Pressure (Cooker)

Today my host mother bought a new pressure cooker. A year or so ago my mom made the same mistake. The results: strikingly similar. Upon her first usage each struggled intensely with the apparatus, laughing, yelling, contemplating throwing it as far as they could. Apparently these things drive you mad in any and every language.

The scene was one right out of a sitcom. How many Spaniards does it take to work a pressure cooker? is running through my head as Mercedes, Pedro, and Borja all toil over the futuristic looking cube like male models at a computer (*see here). Pure confusion, frustration with hints of laughter at their own inabilities. Fingers frantically push buttons to no avail. The constant beep of little electronic buttons is the only sound that interrupts the fragile and lighthearted tension. 

What starts as excitement for a new device quickly turns to frustration and loathing at the thing. We’ve all had the feeling of a strenuous struggle, painstakingly straining ourselves to rip that extra tough plastic they package things in these days. Upon failure frustrations leads to disdain, and disdain to a cognizance of the futility of both your efforts and your anger. This glass case of emotion boils past capacity (ironically, much like a pressure cooker)- exploding into laughter at the absurdity of the level of anger you were just seconds ago at. 

Finally we figure it out. A simple solution of course- the twist of a knob. It was no surprise the dish was burnt, and no disappointment either. We were prepared by this point for everything to go as horribly as possible. 

Or maybe the laughter we got from the whole situation outweighs the value of the chewy dessert that could have been. 

P.S. When I asked her where she bought it she said it was a gift, not to her, but a re-gifted gift originally for someone else... If you ask me they got so frustrated with it they did the right thing- they gave it away.

Metro Music

The Metro in Madrid is a funny place. The early morning trains are full of business people and people just finishing their business from the night before. Usually the latter are falling asleep in between each station (yes, you know what I’m talking about- we all do it- and if you haven’t done it you’ve seen it). The afternoon is full  of people going to and from siesta, getting their kids from and back to school, shuffling in and out of train cars in accelerated blurs.
 The night time you can only imagine.
 But no matter what time of day no one is free from surprise subjugation to one of Madrid’s many charms. Sometimes you see them coming. They’re pulling their little amps on a bundled up stroller. They make eye contact with a sly smile that suggests they know something you don’t, but in fact you do see the wire coming from the stroller all the way into a slender microphone interred in their sleeve. Often times you don’t even see them coming. You run onto a crowded train just before the door closes, safely reserve a spot leaning on the opposite door, and just as you begin a conversation with the person next to you-

The glare from the brass instrument catches your eye just before the music reaches your ears. The notes fill the small amount of empty spaces between all the people in the train. Everyone turns to see where the music is coming from. It might be a whole band, each person equipped with a flute or a bongo or a microphone. It might be just one old man, weary and worn, blowing with all his soul into an equally worn brass horn. 

Accordions, guitars, glasses with water in them- whatever the instrument these people bring a little life to the city. A certain intangible essence. But just as quickly as they appeared, furtively dragging their equipment behind them, they’ve slipped out the last door, quickly hustling to the next train car to make another ten or twenty cents. Or maybe to bring a little more life to the otherwise often bland commute.  

What Not to Do in Paris

What not to do in Paris? Seems like a simple enough question. Most travel guides you’ll read will try to convince you of all the things you need to do in Paris. The Eiffel Tower, The Lourve, The Bastille etc... All that is great, but my experience in Paris this past weekend left me with a few, some funny and some not, shall we say, suggestions of things to NOT do in Paris. 

Number 1. Don’t fly into Beauvais Airport. I was convinced RyanAir would get me the cheapest tickets, and they did, however not including the 30 euro ticket for the two hour bus ride into the city. The bus ride was longer than the flight, and for less I could’ve just flown into one of the more central airports.   

Number 2. Don’t stay out all night before your six AM flight. This may lead to an uncomfortable plane ride, and if you’re not of the college age it may leave you bed-ridden for your first day- such a waste. Of course if you are young and can handle “burning the candle at both ends”, as my mom would say, best of luck to you. Just make sure to prepare for exhaustion and drink lots of water. (*See number 6) 

Number 3. Don’t expect Spanish prices. Everything in Paris is twice as expensive as in Spain. You could go out for a coffee and end up spending your child’s college fund. Be careful. *Nice side effect- upon your return to Madrid the prices here will look great. You’ll have the urge to buy everything on the menu because it will seem so cheap. A bottle of water for under five euro!? Lets get three- why not?

Number 4. Don’t wait until the night of her tenth birthday to give your little sister that scarf you bought her for her birthday- its cold out, and she just keeps stealing your dads. (True story)

Number 5. Don’t assume people fall into the stereotype of a French person, but don’t expect them not to either. I encountered a few people who may fit nicely into the stereotype many Americans hold true of French people- rude, pompous, and arrogant. But the vast majority of people just walked right by me without so much as a word. Its the few bad apples that make the whole pie easy to classify as bad- but really you just eat around them if you will. Also, when I got back I ran into a nice French woman in the metro who was looking for directions. Her Spanish was worse than mine! It was a great feeling... But I helped her on her way and so maybe that earned me some French brownie points of some sort. Like now when I go to France I get a free pass from people’s harshness for a day. Like I said, don’t assume someones going to be rude, but don’t take it personally or be surprised when they are in fact quite rude, with their hot coffee breath just lingering in your face while you try to figure out what in the world they are yelling about (in French). 

Number 6. When you feel a little nauseous from the plane and the bus and the strong coffee, make sure to drink lots of water. That being said, make sure the water you’re throwing back like there’s no tomorrow isn’t from the tap. Turns out drinking non-potable tap water for two days straight doesn’t make you feel better- actually it makes you feel much more sick than you may have been in the first place. This I discovered the hard way. But at least it was really funny when my dad casually mentioned at dinner you can’t drink the tap water in Paris. Bing! A lightbulb went off in my head. Not much more can be said about the absurd irony of drinking bad water unknowingly because you felt sick. But I still want to know, what came first? Did I feel sick from drinking the water? Or did I drink the water because I felt sick thus becoming more sick? The world will never know... 

I’m going back to Paris in a couple weeks and you can bet I’ll be bringing some bottles of water for the trip. 

La Buenissima Noche

Its Sunday night. I really just want to stay in my bed. I’ve got some work to do, but mostly I’m exhausted. Just completely spent. Cue the phone ringing- my friend Michelle on the other end of the line saying she found a Jazz bar close to us that doesn’t have a cover charge. Semi-reluctantly, skeptical of my own strength, I get up and start getting dressed. My body is tired, but my mind is smarter- he knows he’s in Madrid, and if not now, when?

We meet up around 11, the music starts at 11:30. So we hustle to the metro station even though its only one stop. But when we get inside the metro station not only is it the wrong line, meaning we’ll have to switch trains, but there is a nine minute wait for the next one. Bad hit. So we decide to take a walk.

It was only about 12 blocks there, a nice walk actually, down a big street with ornate facades and wonderful architecture. There was the occasional crumbling building on a corner, the walls covered in generations of pasted-on ads, cemented together by decades of decaying glue, forming an accordion of theatre, soft drink, and film ads. Finally we get there, just a little after 1130, only to find out- there is indeed a cover charge! We each purposely only brought four euros to avoid excessive spending, and its six a piece to get in. Bad hit number two. And we’re only on the fourth paragraph...  

So far this night has been a pretty big disappointment, and I’m feeling a little like crawling back up those 12 blocks and back upstairs into my welcoming bed. I can almost hear it calling my name. 

But, we agree its not the end of the world and dip into a bar around the corner for some drinks and snacks. We sat and laughed and talked for awhile before we decided it was late enough that maybe we should head to the metro before it closes at 1:30. She heads in to use the bathroom before we go and as I’m sitting there, a lone American with my backwards Red Sox hat on, I heard English. This isn’t some extremely rare discovery in Madrid, but it is always a surprise. I can tell the people speaking are Americans and I decide to go talk to them. Turns out they are Americans living here teaching english as a second language. They make a modest monthly salary and are really doing what us college students are doing- getting by on as little as possible and having all the fun in the world doing it. 

So the four of us sit and chat for awhile- about our experiences in Spain, the best parts, the worst parts, traveling in Europe, living in the big city etc... Its always fun to find other Americans in Madrid and compare our experiences, especially with older kids who are here with a job because they have a different view of the city.

But Michelle and I remember we need to make the metro in just a few minutes so we say goodnight and head back towards the metro. 

We haven’t taken more than 20 steps from the bar before I hear more English, but this time it was more intriguing- quieter and more personal. It was a sly remark about my Red Sox hat I was wearing so proudly, rendered with a proud chuckle. I turn around instinctively to see a short man, worn and tired looking, clutching a gin and tonic in one hand, and smoking a cigarette aggressively with the other. I can’t remember exactly what he said- but he sparked a friendly conversation and we got to talking. No two of his teeth were parallel, his hat was crooked, his stance was off balance, even his cigarette came out of his mouth at a crooked angle. Nothing about this guy was a clean-cut 90 degree angle. But there was something intriguing about him. He had an air of a mad scientist, like he knew something we didn’t. 

He asked me a question that seemed a little random, but soon made perfect sense. “Leo, you play any instruments?”. I answered yes, I play the guitar. Bad hit number three and you’ll see why soon... In fact I can’t read music, I don’t know what a key is, and my talent goes about as far as a few youtube videos. Nonetheless, something drove me to answer yes... Remember, if not now, when?

Soon it became clear he, now known to us as Norm, was the lead singer and trombone player for the band that was headlining that night. We told him the whole story of our failed attempt to get in and he let out one of his trademark creepy yet friendly chuckles as he pulled his wallet out to give us a couple VIP passes for entrance and free drinks. Wow, we thought, who could’ve guessed something like THAT would happen to us tonight!? Little did we know there was more to come...

We took those little red passes in our hands graciously and walked up towards the door. This time the bouncer didn’t even look us in the eye as he opened the door for us- particularly invitingly. We crammed into the crowded club, shouldering past people left and right. We finally got a perfect spot five feet from the stage, with the bar to lean on. We sat like kings on those barstools, proud of our accomplishment by association, and ready to enjoy the night with the feeling of that little red VIP ticket burning a hole in our pockets.

Soon Norm and his band took the stage. He introduced himself to the crowd in Spanish, surprising considering his seemingly native english. This guy never ceases to bewilder. They fumbled with equipment and wires for about ten minutes before starting, but once they did it was sweet, soulful, and symphonic. There’s something about jazz on a Sunday night. The suave sounding horns with the calm, funky, consistent drums, and of course, the upright bass player, cool and collected slapping along to the beat, blending deep, popping tones into the mix. They played one song and there was a pause. A deadly pause.

“Where’s my man Leo at? Leo you in the crowd?”

The microphone must have been broken. Was that my name? 

“Leo, come up here and play guitar with us my man!” 

Next thing I knew I was being ushered onto the stage. My feet weren’t moving but my body was getting closer to the stage. Now I’m standing on the stage. Or my body is at least. A guitar is being tossed around my neck. The crowd looks a lot bigger now. 50 people multiply, looking like thousands. The only face I recognize is Michelle’s, smiling and encouraging.

Reality cruelly snaps back when Norm asks me what I can play. 

“Uh, nothing really” I manage to choke up.

“Nothing!? What is it with you Bostonians?” He says, turning to the crowd, “ you guys are always lying!” 

I couldn’t bring myself to speak anymore out of sheer nervousness, but I began to play what I could. Simple scales that I thought might go well with some jazz-funk vibes. 

“So now you’ve lied twice he said! You can play!”

And with that it started. They played around my very limited riffs, but I was right on time and it was exhilarating. There was an aura in the room that now clouds my memory with a shiny gold light. Maybe it was the reflection of his brass trombone, but I just don’t know. My body isn’t even a concern at this point. I’m a consciousness floating above the stage, watching Norm blow air through his crooked teeth, and seeing the same air come out the other end of the trombone in the form of magical musical notes. I see the bass player, eyes closed, face swaying, grimacing with the coarse enjoyment of the dull, earthly tones. The drummer is looking upward, keeping perfect time, looking almost relaxed. Then there’s me, the nervous first grader on the first day of school, and I’m sure I looked ridiculous. 

All this lasted half a second. Then it was over. I was off the stage, back in my body, embarrassed- but overflowing with adrenaline.

The night lasted a couple more hours before I climbed up the stairs into my apartment to collapse on my bed in a sleepy euphoria. I slept like a baby that night, completely drained of any adrenaline and energy I once had. But the memory of that night will be with me for the rest of my life, and its nights like those that make my experience at Suffolk Madrid so different from the rigid classic concept of a college education. It was just one of those nights that is worth 1,000 freshman English classes. I mean, if not now, when?