant, café or bar is worthwhile is by trying the coffee (Spain really does have the best in the world, I am certain). My cortado not only came in a warm, white porcelain cup, but it was served with a homemade, crumbly galleta (or cookie), sort of like a rounded, ginerbready graham cracker. Dipped into my coffee, it tasted simply scrumptious.

   

Perusing the menu made my mouth water and eventually I was able to narrow down my choices to two: vegetable couscous or quiche. With the help of my waitress, I selected a wedge of zucchini quiche served with an organic salad. The quiche’s thick and buttery crust was rivaled by the egg, the chunks of fresh zucchini and the strong layer of cheese caked on top. The salad accompanying it was much lighter and consisted of tomato, cucumber, olives, carrots, lettuce, parsley and small squares of cheese. The dressing on the side – olive oil and honey vinegar – added a hint of sweetness. Because the food was rich and heavily saturated in and with flavor, I felt the need to take small bites to savor it. And so I did.

 

The café’s air of innocence and childhood happiness made Irena and I giddy, talking like little girls, planning our fairy tale weddings to boys we don’t even know exist. Pure delight. How apropos: I shoulda guessed that a chocolateria called “The Baby Girl” would be my most favorite hole-in-the-wall gem in the entire world.

The Real Sin City: Amsterdam.

Contrary to popular belief among 20-something-year-olds, there is more to do in Amsterdam than have sex with prostitutes, smoke pot, eat space cake, get drunk under the age of 21 and watch sex shows. Amsterdam, with its cobblestone streets and canals dividing them, resembles something out of a childhood story. Houseboats were merely figments of my imagination before my visit and crooked, leaning apartments were only to be found in Dr. Seuss stories rather than on every single street with people living in them. And the street names are just cute. The letters fit together as though a Kindergartener attempted to sound out the spelling of the word. Sprusstraat – pronounced “spruce – strat”– meaning Spruce Street, seems to have one too many “As” and one too many “Ss.” But what are ya gonna do?

I went for the weekend. This concept of going to an entirely different country for the weekend really gets me. In the States, you plan a vacation months and months in advance. Here in Spain, I wake up and think to myself, “Gee I’d really like to go to Amsterdam this weekend.” Well, gee, who wouldn’t, right? But since other countries are only an hour or two by a plane away, it seems almost foolish to not go.  So on a limb, Irena and our friends, Chris and Jason, and I booked a trip to Amsterdam for three days. Three days. Only three wild and crazy days (because let’s be honest, if I had been there any longer I may have started to make bad decisions).

I can honestly say now that I have been to the prettiest Hell I could ever imagine because everything in Amsterdam is wonderfully sinful. Sinful food (I swear, the town specializes the most delicious “munchie” food). Sinful sights (What? How could I not stare at the perfect girls in the windows or the old man lighting a joint on the street?) And sinful actions (When in Amsterdam, right?).

Since it was Chris’s 21^st birthday when we were in Amsterdam (What a way to spend your 21^st, eh? In Amsterdam. Yes, please!) and he had been craving pancakes since we got to Spain, we couldn’t pass up the opportunity to eat at The Pancake Bakery, right down the street from the Anne Frank House. Unlike the prostitutes who tease by dancing in sexy lingerie in their neon red windows, the pancakes left nothing to be desired (they hit the spot, if you will). The smooth, warm, sweet batter was complimented by thick slices of fresh banana baked directly in. Generous heaps of powdered sugar practically buried the single, plate-sized pancake. But even better than my pancake, were the “pofferjets,” that Chris, Jason and I split. Almost like a silver dollar, but thicker and fluffier, these little guys were piled high, smothered in chocolate sauce and heavily dusted in powdered sugar. Though the calorie count would probably be equal to the amount that 500 should consume in an entire week, I quickly learned that Amsterdam does food right.

As for the coffee, well that’s a different story. You can’t walk more than a block in any direction without seeing a coffee shop. But what’s that you say? I can’t actually get coffee in a coffee shop. That’s a new one. You want to sell me drugs instead of coffee? That's cute...not. But even more shocking than this concept were the girls – of every shape, size, color, race and type – parading themselves in crystal-clear windows. And this is how it goes everytime: A man goes in. The woman shuts the red curtain. The man exits 20, 30, 40, or however many minutes later after doing God-know-what (though I probably have a good idea). And then, to my utter astonishment, another man goes in. Repeat. Repeat again.

If I thought men were ruthless and idiotic to begin with, this concept would only reaffirm my notions 200 times over. Not one of them seemed to mind sharing the women (especially the really beautiful, really skinny, really forward ones). But who am I to judge? Whatever floats your boat, I always say.  

Though seeing the prostitutes wasn’t as pleasurable for me as it was (I am sure) for many, I did enjoy taking advantage of another commodity in the city that gets used just as much as the prostitutes: bikes.

Mike’s Bike Tours. Genius. You pay about 20 Euros to rent a bike and be given a tour of all of Amsterdam and Holland’s countryside. A great concept at a great price. It’s just a shame I am not great at riding a bike. Well, it’s not that I am not good, it’s just that I haven’t ridden one in oh, I don’t know about 7 years. Nonetheless, I mounted in the freezing cold peddled my little heart with rigor. Over bridges and canals, past wobbly buildings, alongside houseboats, through crosswalks, passed countryside homes and windmills, and to a family-run cheese mill and wooden clog-making factory. My friends and I were shown how the clogs are made and how the cheese is formed before continuing to ride passed more homes, livestock (including reindeer!) and through a park. As all the rest of the people in the tour sped by everything, my little elephant-trucks posing as legs were feeling pretty weak, so I had to take the position as the caboose of the group. By the end of the tour, I was the last to pull in but the first to pick up on the guide’s proclamation that we had just biked 22 miles – the longest tour he has ever given. So, I can officially state that I, KP, was in Amsterdam and did more than commit every sin practically known to man, though my body would probably argue that it is also sinful to bike ride for more than 20 miles.

By the end of the weekend, I was able to reflect on the beauty of the city and its small size, the flower market, the countryside, the friendly people. And I tried to make sense of how it all fits so perfectly together with the Vie Boheme nightlife. But I still don’t get it. How is it that in some countries there are people who spend their entire lives getting people in trouble for selling and using drugs or for selling their bodies for sex, when in Amsterdam everyone is happy-go-lucky and practically nothing is illegal, yet people are still able to maintain jobs and keep the economy working? It’s eye opening to think that the police in the US would practically have no place in Amsterdam.

It was refreshing to be able to participate in a life so taboo, so wrong by American standards. So while the most devout Christians or Muslims might be opposed to going, which is simply a shame since they would miss out on the beauty, good food and historical sites, I found myself falling for sin.  

The way back home

Where the white, straight lines in the crosswalk meet the puny metal sign shivering in the cool March air, a red-and-while people-mover with windows like staring eyes rolls in. Doors open.

The doors flap like lips to take in the next group of people. The linoleum floor has been gently aged by people – old and young - scurrying around. It has seen hundreds of passengers today alone. I, of course, make myself at home in the middle and sprawl out across the back seat where I can people watch. 

“Would you like to sit?” a 30-something-year-old man questions a woman well into her 70s whose skin hangs as low as the gold chair around her neck.

“Yes, thank you,” she huffs as her smoker’s voice scratches her words.

The man shrugs and takes a different seat, higher up and toward the back.   

Doors close, and the bus glides to a start, leaving as inconspicuously as it arrived, like a butterfly fluttering from plant to plant.   

“Ding.” It comes to a quiet halt. Doors open, and its passengers exchange “Adeus,” “Llamames,” and two-sided “besos.” Doors close.

A woman dressed in black fur carrying her baby papoosed around her body takes a seat next to her husband, chatting a mile-a-minute on his Blackberry and trying to hold on to the baby stroller. It looks more like a rolling bed with a miniature-sized comforter than it does a baby stroller. Two gossipy, high-school-aged-girls strike poses as they hold onto the pole near the door. An old man hacks loogies into his never-been-washed handkerchief, after fumbling for his T-Mes. And some young punk with a faux-halk and piercings in his face sits across from me.  

“It’s Saturday. Where should we go out tonight?” one girl questions.

“I think Razzmatazz will be fun, but we’ll have to go to a bar first,” the other responds.

“Yes, that will be fun,” the first girl responds. “Tonight is the last night I can go out for the next week because I have exams and need to study.”

My deep concentration to understand their not-so-private conversation is broken. “Watch you’re purse,” the sickly old man tells me, and uses hand gestures to indicate I should move my purse to my lap. He must have seen metal-face too.  

These people are really something else, I think. This bus represents a pretty solid spectrum of Spain.

Then, a soft buzz comes almost a moment too late and the driver screeches to a stop.  Placa Catalunya. Everyone exits except for me.

And then silence. It’s me and me alone. My bottom buzzes on top of my worn plastic seat, and the monotonous chug-chug-chugging of the engine serves as my lullaby, promising to put me to sleep if the next stop in front of my front door weren’t mine. 

Paris according to me. In 250 words or less.

The Eiffel Tower is bigger and wirier in person, but when it’s lit up at night you can’t tear your eyes away. The Catacombs are disturbing and eerie, but totally awesome. Crepes with Nutella and bananas are pure bliss. The hot chocolate at Les Deux Magots, where Hemingway used to hang out, is like liquid heaven. There is such thing as fantastic red wine for less than a Euro. The Luxembourg Gardens are just as beautiful even if wet snow is falling and not sticking. The stained-glass windows at the Notre Dame Cathedral remind me of paint by numbers. The Louvre is too massive for anyone to really be able to appreciate it all. The Seine River at night is simply perfect. Orangina is deliciously tangy even though I hate soda. Champs-Elysées not only has the best shopping, but the best chocolate croissants too. It is possible to use every hand signal imaginable to get your point across. Rue Cler, a local, outdoor market, sells the best mini quiche, French baguettes and Brie for a “bicnic,” or picnic in bed. You don’t always need to buy a Metro pass. It takes some 500 shots to get one good picture of friends jumping in the air in front of the Eiffel Tower. You can buy black boots that you have been searching frantically for for 6 Euros. It’s completely possible to meet up with friends even when no one has a cell phone. And oh yea, let it be known that my sing-songy speaking voice would sound wonderful speaking French…if I do say so myself.