Struggle Goes Whole Hog

First of all, I want to apologize for the lateness of this post. And then I want to do what I was taught to do as a proud US Citizen and completely pass the blame over to someone else. In this case, that would be my friend Ben. You see, Benny-boy had this grand idea that we should do a joint post, rather like a conversation piece. Fine, I said, because in theory it seemed like a fun thing to do, and besides, I was still waiting on my next Netflix. Our email conversation started off really well, we had a solid back and forth, worthy of a few laughs at the very least. But what began as a steady stream of struggle ended up a tiny trickle that dried away into nothing, leaving my last response cold and alone out in cyberspace, waiting for Godot, and an email back. Lost, confused, a little betrayed, I wondered, was it me? Was it Ben? Was it the struggle? Sure, it's definitely that last one. But it's also something more. Because the more I looked around me at my peers, the more I could see a trend. I saw energy, excitement, a fresh approach to everything (even to pants. But tights? Not pants. You aren't an innovator, you are an idiot. Subject closed). But what you don't see is completion. So much build up, so little finale. There is a "that's what she said" joke in there, but I'm in no mood to make it. Because here is my grand revelation about most people in their early twenties: Excellent start, no follow through.

As I sat, fuming at Ben, and, of course, the mailman who had neglected to bring me my Netflix, I considered this strange phenomenon. After all, it's not just Ben, who couldn't follow up on an email, but it's all of us! It's all around us! We can figure out how to have sex, but we can't figure out how to use condoms! We can avoid an actual call by texting in abbreviations! And if I cared at all about the World Cup, I might bring that up too! I mean, is it any surprise that our generation is the one that has brought back leggings AND rompers, the two most half-assed garments you can possible find? I don't think so, people!

But me? I'm not going halfway down that road and stopping! No, my friends, the struggle isn't something you embrace just a little bit, with one arm, or maybe giving it a subtle graze on the buttocks! You have to get all the way in there, hug it out, throw both arms around the thing and just squeeze! So I am, from now on, all about the follow through, and you should be too! After all, they do say in for a penny, in for a pound, and while we may have thrown off the shackles of our funny-talking dry-witted former landlords in other respects, that little aphorism about their strange monetary system remains. So to inspire you to, as my father says, "finish the job", the following is a list of some current young people who I consider all talk and no action:

1. Amanda Bynes. Girl is retiring from her "acting" "career" at the age of 24.  I call foul on this one. Faye Dunnaway has an acting career. Isabella Rossini. Helen Miren. Hell, I'll even give Cathrine Zeta Jones more credit then Ms. Bynes. Because Zeta Jones isn't best remembered for humiliating Colin Firth and Saturday night on Nickelodeon. Yet. You need to HAVE a career in order to retire from one, right? Because if that's not the case, I'm telling everyone I'm a retired Navy SEAL.

2. Kristen Stewart and Robert Pattinson. Not only are they making horrible Mormon-propaganda films about sparkly vampires and the bad actresses who love them, but they NEVER WASH THEIR HAIR. I know that hundreds of thousands of people are standing in line to throw money at films that would make Sergei Eisenstein weep, are you telling me you really can't afford shampoo?

3. Gossip Girl. This show started out all sexy and fun but now it's gotten awkward and weird. That's usually the way it works when you go to college, but, you know, in REVERSE.

Don't get me wrong, I know there are plenty more out there. But I'm going to solider on, and preserve the thin slice of hope I have that for all the Gossip Girls and Bynes' out there there is a Carey Mulligan or a Regina Spektor whose clean hair and actual talents and jobs prove that my generation really can get something done. Otherwise, what's all the struggle for, then?

I can't condemn Ben completely, by the way. He did finally get back to me, and our experiment in joint-blogging will be up soon. So maybe follow through is something that can be learned and developed with proper encouragement and care. Still, I'm not holding out any hope for the Twilight cast.

Those who ignore History are doomed to struggle it

People say that insanity is the process of doing the same thing over and over again but expecting different results. So, I guess it's official then, I just might be a little bit insane.

See, I'm about to embark on another long and meandering period abroad, traveling, staying in hostels, observing foreigners and mocking local cuisine. What, you say, is it September 2009 all over again? No, gentle readers, alas, I never could get that Delorean working. So hard to get a dependable lightening storm these days. And while I know I spent the majority of my time in Spain with my mouth wide open, marveling at the struggle of it all, I'm actually getting fairly excited to dust off my passport, say farewell to my Netflix, and get back on the horse (or plane, or train, or whatever).

Now, I know what you are going to say. You are going to scream at your computer screen, Leah, you strugglesome little person, are you insane? Don't you remember the last time, the farm, the jamon, the Spaniards as a people? Well to that I respond, yes, vaguely, but I've been trying to forget. And I know that traveling is stressful, uncomfortable, and full of strangers who don't speak your language (yes, even in the UK, snogging? Loo? Cheers? COME ON), that's honestly sort of part of the fun of it. I mean, if it was comfortable and easy, wouldn't it be just like home? Granted I live in Struggledelphia, so the levels of comfort and ease have yet to be determined, but the point remains that it is the difficult aspects of travel that make it so interesting and so exciting, and so painful, in a sense, because the rest of the world is not nearly as convenient as our very own US of A, and there's these things like clean water and bribing officials and the necessity of claiming to be from Canada, all of which come with a very steep learning curve. But it's learning that is the key word there, because at Casa Franqui we don't take vacations to relax or to enjoy our time with each other or to stroll serenely down the avenues of life. No, we plan on packing as much art, culture, eating, drinking and struggling into whatever short amount of time we've allotted for our adventures. And this week my whole strugglesome family is heading to Istanbul for 10 days together, because you CAN spell Turkey without "intense family dysfunction", but why would you ever want to?

So we are off to bargain for carpets and spices and concubines for a little while, finding the bizarre in the bazaar, so to speak. And believe you me, it's going to be epic. And once the rest of the clan abandons me for this "job" business the papers talk so much about, I'm on my own again, and I'll be heading north for a little while, stopping by the Netherlands, Belgium, Germany and England, and then, like a European explorer in the 15th Century, I'll be making my way from the West to the Far East, and that whole visa situation? Well we will finally get to see if that works, or if I end up doing time in a Chinese prison. Either way, you're laughing!

 And as I pause here, at the precipice of my next 7 weeks of travel, I do hope you'll all stay with me as I struggle all over again. If anyone has any travel tips, please let me know. Don't worry, guys, I promise I wont make the same mistakes this time. New ones, sure, by the thousands, but the same ones? Well, that would just be crazy!

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.

Madrid Makes Struggle Even Sicker

Has life ever seemed to be a wild french farce to you? No? Well, it does to me, almost daily. Now that I'm finally settled into my apartment and my life in Madrid, now that I'm feeling the slightest bit comfortable and able to communicate fairly decently in Spanish, now that I really feel like I've got the metro system down and I know where to buy the cheap groceries, of course now would be the time that I once again get sick. Of course. It's only fair. Thanks, struggleverse, always a pleasure.

To be fair to the powers that be, however, at least this time I'm living in an apartment rather then in a hostel, so this time I can shut my door and cough away to my heart's content without worrying about drunken backpackers stumbling into my room at 4 in the morning. This is not to say that people aren't stumbling into the apartment at 4 in the morning, but at least they don't come into my room and turn on the light, so, you know, major improvement. And, given how much I've been coughing lately, I can at least be happy with the thought that I'm bothering my roommates just as much as they bother me.

So, this past weekend, while others were out at all hours of the night dancing to electronica in clubs and elbowing their way to the bar for mojitos (which are strangely popular here, don't ask me why), I myself was getting acquainted with some chicken soup and tea and forging a deep and personal bond with my bed. To keep myself occupied and, frankly, to prevent myself from downloading ever episode of 30 Rock ever aired, I started reading Sylvia Path's iconic novel The Bell Jar. As I traveled through the world of New York in the 1950's with it's bizarre gender relations and pressures, I couldn't help but consider through my dayquil and lemon-tea soaked haze, all that has changed and all that has stayed the same. The main character of the novel, Ester, worries that the only thing she is good at is being a student, and when she no longer feels motivated by acedamia she sinks into depression and madness. I'm not sure if this is a good book to read after your college graduation or a terrible one, but on the upside, well, it sure makes my life seem better by comparison. Sure, I may be in a similar situation, a little lost, a little bewildered, and I do so love my full skirts and cardigans, , but at the end of the day my generation of women have a lot more going for them then the ability to write in shorthand and at the very least no one I know is even thinking about getting pinned. All in all, I guess I would say that sick or not, I'm glad to be living in this age if 1955 is my alternative. I mean, does anyone actually use shorthand anymore?

I woke up feeling better this morning, and I'm almost done with Sylvia Plath. I also found a new song I like. Things are looking up, it seems.

Happy Struggleween

I really enjoy Halloween, I have to say. It's actually always been a favorite holiday of mine, something about the idea of eating copious amounts of candy, or, as we grow older and wiser, drinking copious amounts of alcohol that's been created to taste like candy as we sit around in funny outfits and watch movies whose primary dialogue is screaming. I guess I just like all the costumes, really, even those that observe the now-famous slut rule (I swear, I'm just waiting for the slutty nun and slutty saints costumes, my GOD girls, put those things AWAY). So I find it rather sad that I've spent at least two out of my 22 Halloweens away from the United States. (To be fair, however, I can't really remember my first 5 Halloweens, so those are lost to me as well. There, that's 7. Damn.)

When I spent my Halloween in Russia I was living with a group of Russian students who delighted in the concept of Halloween and practically forced us at gunpoint (or at vodka-point, much more dangerous), to have a party. However, something about running around a soviet-area apartment building in a Hedi-of-the-Swiss-Alps costume seemed, I don't know, romantic, dashing, totally insane, take your pick. Again, there was vodka, so it's all kind of a blur. But this year, here in the struggle that is Spain, I just wasn't feeling the Halloween magic. Something about the holiday just didn't resonate with me this year. Perhaps the idea of dressing up as someone else isn't as appealing when your own life is a mess, I don't know, sort of an anti-escapist thing. Or maybe it's because I don't know anyone here in Madrid who would really get my June Carter circa 1967 costume, complete with go-go boots and a painkiller addicted sidekick. I don't know. But really, I wasn't quite sure what to do with myself.

Luckily, my Spanish teacher had told me about a vintage movie theater in Madrid which shows movies in their original format. The strange fact about Spanish cinema is that they tend to dub absolutely everything in theaters, and as fun as the idea of watching rapid fire Spanish come out of Kathrine Hegel's mouth is, well, I'm not really willing to pay 10 euros for the privilege. So instead of catching up on the latest in romantic comedies, I've been watching classic American films for less then 3 euros a piece. So for Halloween, when all of Madrid was wandering around in various (terrible) costumes, my friend Ashly and I (hi Ashly!)went to el Cine Dore for an evening of Roman Polanski's classic, hilarious, totally dated film "The Fearless Vampire Hunters". However, something rather odd about el Cine Dore is that, unlike the rest of this country, it always always always starts on time. So when we were five minutes late, well, the rest of the audience stared at us like we had more then one head. Additionally, and maybe quite a bit get's lost in translation, but I have to say, I was one of the only people laughing in the entire theater. I mean, this is a movie that contains a Jewish vampire, sex jokes galore, funny accents, and, to top it all off, an extremely young and hilarious looking Roman Polanski. I mean, how is that not the best thing ever? Seriously.

Getting a drink afterwards with Ashly only highlighted the crazy that is the Spanish interpretation of Halloween. Gazing at the streets filled with terrible costumes and roving gangs of crazies, well, one has to conclude that there are certain things we of the USA really do better then anyone else.

Oh, well. There is always next year...

Struggle Gets Out of Town

So as it turns out I'm currently writing this on my stomach on a bunk-bed in a hostel in Madrid. Funny how life turns out.

This morning I was lying in bed in Tobarra, not 10 hours ago, counting the minutes until it made sense to get up. As I waited for light to fill the sky I couldn't help but reflect upon the day ahead. Because Tobarra is a tiny town, remote from most major cities, the only way to leave it's dusty little shadow is to take a bus from the Estacion de Autobus which rests on the eastern limits of the town. Of course, this is Spain, and rural Spain at that, so no one is quite sure when the bus comes or where it stops. Deciding that I wasn't willing to risk missing my only ride, I arrived at the station at 7:45, which turned out to be just in time for me to wait for an hour for the bus. Joining a group of bewildered chain smoking Spaniards I waited on the sidewalk with my belongings around me in the morning chill, thinking, well, with fun times like this, who needs coffee, you know?

Two bus rides and one furious and painful walk later (new shoes, many blocks, heavy bags, a regular recipe for fun)I was standing in the Albacete Train station. Let me tell you something about Spain, just in case you ever consider visiting. Please, trust me on this one, never go to Albacete. Just, let that dream go. Really. I'll save you the train fare. And, frankly, that's not nothing, honestly, because even if European train travel is cheaper then train travel in the US, well, it's still nothing to sneeze at. It takes a lot of money to get out of a one horse town, let me tell you.

My two hour wait in Albacete was followed by two hours on a train to Madrid, watching the countryside go by in all it's dry desolate beauty. This was the alternative to watching the 2008 remake of the classic film The Women. One of the most hilarious things about Spanish train travel is that they provide you with movies and headphones, like a plane. On the way to the farm they gave us the animated version of Star Wars: Attack of the Clones, and so frankly I consider The Women an upgrade, and a positive sign. However, dubbed Meg Ryan isn't really my thing, so I opted out of the movie and watched the country go by. Equally lovely is the individually wrapped jelly bean they give you as the train pulls into the station. A waste of plastic, sure, but delicious.

When I arrived in Madrid I ended up walking the wrong way for a few blocks before I got my bearings. However, now that I'm showered, changed, no longer smell of horse and have left Tobarra far behind, well, I'm feeling a little more at peace with the world. Bring it on, struggle. I've got wifi, I downloaded the new Mad Man, I'm ready. Hola, Madrid. Vamos a luchar.