Cultura

Below are some cultural differences I've experienced in Madrid.

¿La Cuenta, Por Favor? At restaurants in Spain, you're never hurried into paying the check. You can sit and chat long after you’ve finished eating, without ever feeling rushed. When you order a drink at the counter, you don’t have to pay until you're finished and ready to leave. Also it's worth noting that food is tax free, and patrons very rarely leave a tip, a fact which makes splitting the bill, well, a piece of tarta.

One of my most relaxing and enjoyable experiences has been having lunch or dinner with friends. Spending quality time chatting and laughing has been so much fun. On a few occassions, my piso-mates and I have spent two to three hours sharing tapas, drinking wine, and getting to know each other.
Tortellini with white walnut sauce, zuchini, & bread


American Music. Imagine if every time you went to a bar, a restaurant, or a class at the gym, you only heard Spanish music. You'd rarely be able to sing along, and you could only fully understand the message of a song if you printed and studied the lyrics. Well, in Spain, American music is nearly always playing, making it difficult for many Spaniards to understand the artist's message. For example, the last Spaniard I got a ride from was blasting Robbie Williams music with absolutely no idea what he was singing about.

Also, many of the songs I hear were popular at least 3 years ago.
To give you a better idea, here are a few songs I've heard in the past week.
-Total Eclipse of the Heart
-Gangsta’s Paradise
-Hungry Eyes
-Everybody (Backstreet’s Back)
-Torn
-The Rhythm of The Night

Keep in mind, I’ve heard most of these more than once.

Cañas: the key to bar-hopping. The beers here are quite small. But apparently, there is pure logic behind these jelly jar-sized brews. They’re perfect for the cultural tradition of bar hopping! If the Madrileños drank an entire bottle of beer at each bar, it would be pretty difficult for them to make it to the eight or ten bars they go to per night.*
Bartenders ensure that customers are not overly intoxicated by serving a tapa, or little snack, with each round of beer. It’s a fun surprise to see which tapa the bartender will choose for you . Surprise! Ham slices!

*I’ve found it pretty difficult to get out of the habit of staying at one bar for an extended period of time. Why should I leave? I just made friends, and It’s cold out!

The first night all four of us went out together.


Theresa, Carly, Kara, and me

Cerveceria 100 Montaditos

A Wednesday night tradition.
My piso-mates: Carly & Theresa

The only place in Madrid where you can get a jarra of Cruzcampo for 1 euro. You can also choose from 100 different sandwhiches (montaditos), ranging from bacon and potatoes to white chocolate with red fruit jelly, for 1 euro each.

The Vegetarian's Dilemma

Disgusted? Or fascinated?

Romper el Corazón

Cherimoya

Bésame, Bésame Mucho

In Madrid you're kissed at least twice a day. From the casual ‘dos besos’ that occur as a greeting, to the passionate ‘besos de lengua’ I’ve seen take place in the grass of Parque del Oeste.

Dos Besos
When I first got to Madrid, I kept trying to shake people's hands. Many times, while introducing ourselves to others, Kara and I would simultaneous stick out our hands, burst out laughing, and then go in for kisses.
At first I was uncomfortable with kissing on the cheek, but lately I am very aware of the handshake and just how impersonal a gesture it is.

Still, I'm not sure I will ever be able to get the double kiss exactly right.
Thursday (at an amazing club we discovered, Garamond) I went in for the kiss WAY too early. Juan was right in the middle of introducing himself--mid-sentence actually--when I thrusted my cheek at his face.

Yes, the ‘dos besos’ can get very awkward. While interviewing for tutoring jobs this weekend, I couldn’t figure out if it was proper to kiss the parents or not. At one interview, the mother went in for the kiss, but the father was totally against it, and when I made a motion towards him, he stood stationary with his hands in his pockets.

I also should mention (just in case you decide to come to Spain) that the double kiss is just an illusion! I wish someone had mentioned that to me before I spent a month pressing my puckered lips against the cheeks of every man and woman I met…

PDA
So I had my first quadruple kiss...
As I was being coaxed into the kiss by Antonio, Carlos, and Diego, I was #1 confused as to where we were (Spring Break?) and #2 confused as to why three guys would want to kiss each other. In the end, I agreed to go in for a peck, managing to kiss only one on the lips (the guy in the middle, naturally) while the other two landed somewhere in between my lips and cheek. *Another cultural difference worth noting: Spanish guys, both straight and gay, are very affectionate towards one another.

Public displays of affection are almost as common in the streets of Madrid as are legs of jamón.
And I love it.
While walking home from my last Spanish class, I saw a beautiful thing. A sharply-dressed man and woman were stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, kissing, their arms wrapped tightly around one another. In her hand she held a bouquet of flowers.
When I reached the end of the street, I turned back, only to see the couple in the same spot, in the same embrace.

Furnishing Mishap

It wasn't until after I returned from Ikea (ee-KAY-ah), set up my living space, and took a step back that it occured to me....

I have THE BREAST COMFORTER EVER.

No K-names in Spain

When I moved to Madrid, I became a different me. The change is only subtle, but regardless, in at least a few ways, I am new.
In order to realize and embrace the change, I have published this blog under a new name.

And there is a little story behind it...

When I first arrived in Madrid, I found that it is nearly impossible for the madrileños to pronounce my name correctly. In fact, many interactions went something like this:
"Como se llama?"
"Soy Kristen."
"krees-TEEN?"
"No, no. Kristen"
"Sí, krees-TEEN.
[uncomfortable laugh] "Kristen."
"Ah! Vale! kree-STEE-nah!"

And--
The few times I gave in and went to Starbucks, the barista handed me a coffee with the name "CRISTINA" scribbled in magic marker.

I like my name. I like the way it sounds, the way it's spelled with a 'K' and not a 'C', or a 'CH', which always made me think of a boy's name or Christmas. I like that towards the end I have an 'E' instead of an 'I' , which to me looks more juvenile. This 'E' that I have, this 'E' is so much more...sophisticated.
I thought about all I had learned as a practicing teacher in New York State--the stories about students who came to the US from other countries and lost a piece of their culture when they were unwillingly given an 'Americanized' name in school. I remember a friend from college introducing himself to me as Josh, when even at the time I knew his name was Josue. "Why is he rejecting his cultural background," I thought.

I was angry that the madrileños refused to call me Kristen.

But then I got to thinking about it. Why do they refuse to call me Kristen? Is it because they don't want to, or because they cannot produce the sounds? I mean, it's not like I don't want to roll my Rs. My mouth is physically incapable.
I developed a new understanding of why a person would change his or her name, or at least let the mispronunciations slide. I can imagine why Josue began referring to himself as Josh. It's annoying having to repeat your name five times, every time you meet someone new.

I didn't come to Spain to live like an American. I came to embrace the Spanish culture. I came to live like a local. Here we go.


Besitos,
Cristina

Al Principio

His looks are quite mild. Dried, sand-colored strips of skin peel away from his bottom lip, and around his eyes bitter-yellow circles revolve like turning leaves.

Seated across my kitchen table, he takes his Swiss Army knife to the cork. Lips rest on a translucent rim. Glass slides on the wet table-top. We ease into an early evening.

I make him laugh, and his teeth are washed in mauve like two rows of harvest berries. Now I’m self-conscious about my own.
“Are they purple?” I ask, scrunching my nose, struggling to lift my lip high enough to expose my teeth. A $9 bottle of Shiraz Yellowtail. I bought it earlier believing it was blush.
“Not at all.”
Then, clinking his own teeth together, “How ‘bout mine?” he asks nearly inaudibly. And my laughter says it all.

This is how it usually goes. We sit and chat about our day: the threat of snow, the presidential race, the football game he saw last week.
“Kristen—" he leaves it hanging in the sky for a moment, "when we graduate,
let’s visit Spain.”