Would you be my neighbor?

Our new apartment is interior, meaning we aren't bothered by the sounds on the busy streets outside but we do get a very intimate sneak peak inside the lives of our neighbors. 

 Oh my, what a great view of Spain you must have. 

Jk, this is your view:

The neighborhood we live in is called Lavapiés. It's known for its great food, the high population of foreigners, and the  very open drug use. 

This sign is posted on an apartment down the street from our place and says "buy your drugs outside of this neighborhood, Lavapiés is our home"

This is a grow shop where you can buy pieces about a block away from the hand made sign above. 

As you can see, there are conflicting views in Lavapiés. 

Jordan and I joked that we would learn to survive in this neighborhood by being euntrepreneurs and becoming drug lords, but we've recently learned that to survive and thrive we should probably learn Russian. 

My favorite neighbors at the moment are the Russian mafia that lives across from us and one floor down. Because our apartment doesn't have air conditioning everyone has their windows open at all times. The Russians seem to believe that no one else lives in this building or maybe they just don't care. It seems the only way to get your point across in Russian is by screaming it. (There's a warm spot in my heart for these guys since they're so similar to my own family in this way). 

I picture them sitting around a wooden table, playing cards in hand and a jug of cheap vodka being passed around. Snowden is sitting with them, enjoying his freedom but also wondering if life in prison and political resentment in the US might be safer than the life he's living now. It is always winter in their apartment and they are never without their fur hats, lit cigars and AK-47's. With that being said, we have yet to ask them to speak softer. 

The neighbors on our other side are a wonderful Bengali family. A wife, husband and two young girls. If we're lucky, at early hours in the morning the girls will turn into screaming coyotes and run up and down the hall. After we're certain they aren't being abducted, Jordan and I make up our own screen play reflecting the drama we hear outside the door. Sometimes we even play dramatic music on top of the action. 

I like to imagine we've been cast as one of the robots in Mystery Science Theatre 3000. 

The other day Jordan and I met the father of the two girls in the elevator. Because it takes about 16 min for the elevator to get to the 4th floor, we learned a lot about each other. He said our Spanish is good for being American which means the fact that we're American and care to know another language at all means we're pretty much fluent. He then told us he was from Bangladesh and we responded with "oh wow what a beautiful country" he laughed and said "yeah but the people are horribly unattractive." I made a mental note to seek out therapy sessions for the girls who will thank me later in life.  

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This morning I though that someone had donated a tv to us and was blasting a very dramatic telenovela but I quickly learned that there was a fight going on between the only Spanish family in the building who live directly across from us (you'd think that there being only one Spanish family in an apartment in Madrid would be strange but nope, not in Lavapiés). This is fun because not only do we hear everything they're saying but we can also watch everything they do. 

I can't be certain that a murder didn't take place at 0800 hours this morning but to go with the flow of the Spanish culture I'll just say it's none of my business. 

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So kids, when you are without wifi, fear not, because you might have been living over the Russian mafia for years without even knowing it. And that's when the adventure can begin. 

"do you think our Spanish cell phones have snake...?

...I hope they do." --Jordan Gurganus.

I feel like Jordan will cite the future names of many of my posts without even knowing it. I mean this sincerely because so does she. Earlier today we were watching Miley Cyrus' new video, and she said "the concept almost works and then she starts licking hammers." The best part is, when I started laughing she looked kind of upset because I wasn't taking her seriously.

She wasn't sure if this was a coffee table or a drum, so we tried both. It's not a drum. (sorry, Marcelo/Mario)

Jordan and I worked very hard to move into our beautiful new apartment. I'm not saying having funerals for the dead baby cockroaches found throughout the house wasn't entertaining, and buying our own cups because "we're too afraid of the kitchen (--Jordan)" isn't the tits, but it was time to move on. Sorry, Mr. Bean, you will be in our hearts and most likely the reason we won't live past 30.

The other day before Jordan arrived to Madrid I went on my own little adventure. Meaning I got lost for days. Many people say that you learn from your mistakes. I place all of these people in a group and try my best to avoid them. However, after one day on my own in Madrid I happily enlisted myself into said group. Here is what I learned: 

The Alimentacion is basically a store for fat kids.

With that being said, I go daily.

 If you truly understand me, you know my one and only love is chocolate. One day, Isabelle (the German girl who I met in this lovely apartment) and I went to every Alimentacion on the way to our friend Annika's house looking for one chocolate bar in particular (for me, obviously). The 15 minute walk took us about an hour and a half and by the end I had to settle for a Kit Kat bar. To express how easy going my time in Spain has been, this experience was traumatic. 

If you are a girl you will be referred to as "guapa." No matter what. 

I learned this the hard way. 

Guapa means lovely or pretty, basically used for aesthetic reasons. So whenever I was walking down the streets people would say "ayyy guapa, asodhf asidhfd pasodf (I usually have no idea what they're saying, my Spanish is pretty narcissistic). Then I'll go and order a cafe con leche and the waiter will say "vale guapa, un momento." Ok, cool, back atchya. So this was the new norm for the rest of the week and obviously something was seriously wrong if the conversation didn't finish with someone saying I was lovely.  

Until that one day when the woman with three arms and tenticles sticking out of her head was also called "guapa." And then the man with one tooth carrying a teddy bear that obviously wasn't his was also called "guapo." It's not that Spain broke my heart or anything it's just that I thought we had something special.

Do not smile or stare at cute babies because you will be classified as a child molester. 

The babies here are ahhhdorable. That's probably why everyone 13 and up has one. It's like a freaking rite of passage over here. You don't even know what peer pressure is until you walk through the Parque Retiro and see teenagers literally having sex on benches. It's like when the couple saw me they felt awkward because of my singleness, not because I was blatantly staring at them in awe/disgust/probably still a little drunk (hey, it was after 10 am)

If you make eye contact with anyone of the opposite gender, it means you want to have sex with them. 

And if you smile at them, it means you probably already have. 

In Spain, you don't have to go to the nearest pub for those around you to understand why you're drinking so early. 

the world is your pub and they all understand. 

People work to live, not live to work. 

Or they just don't work at all. 

PS- sorry if this blog didn't make any sense. As much as my Spanish has improved these past two weeks my English has gotten so much worse. God help the little nuggets that I'm supposed to teach. 

How to star in Taken 3

Not to say these past couple days in Spain with my uncle weren't exciting, but holy crap when you're on your own in a foreign country you realize how lost you can really get, So far the advice I can give is,

1. If you're lost in Spain but it looks nothing like Anacostia, don't freak out, you're fine.

Long story short, my uncle flew in with me to Spain because he got a great deal with the airlines and "he's never  been before, so why not?" Fair enough, I'll allow it. So these past couple of days we explored Spain together. It's amazing how people who are originally from Wisconsin believe that everyone speaks English. And if they're unsure if that person speaks English, they'll yell at them in English. Because I think that's how we were all taught the language. So these past two days my uncle and I had a great time exploring Spain and yelling at people in English. I seriously couldn't be happier that he was with me those first two days because Spain is big, but so is he (dem swedes, you know?)

Today I took a bus from the hotel we were staying at to the centre of Madrid. When the bus driver saw all of my luggage and noticed that I was the only one carrying it across four different metro stops and many small streets he gave me a pathetic look and said "buena suerte." Thank you sir, those two words were all I needed to gain enough stamina to take those 80 lb bags to my new home for a week. They weren't, but if you are a girl in Spain and you look decent (as in not near death or homeless) people are more than happy to help you. So, this Spanish dude with a 6 year old girl carried my kajillion pound bag down about three flights of stairs (because why would they make escalators in Spain?) and once again gave me the pathetic look followed by "buena suerte." Well, fuck you too. And thanks for your help. And your daughter is adorable.

I finally make it to la Calle Argumasa numero siete where I proceed to ring the doorbell.  Not only does no one answer but some old lady walks up to me with a bad case of resting bitch face and asks me what the shit I think I'm doing, all in Spanish. I think the only reason I understood was because people ask me that a lot here. I told her I was looking for Marcelo, who was nice enough to rent out a room in his apartment for a week, and she said no Marcelo lived there. This is where my second point of advice comes in:

2. If it looks like the location where you made a reservation to live that week is nonexistent, go to the nearest bar with wifi so you can cry to your parents and get a drink.

At this point my arms fell off about 3 blocks ago from carrying my bags and all I wanted was a drink. So I immediately walked away from the lady with a case of the resting bitch face and to the nearest bar with wifi where I was greeted by the bartender, Alejandro. My assumption of Spain was confirmed at this bar. Punk is not dead. If it happened to die at one time, it is now resurrected in Madrid. That being said, Alejandro and I got along famously.

I asked Alejandro if there was a Marcelo that lived around here and he said no. Which means no because everyone knows everyone in this part of Madrid. I'm sipping (gulping) down my much needed glass of wine and all of the sudden this dude walks in and says "eres la francesa? Which means, are you the french girl? No.. no sir I'm not French but thank you for asking? But he's insistent I come with him so I say sure, why not, I'd love to star in Taken 3. Also, his name is Mario not Marcelo.

We make our way down the street where I'm planning out exactly where we'll start filming the comedy that will become the most amazing prequel to a somewhat exciting movie. I quickly learn that this might become reality when we walk past apartment 7 (where according to the reservation, is where I'm staying) to apartment 5. I found after going back to the bar where I left my unfinished wine that people do this for security reasons so that they themselves are not taken. I don't mean to be brash but Mario-Marcelo looks like Mr. Bean's twin who would probably not feature in a film about kidnappings. We make our way up into the apartment and he shows me around the place.

This is my wonderful room for the week

This is the living room where Mario/Marcelo and I shared a melon (whatta guy)

The kitchen/ laundry room/ living room/ bull fighting arena/ place to feel even more like a giant because the appliances are tiny

And finally, the teeny tiny bathroom. 

If this is the last you hear from me, contact Mr. Bean. I'm pretty sure they're directly related or at least best friends so he probably has access to Mario/Marcelo's diary.

Peace&Blessingz y'all <3