Struggle Does if for the Mortgage

You know what's a huge struggle? If you answered me, then you are indeed correct, but that was the easy answer, so no points for you. However, if you instead answered "growing up and joining the human race", well, go ahead and pat yourself on the back because you won.

Now, I am fully aware of how difficult it is to get a job in today's market. However, despite "la crisis", or perhaps because of it, most of my friends are, surprisingly enough, gainfully employed, if only because the people my age are willing to accept lower salaries and longer hours then, say, a parent of two. So here we all are, fresh out of college, filled with the vigor and promise of youth, our whole lives ahead of us, and then we jump straight into a world of heath insurance forms and taxes and early bedtimes. I mean, did you know that based on your commute you have to wake up by at least 8 to be somewhere and caffeinated by 9? Which means you have to go to BED by at least 1, which means you can't watch adult swim, which means what the hell are you going to talk about with anyone ever? I honestly don't know how adults do it!

And listen, this isn't just hearsay, I really do know what I'm talking about. For the next two months I myself am working what I believe the kids call a 9 to 5, answering phones, filing papers, selling my soul to the company store, the usual. And I have a few observations from my long hard days in the salt mines (and by salt mines I mean Real Estate Company. And by long hard days, I mean my father buys me lunch every day) which I would like to share with you, as a way to aid my fellow compatriots, young and old. And by compatriots, I mean drones.

How to make a 9 to 5 a "Nothing but Fun":
1. Use the time when you are being paid to be "working" as covert opportunities to catch up on some serious reading. May I suggest observing the social habits of others? Boning up on the news? Or, you know, stalking?
2. Construct a suit of armor out of paper clips. It worked for my brother in the 6th grade, it can work for you. Ladies, don't be gender normative, armor on up! Only you can defend middle earth!
3. Make long distance phone calls on someone else's dime. Come on, don't you have some friends in New Guinea you could be catching up with?
4. Set up an internet dating profile. The sketchier the site, the better.
5. Fill out magazine subscriptions and catalog offers in the names and addresses of people you dislike. Penile enhancement offers always sweeten the deal.

I'm sure you've all got more at home. And if you do, would you mind sending them to me? I seem to have a lot of grown up time I need to fill.

Struggle Turns 1!

Well, it took me about 18 hours, three bottles of water, two enormous cups of coffee, a glamour magazine (shut up), one evening in Heathrow airport, two friskings, one 8 hour trans-Atlantic flight, one 40 minute trans-USA flight, three customs declaration forms (I really should stop using pens), and one screening of "Love Happens" (life lesson, no matter what, don't EVER see "Love Happens"), but I am finally back on the Western Side of the Atlantic ocean. And when I GOT back, after communing with my cats, watching something like 20 hours straight of netflix and Hulu ( I had to catch up!), and indulging myself in wine and microwave popcorn (a concept that has yet to reach Europe in a popular sense), I made a startling realization. Was it that despite it's heavy sense of procedure I still love Bones? Well, yes, yes it was, but that wasn't the main thing. No, the real and really scary thing I discovered was that I've been keeping this blog for a year now. Which means that some of you have been reading about my strugglsome struggles for a year now. Which means that YOU must be exhausted. I know I am.

That's right, it's been a full year since I realized the struggle had to go public. A full year since I sat in the Art and Architecture Library of not-Yale and first began to consider my life through the lens of struggle. And since that time the world has seen two Twilight films, one band of pirates (not the fun Caribbean kind, though, which just goes to show, everything is better in the Caribbean) , several massive snow storms, an unprecedented number of celebrity deaths, an economic recession (known in Spain as "la crisis", a more direct moniker, I must say), the marriage of a Jonas brother (viewers of the Disney channel weep), and the first ever Olympic games to be held in a South American country. Now, as that country is Brazil, well, the Olympic athletes might have to play with switchblades in their sports bras, but, hey, progress, right?

But on a more personal note, it's been a pretty full year for me as well. I graduated not-Yale, I farmed organically, for about two weeks, I traveled around Europe, I subsequently mocked Europe, I did yoga, I read Rushdie, I recycled. I was also kicked by a horse, got lost in major transit stations in at least 5 European cities, yelled at by tenants, contractors, strangers and Germans, caught strep throat, caught 4 different colds, caught many trains in the wrong directions, and struggled, struggled, struggled. But then, didn't we all. And perhaps I'm not so different as I was a year ago when I published my first post, still a mess, still can't figure out what to do with my hair, still technically living with my parents.

So as I look ahead to the new year, with all it's promise and hope, I recognize that I still have some struggling to do. After all, I'm only 1 year old. So happy anniversary to the struggle, and to all of us who continue to do it. And hey, at least my parents have cable. Things seem to be looking up.

Struggle Travels in Style

First and foremost, let me wish all of you a healthy, happy and struggle-free New Year. Since I myself am fully aware of the impossibility of my own year/existence being devoid of struggle, the least I can do is wish good things on others. Now, I'm sure you are all desperate to know about how I spent my New Years Eve, if only to, you know, point and mock. But before we get there, I think it's only fair that we jump back and talk a little bit about the build up.

As you may recall, the day after the that whole Christmas thing I found myself running out of Madrid like a bat out of hell, bound straight for Berlin. Well, Berlin, by way of Palma de Mallorca, so, you know, 10 hours of travel just to get to an umlaut, but, you know, I'm not bitter. I finally arrived in Berlin, after the weirdest and, honestly, more ghetto series of plane rides of my life (at one point we were shuffled onto a bus and just taxied around the runway for a while until the plane was ready for us. Standing room only. Smelly smelly European people. I think you get the idea. Now, as for Berlin itself, well, Berlin is, honestly, weird. It's a weird place, it's a huge struggle, it's exactly what you'd expect of a city that was divided by a giant marked up wall for several decades and then re-united in the modern era. The most edible naturally German food to be found in the city is called currywurst, and is a sausage served with ketchup and curry and fries. Sure. There is even a museum devoted to it, but given that I only had three days in Berlin, I had to give that one a miss. However, I did get to spend my days wandering around some of the riches of the ancient world (so graciously and kindly ripped out and stolen by the Germans, thanks, guys), and observing some "Bruegel" guy and his "art work" , apparently he's, like, famous, or something? I don't know, all the signs were in German. Go figure. The upside of Berlin is that everyone, and I really do mean everyone, from the cab drivers to the coffee shop waiters, speaks English. Given that this is not the case in, say, Spain, for example, this was something I found really quite exciting. The downside of this turns out to be that, and I don't know why this is, but when Germans speak in English, well, they just tend to sound, how to put this, amazingly, astoundingly, totally, well, RUDE. Really really rude. Honestly, downright mean. I don't think that they MEAN to, per say, or that there is an intention for cruelty, but they just YELL at you, it's unreal. At a VERY nice Austrian restaurant I attended with Ben and Michael (hi, guys!) and their family the oh-so-proper maitre'd actually barked at us "hurry up, hurry up!" as he shepherded us to our table. Now, granted, there were, like, 12 of us, but STILL! If only we tipped here in Europe, then it could reflect that treatment. I suppose that's why we don't. Just one more reason to blame the Germans.

Waving auf Wiedersehen to Germany I jumped on a flight and made my way over to the sunny shores of England, to bask in the balmy weather and get myself a tan. Much to my shock and despair, it was foggy and rainy! Who would have guessed it? Here in London I celebrated the New Year with a bunch of public school boys, my friend Andrew, (hi, Andrew!) and some fairly disturbing British Art. I must say, as much of a struggle as I am, I can't help by like London, with it's delicious Indian food and it's horrifying social systems. Outside of New York I've never heard so many different languages spoken on public transportation, and you kind of have to love that, don't you?

Or perhaps it's just that I love London because it's the last stop on my way home. And tomorrow night, just before the Tube closes for the evening, I will be on my way to London's Heathrow Airport, to while away the evening drinking in the airport bar and waiting for my flight to be announced. Is it going to be a struggle? Well, of course it is, have you seen the title of this website? Is it going to be worth it? Well, after a long period of wandering, gentle readers, let me tell you, that to get home, frankly, swimming the Atlantic ocean would be worth it, let alone flying over it. So, for all of you following along at home, I'll catch you across the pond. It's been 100 days in Europe for me, and I'm ready to say Adios, Ciao, Chuss, Cheers, and Au Revoir. It seems that for me, there's no struggle like home.

Struggle Tries Hibernation

There are a lot of reasons to envy bears. They are adept at catching fish with their hands, which I haven't seen a human doing outside of Mulan, they are outfitted with a nice and quite fashionable coat that works with all seasons, and their diet of berries and honey works for me. Yes, bears have a lot going on for them, but I would say the best thing they do is hibernate. I mean, what a concept, you know? All summer you work up to being a fatty no-friends, gorging yourself on all of the wonders of the forest, getting chased by bees, all that fun stuff. Then, when the weather starts getting nippy, you find yourself a nice warm cave, kick out and wolves that happen to be in the vicinity, and just curl up and sleep. I mean, doesn't that sound amazing this time of year? As someone who doesn't do the whole Christmas thing, honestly, right about now I could use some cave time.

The problem with Madrid is, well, let me stop myself right there, because, when we start talking about the problems of Madrid you need a snack and a comfortable chair and a bathroom break and maybe a drink or two because that's like a whole day right there. But one of the MANY problems of Madrid is that as a catholic nation, Spain is all about the Christmas in a big way. Now, I myself have no problem with "La Navidad" back home in my native land. Sure, lot's of things are closed and, frankly, red and green looks good on approximately NO ONE (sorry to burst that bubble there), but as long as movie theaters and Asian communities stay open I'm pretty much good to go. The trouble is that here in Spain things don't actually work that way. This place truly does shut down for the birth of Jesus, everything just stops. Cafes, shops, supermarkets, pretty much everything but the churches, for some reason, are shut down from the afternoon of the 24th to the morning of the 26th. I know. Crazy.

So really, the truth is that I have no choice but the hibernate at this time of the year. And that is exactly what I have been doing. Curled up in my little cell-like room, gorging myself on Spanish cookies and endless cups of tea, I've honestly almost forgotten that the outside world is all about decking the halls with boughs of whatever. However, while bears sleep all winter, I myself will be exiting my period of self-imposed hibernation, and, in fact, the Spanish Empire, in two short days. That's right, gentle readers, I'm off to Bundesrepublik Deutschland, or Germany, for those of us not born with pretzels and beer in our hands. In the beautiful and, might I add, very cold city of Berlin I will be checking out museums, cafes, some famous wall-thing, and spending time with my delightful compadres in struggle, Ben and Michael (hi, guys!). So even as my struggle in Spain draws to a close I can see the next struggle on the horizon, glowing in the light of the northern European sun. Bring it on, Berlin. After my battles with dusty Spain, I think I'm ready. And as for Madrid, well, suppose I must bid it a semi-fond farewell. It's been, at the very least, emotional.

Tidings of Struggle and Joy

So I recently had to explain to a room full of people what the miracle of Hannukah entails. In Spanish. Yeah. Are we having fun yet?

Look, it's not like I didn't expect for this country to be a little, shall we say, Jew-deficient. I'm neither crazy nor particularly stupid, and I've read, you know, at least one book about European history, like, ever. But to be fair to myself, it's not like I've ever really spent a long time in a place that had no knowledge of Jewish culture, practices or general sense of humor. I mean, after 5 years in an Episcopalian elementary school, which was, to say the least, slightly confusing, I ended up spending 10 years in Quaker School, so, well, in Struggledelphia that pretty much means bring on the bagels and shmear because you couldn't swing a dead cat around your head without hitting a fellow tribesman in that place. And while I myself considered not-Yale pretty damn Christian, 30% of the population does indeed, in theory, shun the pork products, so, really, not too shabby. So I suppose you might say that I've pretty much spent the majority of my life among the chosen people, and, hey, it's not like there is anything wrong with that. We generally tend to be funny, self-deprecating, and we nosh like no one else. All in all, I'd say it's been a pretty good deal, thus far.

However, the one thing a life lived in Hebrew hasn't really given me is the concept that there are large groups of people out there for whom the term "latke" means nothing at all. So when Hannukah came around here in Madrid I was, shall we say, at a bit of a loss. One problem is that the Jewish community here is, well, chicitita, as the Spanish would say. We as a people tend not to return to those places from which we've been asked to leave. Of course, the consequences of this mean that we are currently looking for a new planet. Still, I figured, if Mount Sinai wont come to Noah, Noah could go to Mount Sinai. So I decided to throw my own Hannukah party, in defiance of several hundred years of Papal decrees. And while I actually was able to convince a large group of people to come and celebrate the festival of lights with me, I ran into some trouble explaining to them exactly what it was.

To be fair, it's not as if Hannukah is really our most important holiday. While fun and chock full of fried foods (how can you go wrong), it's not nearly as significant as Purim or Yom Kippur, and it doesn't hold a candle (see what I did there?) to Passover. The only reason it's gained such popularity in recent years is because it falls so near to Christmas that we can pretend we've got something to equal the birth of the Christan Messiah. But what further hindered my celebration was the fact that here in Spain there is no cultural context for Judaism. It's not as though people have any kind of association with the term "Jewish". They don't consider us greedy money lenders screaming for our pounds of flesh, nor do they see us as lawyers and doctors who love a nice brisket, nor do they understand us as hilarious if neurotic comedians who marry their own step daughters. They've got nothing when it comes to us.

So when you are trying to explain the Maccabes and oil lamps and dreidel and gelt it's like you are speaking another language. And if you are in fact accustomed to speaking another language altogether, well, that, my friends, is what we call a struggle. Put it on the list you are keeping at home.

In the end I just sort of had to throw in the towel and tell everyone this was our version of Christmas. It's not entirely untrue, to be fair, and honestly, after some wine, it's not like anyone was listening to me anyway. I suppose some things are just untranslatable at a certain point. Upside? They really seemed to understand the concept of latkes. You have to take the victories that you can.

Struggle Fills the Time

I've got a lot of grievances against Spain. Look, let's be fair here, this is a wonderful country. The bread is delightful, the wine isn't half bad, the people are certainly friendlier then the French (though for the love of God who ISN'T), and the people tend to dress so oddly that should you go out in a less then cute ensemble, well, you fit right on in. But in the long and uncomfortable history of Espana which includes but in no way is limited to introducing syphilis to native peoples of all sorts of lands, killing or deporting anyone with an interest in Elohim or, for that matter, Allah, and, of course, the fact that no one in the country can speak any other language other then Spanish because despite the fact that Franco has been dead for 30 years apparently we can still blame him, for, um, everything. Sure. Let's go with that.

And I wish I could be noble and say that my complaints against this place have anything at all to do with the history and persecution of the Spanish empire, but, alas, I am far to shallow. No, in fact, as I'm really all about the petty, my unhappinesses here tend to be of a far more strugglesome origin. You know, it's all the little things, the way the internet only works on oddly numbered days or how there is no good Asian food anywhere or how strangers just straight up stare at you in the subway. A cornicopia of little moments, really, each one more painful then the next. As the Christmas season, or, as they say here, La Navidad, draws closer, well, let's just say the thought I tend to have in my mind when viewing the city is along the lines of "What fresh hell is this". So when my friend Andrew, (hi Andrew!), arrived to visit me this past Friday, well, let's just say I was feeling less then enchanted with Spain's capital. The hundreds of people unironicilly wearing reindeer horn hats didn't really help.

However, if there is one thing that will renovate your enthusiasm in a place is seeing it through someone else's eyes. While I am at the point here where all I can see is struggle abounding like it's going out of style, well, Andrew sees jamon ibirico dripping gloriously off pieces of bread, rivers of Ribera and Rioja wine gushing through the streets and amazing pieces of art at every turn. Trotting around the cobbled streets and crowded avenues of Madrid I was struck again by the complicated and uncomfortable beauty of this city. I wouldn't say it's tranquil, or even charming, but it has it's moments of excitement and beauty, even when you are being harassed by strange beggars who implore you to buy a sprig of Rosemary from them for good luck. Yeah. Because there's a lot of logic going on there.

As I waved goodbye to Andrew this afternoon in the frantic and garishly lit Puerta del Sol, I couldn't help but consider just how lovely Madrid can be, or would be, if there weren't all these other people wandering about. I have to say, sometimes they sort of ruin it for me.

I currently have less then two weeks left in Madrid. That's probably a good thing. In a perversion of what Oscar Wilde once said, either I go, or this city does. Given how disorganized Spain has been since the fall of it's empire in South America, well, I don't really see it having much of a fighting chance.

The best laid struggles...

Oh, my dear lord. Last night I legitimately spent the evening with a young man of my age and general demeanor who totally and without shame listened to his c-d player the entire time. From my apartment to one bar to another bar and every street upon which we walked, this kid was in his own world, with the c-d of his choosing. Naturally I was both enthralled and concerned by this action. Why, might you ask? Let me explain.

First of all, who the HELL has a portable c-d player in this day and age? My GOD that was odd to see. To be fair, this young man also carried around with him a small but substantial library of c-ds to switch in and out. Which is something that would be quite common to see in, oh, I don't know, the late nineties? Yes, well, welcome to Spain, a country where the concept of the Internet is still one that needs to me explained to the majority of the population. The other day someone told me that her parents refused to get the internet in their house because they insisted that they didn't have room for it. A second of all, who on Earth DOES that? Who listens to their music when they are with other people? Because I am a creeper at heart, at one point during the evening I found myself unabashedly staring directly at this person, as one does when something totally insane occurs. "What?" he asked me. "Nothing", I said.

Now, in another life, this incident would have totally baffled and confused me for days, maybe weeks on end. But since I came to and started living in Spain, well, this is just another day in the life. Now that I'm here I've come to realize that Pedro Almodovar isn't making fictional movies, he's making documentaries. The randomness of this country continues to amaze me daily. For example, yesterday I had planned and hoped to take a day trip to the nearby town of Segovia. I woke up, shook off my hangover, and headed to the train station to meet some friends and buy the tickets. Of course, as this is SPAIN, all of the trains for the day were sold out. How it is possible for every train leaving every half an hour to a town less then an hour away to be sold out, well, I have no idea, but guess it is. Just another fun fact about being here, I suppose.

This month at my favorite vintage theater here in Madrid they are showing a series of Charlie Chaplin films. When watching the hilarious and heartbreaking movie The Circus and observing the hijinks and antics of Chaplin as he ran, bowlegged, around a group of clowns, I couldn't help but relate strongly to his "little tramp". Lost, confused, mugging for the camera, honestly, that's like my Tuesday night here in Spain. If I had a mustache and a bowler hat, hell, you wouldn't know the difference.

Still. At least I take my headphones off when spending time with other people. I have to say, I don't think that's culture difference, I think that's just a struggle.