Happy Thanksgiving

And happy start of the craziness. The annual holiday shopping rites that began this weekend are not limited to the United States. In Spain, where stores are usually closed on Sundays, this weekend marks the first of a month of Sundays with stores open.

I was in a supermarket on Friday and the woman in front of me was asking the cashier if they were open the following day. The cashier said yes (supermarkets always open on Saturdays), “and the following day as well,” she added with a sigh. “They might as well give us a bed in the store,” she said. I gave her a sympathetic look.

But I’m not going to deny that this is a convenient time of year. For a few short weeks I need not fret about getting everything done on Saturday. In a way, it ruins the loveliness that Sunday is in this laid-back country. That’s life, I guess.

Though the shopping frenzy in the U.S. may be similar here, Thanksgiving itself certainly isn’t. After refusing a request from my [Spanish] roommates to cook a turkey in our pint-sized oven, I decided to attempt an apple pie. Our oven is so uneven that the top crust started burning, but the inside hadn’t started bubbling yet. I turned off the top heating element and let it cook for a little longer with the bottom element on. The result was that the inside didn’t really cook all the way. But what difference did it make to my roommates who’d never eaten an apple pie in their lives? We ate it happily.

On language

Tonight as I was on my way to yoga, a rogue Mercedes almost plowed me down.

The car before it had pulled a similar maneuver, but since the light had just changed I had less time to react verbally. But I was in a crosswalk, and crossing with the flashing green little man.

Now, I am what could be considered an aggressive pedestrian, especially in Madrid, where drivers are terrible. But I’m aggressive because I do my best to be a responsible pedestrian (as responsible as someone who spent several of her formative years in New York City, jaywalking with the best of ‘em). And tonight was no exception. I was crossing in a crosswalk with the light.

Already riled up by the first car’s stunt, I was boiling when the Mercedes swung around the corner at top speed.

What came out of my mouth?

“FUUUUUCK YOU!”

After two years here, I am versed in the many variations on swear words in Spanish. But, what can I say? I seemingly had no control over this outburst. Some primitive part of me awoke, and that part of me speaks English.

I only wish the jerk had had his window down.

Notes from Madrid

In case you’ve been watching this space and think I’m a total deadbeat on the writing circuit these days, I urge you to check out Notes from Madrid. Four other young Madrileños (by adoption) and I write all sorts of useful and fun posts for people living in or visiting Madrid. We’ve got everything from under-the-radar neighborhoods to designing your own shoes, eating Chinese food underground, enforcement of the drinking age and where to get the best churros in Madrid. Enjoy!