I could, perhaps, blame my erratic blogging on any number of things, including extensive travel, the Mediterranean, the warm weather, laziness etc. In reality, it turns out that living in Spain is quite stubbornly NOT conducive to productivity of any kind. I often sit down to write a post, and then maybe someone invites me to watch the Madrid-Barça game or go to the farmer's market. (I'm a Madrid fan, for the record. I decided by weighing which city I like better.) In the meantime, I've been busy forgetting how to spell in English, playing a card game called chinchón with a group I like to call "the abuelos," or drinking horchata. My days are completely filled, and before I know it, it's suddenly 9:00 and time to eat dinner. (A practice I'm still not completely accustomed to. Especially lately since I've been craving steak.)
Today has already been populated by very Spanish experiences. I've been enjoying the recent bout of 75º weather and spending hours at the beach, in the company of plenty of topless sunbathers. This aspect of beach-going took some time to get used to; the most humorous part is the 60+ crowd seems to be much more into topless sunbathing (and thong bottoms) than the rest of the beach-goers. It's normal enough now, and in my generous moments I suppose there's something to be said for their self-confidence. Nonetheless, we typically look for a piece of beach sans half-nude abuelas.
Later on, my friend Christine and I went to a little horchatería to try the famous Spanish horchata. Horchata, as Pepe explained to me at lunch, is made of a tuber that the Spanish call "chufas." ("Now Olivia, it's not the part above the ground, like a strawberry, but the part below the ground, like a potato.") They process it, add water and it becomes a drink that I can only liken to vanilla soy milk, but sweeter. We ordered ours granizado, making it more like a smoothie. It was delicious, and we drank our horchata in this tiny place filled with locals. They crowded the bar, waving 10 euro bills and loudly ordering their cafés, horchatas and helados. A friendly Spanish man asked where I was from, mentioning he has an American student living in his house too. We marveled at what appeared to be suizas - sugared rolls - with a scoop of turrón ice cream sandwiched between.
On the way out, mashed together at the bar while waiting to pay, someone tapped me on the butt. I turned around, expecting to see a creepy Spanish man, but I found instead a little girl plopped in a chair behind me. "Hola!" I said. "Hola!" she exclaimed, in her bold three-year-old manner. Our conversation proceeded:
Little Girl: "Cómo estás?"
Olivia: "Muy bien, y tú?" (Good, how about you?)
Little Girl: "Bien! Cómo te llamas?" (Good! What's your name?)
Olivia: "I'm Olivia." (Oleeveeah, in Spanish.) "Are you going to eat some ice cream?"
Little Girl: "Sí! Chocolate. And this is my friend Margarita! I'm three and she is four."
I turned around to pay, and she tapped me again.
Little Girl: "Cómo estás?"
Our charming conversation continued until I paid, and we parted with a friendly "Hasta luego!" Nearly every Spaniard ends their social transactions - whether a phone call with a TV repairman, a purchase at a bakery, or when parting from close friends - with "Hasta luego!" which literally means "Until later." I love this. I think it's one of the most friendly ways to say goodbye: even though you might never see someone again, perhaps the bus driver or the waiter, you leave them with a suggestion of the future. There's something so wonderfully personal about this, and I prefer it over "Adios" or "Ciao," just for this reason.
As I was hiking up the stairs and listening to my music after leaving the horchatería, I was startled to hear a knocking on first floor door. This was especially unnerving as I thought I was home alone; I peered out into the staircase, and seeing no one I went back to my room. I sat down in my chair to take off my sandals when I heard a faint "Ollie! Ollie!" from downstairs. I stop mid-sandal removal and realize that Pepe is somewhere in the house.
"Pepe?! Dónde estás?" (Pepe?! Where are you?)
"Estoy aquí abajo! Maricarmen me ha cerrado aquí, y necesito ir al Mercadona! Tráete la llave tuya!" (I'm downstairs! Maricarmen locked me in here, and I need to go to the supermarket!)
"De veras? Qué va!" (Really?!) I stifled a laugh.
I ran down the stairs and unlocked him. (A moment of explanation: our house has three floors. On the first floor is their old shop where they sold sewing materials. The second floor has the living room and kitchen, and the third floor holds our bedrooms and bathrooms. Each floor has its own key; Maricarmen had taken the second floor key out on her way to her daughter's, leaving Pepe fast asleep in his chair and stuck downstairs.) He was grateful to see me, but was very concerned because - ¡Dios mio! - we had no bread to eat for dinner. This crisis has been averted, and neither of my host parents are locked inside the house any longer.
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