Struggle Waits It Out

I am not great at being patient. It is not one of my many virtues. Don't get me wrong, I'm a super virtuous person, I got em all, charity, simplicity, big hair, sturdy extremities....but patience, no, that's not really my bag, baby. Which is really a problem when you have broken a part of your body and you are waiting for it to heal. Because you kind of need patience while the bone cells regenerate and knit themselves back together. And yelling at your foot to "Heal faster, you jag!" doesn't actually work as well as one might think it would. So I present to you for your reading pleasure and deep edification my tips and tricks for fast foot healing. At the very least, they can save you. It may be too late for me, honestly, I'm thinking about just scrapping the thing and putting a wheel there. 

1. Double up on your calcium. Hell, triple up on your calcium! Shotgun milk, slurp down yogurt, or do what I do, and chew on Calcium supplements the size of horse tranquilizers. It has the added benefit of being extremely attractive to members of the opposite sex. 

2. Use your crutches as weapons, indicators, cat prods, make things fun for yourself! The nice people at the hospital gave a physically unbalanced person long pointy metal sticks. Clearly they want you to USE them. 

3. Febreze your walking boot. I don't care what time of year it is or if you think you among all the people on earth are immune to sweating. People in your life will thank you. 

4. Do not say "my boot is so smelly!" and then force friends and loved ones to smell it. Trust me, they will not appreciate being a part of your healing process in this way. 

5. Do indulge in as much Law and Order as possible. This is just a general life/sick/bored/snow day/heat wave day rule. Nothing makes you feel as good as watching Ice T fight crime. 

6. Do offer to help around the house, and then pathetically be unable to do so. This provides a constant reminder to others that you are in pain and special and need their constant devotion and care. Try whimpering gently as you fold laundry or attempt to wash a dish. People love a good whimper. 

7. Do make up interesting stories about your injury. I put my foot on the ground and it broke? So what, it's boring. I heroically rescued a baby tiger from poachers, only to have it turn on me? I'm a rock star. Other alternatives include knife fight, hooking, and falling meteor. And no, you can't use those. They are mine. 

8. Do not drink and hop. 

9.When you drink and hop, make sure no one is around to see how foolish you look. 

10.  When you finally get off of the crutches and out of the boot, don't be an idiot and break your foot again. 

Just to be clear, that last one was mostly a warning from me to me. Come on, little foot, keep it together, don't fall apart on me again! 

Struggle is the Cruelest Month

Struggledelphia is by all accounts a fantastic city. This is a fact, and anyone who wants to dispute it can come over here and FIGHT me. No, they can't, actually, please don't, I bruise like a peach, but the point is, I love this crazy strugglesome city, I think it's tops. I think it's amazing. It only has one tragic flaw, one horrible element, one bad apple spoiling the bunch. Is it our widespread obesity? No, of course not, that's crazy talk. Is it our complete lack of real public transportation? No,no, that's charming. No, it's the Wharton School of Business. And it's bringing us all down.

Let me explain something to you about business school students. They are, perhaps, the worst people with whom you may ever come into contact. Look, I don't know your life, you may be hanging out this dictators and child molesters and clowns all the time, and in that case, maybe it's time to make some better choices, but do what you must, I suppose. However, for the majority of us who actually like decent human beings, Wharton students may be as bad as it gets. Because there is no one as entitled, as argumentative, as straight up horrible as a Wharton student. And in April, they descend. They fall upon Philadelphia like Locusts, searching for apartments, evaluating West Philadelphia, generally acting like the worst possible versions of ourselves.Picture people who are more entitled then Prince William (Royal Wedding!), more aggressive then Margaret Thatcher (I'm on a roll with this British thing) and more unpleasant then, um, English cuisine. Then multiply them. Then picture them running all over the city, ruining our bars and restaurants with their stupid whining selves. It's enough to make you sick.

Look, I recognize that sometimes people need to go to business school. Maybe you aren't attractive, maybe you can't whittle worth a damn, maybe you have some sort of childhood trauma that makes you incapable of doing any other profession, again, I don't know. I just don't know. But what I do know is that if you by some chance find yourself being introduced to a Wharton student, you slap them, and you run in the other direction. To be fair, of course, my own father was at one time a Wharton student, as was my grandfather, but these nice gentleman are exceptions. The majority of them? Are just the worst.

Or at least that's what I thought until I went to a street fair on Saturday and was confronted with a collection of horrible human beings pushing, shoving, and leading their wretched little children about while screaming about the crowds. What is it about street fairs that makes otherwise normal people start acting like vicious hose beasts? I'm just trying to walk down the street here, people, you really don't need to make my life the most painful thing ever just because you prefer to stop and stare. Are you Wharton students by any chance? Yes, you are? How shocking. But at least I got to see this:

Wharton Students aside, totally worth it. Obviously.

Palm Trees and Strugglesome Parrots

I'm going to be 100% honest with you here (when am I ever anything but), I really love the beach. I always have. As a wee little struggle I could be found spending my summers padding about in the water, filling my hair with sand and, this being Atlantic City where I spent the summers of my misbegotten youth, avoiding beer cans and hypodermic needles as I trotted along the shore. My father, Padre Struggle, has always shared this affinity for sun, sand and surf with me, and to this day as our paler family members shroud themselves in cover-ups and sunscreen and hide in the shade of a nearby cabana, we two wander the beaches of the world bronzing in the sun and scaring fish. So when we decided to take a weekend trip down to San Juan, Puerto Rico, finding the steamy Struggledelphia summer just a touch too cool for us, it was only natural that we would find ourselves oceanside.

Now, the beaches of Puerto Rico are famous not without reason. Apart from the fact that the waters of the Carribean are so insanely clear that you can see far more of your fellow bathers then you might actually want to (plus, you know, animals, and whatever), they provide a welcome respite from the more, shall we say, colorful aspects of my fellow Islanders. In a culture with more hand gestures then an interpretive dance group and more deep-fried objects then a McDonald's test kitchen it can be nice to get away from el tapon (while a literal translation of this might give you plug, the denizens of Boriquen know it best as traffic jam) and spend some time relaxing with the sound of the ocean trilling in your ears. Of course, as it happens, in the months between May and September, you might not be the only person with that idea in mind. 

For example, when we strolled up to our favorite beach, El Escambron, a scant twenty minute walk from Viejo San Juan, ready to spend a little time getting to know skin cancer intimately, we realized somethings very quickly. Number one, every single other person who lives in the general area of San Juan had arrived there before us. And number two? They had brought the entire contents of their homes.

It must be said that my family and I do indeed bring quite a few things on any excursions we take ourselves. I personally am capable of packing a small suitcase for a less then 24-hour trip. And that's when I'm restraining myself. So I understand that when you take a beach trip you need sunscreen, towels, your sarong, your sunglasses, a book, another book if you think you might get bored with the first book, a notebook, a camera, a snack, a second snack because you burn so many calories burning in the sun, and a chair. At the very least. But compared to almost everyone I observed on Saturday afternoon, I'm like one of those Tibetan monks with 5 possessions.

Walking around, I noticed the following, none of which would have ever occurred to me to bring with me, well, anywhere: Multiple charcoal grills, a gas grill, several shopping carts filled with food, at least five full-scale infant play pens, tents, family sized coolers, three kitchen tables, and last, but in no way least, a sofa. Yes, that's write, a real living room sofa. Right there. On the beach. Because beach chairs? Just don't cut it any more, I suppose.

Now look, I'm all for comfort and convenience. I mean, as I currently type this I'm debating whether it's worth it to climb a total of two flights of stairs go get food (glorious food!) or to stay in this comfortable spot, and I can honestly say I have no idea which impulse will win. But bringing your living room and kitchen with you for a trip to the ocean? That's just crazy.

They did look comfortable, though. Maybe if I got a pick up truck? With some reggeton blasting and some bumperstickers on the back, I might fit right in!

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.

Socratic Struggle

I pride myself in the fact that I avoided most of the common pitfalls of college. Oh, sure, I had my fair share of less-then-collegiate moments at not-Yale, most of which involved a bottle of Cuervo and a sudden obsession with a capella , and, on one occasion, the loss of a friend on a midnight falafel run (hi, Ned!), but by and large I missed the classics, the hospital visit for alcohol poisoning, the waking up in a frat house, Econ, Psych, dread-locks, starting a band, writing poetry, sleeping with a professor, and, of course, this being not-Yale, the joining of the GOP. But I did make one fatal mistake by cliche standards, and that was my enrollment in a little thing they call philosophy.

If you want certainty in your life, if you want absolutes and rules for how to live, do yourself a favor and don't take philosophy. If, on the other hand, you want doubt, you want uncertainty, you want, in fact, to question the very fabric of the universe to the point when your brain feels on the point of explosion, filled to the brim with Wittgenstein, Kierkegaard, Kant and Aristotle (that's a dinner party worth attending...) to the point when you snap and, obviously, reach for the Cuervo, then sure, by all means, go nuts. Take a philosophy class. Be my guest.

No, that's not entirely fair. The truth is that I had amazing philosophy professors and learned a great deal in their classes. But most of what I learned concerned how impossible the act of learning really is. I think. I'm not sure. Hang on, I have to go check that with Nietzsche.

If I had to guess, I would say that what concerned me the most about my philosophy classes was how subjective morality became for me. And why am I even thinking about this now, at least 4 years since I last put down a copy of the Republic and decided it was all Greek to me? Well, as part of maintaining my real estate licence (which I got before I was legally able to drink....true story), I recently found myself sitting in an office building on Delaware Avenue with a gorgeous view of Camden on a Wednesday morning well before 9am being instructed on ethics. Specifically ethics pertaining to Real Estate. Which, frankly, is a subject I didn't know warranted an hour, let alone seven! Ah, ZING, I'll be here all night! Tip ya bartender!

The sad thing is, most people just assume that real estate agents are unethical sharks who are trying to steal your money and deceive you into buying houses made of cardboard. The even sadder thing is that a lot of real estate agents really ARE unethical sharks who are trying to steal your money and deceive you into buying homes made of cardboard. And apparently, all of them were teaching me on Wednesday morning. Seriously, that had to be the group of least ethical, slimiest, sketchiest purveyors of houses I have ever met, and I have been doing this for a solid four years. Forging your client's names, deception, cash only deals, blockbusting, undisclosed dual agency, private interest, you name it, it was represented. Here's a hint, dude, if you want to teach a room full of people how to be ethical it's not a great idea to ply them with stories about how you committed, and got away with!, fraud. It's bound to be more of an inspiration then a castigation, if you know what I mean.

I can't really decide which I found more troubling, my year of philosophy classes or my seminar on Real Estate ethics. I left my philosophy class confused and concerned about the state of the universe. I left my Real Estate ethics class needing a silkwood shower. So I guess Real Estate class wins on the scale of more mind blowing life experiences, and not really in a good way.  Worst thing of all? They served us terrible pizza. There has to be something morally wrong with that.

Happy Strugglorial Day!

I'll be the first to admit that some things just pass me by. Take, for example, Justin Bieber. I have no idea who this person is. Seriously. No concept. Is he a type of toaster? One of Madoff's co-conspirators? A character in the popular comic strip Get Fuzzy? Is he the secret revealed in the final episode of Lost? More importantly, is he the secret to why people actually watch Lost? I really couldn't tell you. And, moreover, I'm perfectly comfortable not knowing. I like a mystery in my life. Though of course, there are instances when your ignorance can screw you...

Take, for example, major holidays. I sort of always forget that they, well, exist. Now, as a follower of the protocols of Zion, I think I can be forgiven for being occasionally caught off guard by infant birthdays,  resurrection parties and hunger fasts.  But the fact that I can't keep national holidays together means that at best I'm a space cadet and, at worst, I'm letting the terrorists win.

So, while other people are, I'm assuming,  running around at backyard barbecues or auditioning for this season of The Jersey Shore, I myself had a fairly typical Monday, showing apartments, attending my pilates class, returning some emails, watch three guys try to steal a car...Oh, is that last one not typical where you live? The things you miss out on if you aren't existing in this beautiful city. You see, this morning when I went to show a property I was greeted by the most interesting sight. Three men were peering into the windows of a large car, leaning up against it like a sailor in a brothel, and generally putting the sketch in sketchtacular. As I locked up my bike and sat on the front steps of the building, one of the men approached me.

"Excuse me, Miss, do you have a hanger?", he said.
" A what?" quoth I, completely perturbed.
"A wire hanger. We need one", he said.

Resisting the urge to make the obvious Joan Crawford reference, I politely informed him that I don't typically bike around the city of Struggledelphia with hangers in my bag, but that I would start doing so in the future, just to be better prepared. To give to strange men. To help them steal cars. As one does.

It was just around this moment when the fact that today is a holiday crept back into my head.  I sighed as I watched the three co-conspirators attempt to break open the car door as I waited for my prospective tenants to come see the place. I have to start keeping better track of time, I thought. That, or learn how to bike with a hanger handy. As I biked away, I couldn't help but wish those three men luck. After all, it is a holiday. Maybe they just wanted something to celebrate. As for me, now that I've finally remembered this day is special, I may just have to reward myself with a nice, strong, way-to-resist-the-urge-to-commit-a-felony drink. At the very least, it's a celebration of the fact that they didn't give up on the car and go for my bike. Celebrate the victories, right? Isn't that what this holiday is all about?

Happy Memorial day, my little struggles! And remember, if you want a car stolen, don't forget to bring all the appropriate tools. If my story proves anything, it's that you really can't depend on the kindness of strangers, at least when it comes to hangers. Consider that your free life lesson for the day.

Ice Ice Struggle

There are many possible alternatives to an ice pick. A thin sharp knife will work, or a wooden spoon or spatula. Anything plastic is less then efficient, it's something about the material when it meets ice, please don't tell me the chemical-physical reaction, I don't want to know. Metal tends to be the key, in my experience.

And what exactly is my experience, you might ask? Well, it's recent, but rich, and it pretty much involves me attacking an ice floe inside a freezer for at least 25 minutes and contemplating how this moment became a part of my reality.You know when you have those moments in  your life when you can't help but think, wait, stop, how did I get here, how did this happen, how did this all go so wrong so quickly? I've been having a few of those lately.

Here's a funny thing about me: I spend a lot of my time in the apartments of strangers. Am I a stalker or a serial killer? No, not yet at least. No, I'm a Real Estate Agent, more specifically a Rentals Agent, and as a result I spend my days fielding questions from idiots and explaining away the messes of people I've never met.  I run, or rather, bike furiously, from apartment to house to apartment, wandering through other people's spaces like I'm trying on the contents of their closets (which I've also seen, by the way), and I observe their kitchens, bathrooms, bedrooms and living rooms (their dirty laundry, their dishes, their family photos, their jewelry boxes, their shoes) like the most detail oriented voyeur possible. And in my wanderings across the city of Struggledelphia this past week I found myself confronted with an adorable studio apartment, hardwood floors, tiled bathroom, separate kitchen, miniature polar ice cap. That last one? Was from the freezer. Noticing the freezer door slightly ajar, I tried my best to close it. No dice. Not only had the freezer created an ice storm of epic proportions around the ice cream and fat-free frozen dinners, but it had extended beyond the bounds of the freezer, reaching out, creating a Mr. Freeze style ice bridge which in another context might be a real challenge for Batman, but for me was just another Thursday afternoon.

Shooing the possible new tenants out with an awkward clenched teeth smile, I found myself, knife in hand, using a freezer full of ice like a session of aggressive physical therapy. Just another day in the life, I thought to myself. Nothing to worry about. I'm just doing my job.

After days like this, I need the meal I cook to be as simple as possible. My caramelized cauliflower with onions is a recipe so deceptively simple most people think it took me hours. Little do they know, after a day wrestling with an aggressive freezer, I've earned the cheap and easy calories.

Caramelized Cauliflower with Onions:
1 Head of Cauliflower
1 Red Onion
Salt
Pepper
Cooking spray

Heat the oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit. Cut the cauliflower up into small florets. Slice the onion, and mix the onion in a large bowl the cauliflower, cooking spray (or olive oil), salt and pepper. Spread out on a baking sheet and cook until the mixture turns golden to deep brown and appears crispy. Enjoy.

Struggle Gets Old School

The thing about homecomings is that they almost never go smoothly. Something about the culture clash, the mixture of people, the gap in time, it's a recipe for disaster. But while movies and books and Harold Pinter would have us think of homecomings as dramatic and traumatic affairs, in my own vast and varied experience, i.e., my experience this past weekend at my high school reunion, I can honestly say that homecomings aren't disturbing or destructive as much as they are awkward. Deeply, deeply awkward. Though of course, 90% of that might have been me.

However, to be fair, 10% of it at least was the fact that this was my five year high school reunion. Now here is the thing about a five year period, I really don't know how much you are able to get done in one, especially considering that four out of those five years you were probably spending your time at another academic institution and, if movies teach us anything,  trying to forget high school as much as possible. (Maybe that fifth year too? Maybe even right now? Those of you reading who have made it past the five year mark, please don't tell me you still think about your time in high school, it will only depress me.) But five years is really the most pathetic of reunions, and the reason's why are threefold:

1. You probably still see and are in contact with at least half your graduating class. With the advent of facebook and the interweb and new carrier pigeon technology moving forward with leaps and bounds, keeping in touch with people is as easy as pressing a button or releasing a bird. In fact, I feel like I have seen more of my classmates since I left high school, and by this I mean, they have some slutty facebook photos. Put that away, people, my MOM is on there!

2. Unless you are an evil genius (i.e., myself) or have already found the time to inherit in a major way, you probably are doing one of three things, working at an entry level position which you grit your teeth through and tell everyone it's "a great networking experience", interning at an entry level position which you grit your teeth through and tell everyone it's "a great learning experience", or attending graduate school, which you can talk about all you want, but no one really wants to listen. If you've reunited with at least one person from each of these camps, you can leave your five year reunion happy, because you've pretty much fully caught up.

3. All of your residual high school drama and issues are still close enough to the surface that once you get a few drinks in you at the reunion bar these aren't going to be fun little antidotes of a bygone era but real, unfortunate, socially awkward (in my case) struggles that are either going to find you sobbing in a bathroom somewhere or waking up in an all too familiar person's bed. Of course the third option (and my personal favorite) is that you go home alone and fend off the attentions of your middle-aged Russian cab driver. Anyway you slice it, it's a flashback to a dark place.

With the acknowledgment of all these things, however, I actually had a pretty good time at my reunion, and I can now offer some fun and simple tips, to ensure that others do the same:

1. Anyone can be interesting for ten minutes, even the people you had declared your arch-nemesis and spent countless lunch hours and Friday nights plotting against. For ten minutes you can find yourself satisfying whatever mild curiosity you had about even the most vague acquaintance and pretending to care about their life. After ten minutes, well, if that's a risk you are willing to take, be my guest.

2. You can all legally drink together. Finally. And take it from me on this one, you're going to want to do so.

3. Remember that thing you always wanted to say to that person? Well, trust me on this one, you still don't have the chutzpah to say it, so don't even try. Besides, it's not like you can just say it, blame it on the henny,  and get the hell out of there, after all, they can always post their response on your facebook wall. Wait at least until you ten year reunion, I know I am.

Thinking back over the weekend's events, I was thrilled to realize that the struggle was at least 50% the five year reunion and 50% myself. It's always nice to know it's not entirely my fault when everything get's awkward. Though of course, given that it's high school we are discussing, I really shouldn't have been so surprised.

Planes, Trains, and Strugglemobiles

Traveling, my friends, is not without it's downsides. Sure you see exciting things, catch interesting diseases, take some nice pictures and meet, well, let's just call them characters, why don't we, because anything else is just offensive (and indeed it WAS offensive to meet such people, but mostly just, you know, for me). But the issue that I find most troubling about travel is the element George Carlin discussed so often in his work, and that's the issue of stuff.You see, when you travel, whatever else you might be experiencing can be totally over shadowed by your concern about your stuff. Where is my stuff? Is my stuff safe? Did the nice man I asked to look after my stuff while I go to the bathroom steal my stuff? Or, if I took my stuff to the bathroom with me, how do I get my stuff, which weighs exponentially more the longer I carry it around, back up that flight of stairs? Am I missing any of my stuff? Did my stuff get lost somewhere between Berlin, London and Guam, and, in fact, is my stuff going to be used by a small indigenous tribe living in South America for bartering? Are they mocking my underwear? How dare they mock my underwear! Are they going to separate my whites from my colors when they wash my clothing? These are, in my opinion, the primary questions of humanity, not who am I or does God exist, but where the hell is my luggage, and how to I get it from point A to point B.

Now, this has been one of the primary issues in my mind for the past few months, because the more you travel, the more you accumulate, and the more anxiety you have. For example, I'm currently sitting in a dorm in Oxford's Magdalen college (Thank you so much Anna, and for those playing along at home, that's pronounced Maudlin, because the Britsh have never met a word they could completely alter via pronounciation, I attribute this to their envy and rivalry with the French, but that sort of talk could get me burned alive here, so keep mum, wont you?). I'm surronded by my stuff, which has, against all odds, arrived here in the United Kingdom intact. This is, in fact, quite an accomplishment, and here is why:

In the last two days I've taken 6 trains (including metros, tubes and s-bahns) one bus, one plane, and one taxi, all so I could get to a place that, well, looks almost exactly like the university from which I recently graduated. I traveled from Hamburg to Berlin by train and S-Bahn, and then, after a delightful day in a blissfully warm and springy Berlin,  at the ungodly hour of 6:30 in the morning (can you believe there are people who actually work at that hour? That's barbaric!) I made my way via train to Berlin's Shoenefeld Airport (thank you, EasyJet, for all your cheap orange wonders, your ridiculously archaic flight attendant outfits and the fact that you charge extra for everything but the BATHROOM). Two hours in the air saw me sleeping on the shoulder of a nice young British man who was too polite to make me move, and after the Luton immigration officer determined that I didn't seem like a likely person to wire bombs to London Bridge (fooled HIM) I was off again, boarding a bus, a train, the tube, another train, and a taxi (which terrified me by driving on the wrong side of the road, it's better just to shut your eyes when you come to this country and think longingly of interstates) all so I could get to Oxford. I suppose in the long run that was the easier option, apparently I saved myself from something called the A Levels, which is how young British people get themselves to this school, so being out some 20 pounds sterling or so and a few hours of the day has to be an improvement on that, right?

Of course, my next major move is going to be a 15 hour flight (give or take three hours in Dubai, anyone want a Porsch from the airport?) from Gatewick to Shanghai Pu Dong. Consdering all of the things that could happen to my stuff in the meantime, this past day and a half was gravy. At least when I'm here in Oxford, I sort of speak the local language, and, after all, I know where I'm going, I've been here before. Sort of.

Istanbul was Constantistruggle

Well it took me approximately 9 hours (most of that waiting in one airport or another), but I made my way out of Istanbul and onto my next location. But before I delve into the trials and tribulations of Amsterdam, of which I can just bet there are going to be MANY, I mean, given what we know about the Dutch, I feel that I would be remiss if I didn't discuss the crazy and cool that is the city of Istanbul just one last time.

From the Blue Mosque to the Hagia Sofia, from the Bosphorus to the lesser traveled Asian side of the city, my family and I struggled through the majority of the major sights and sites in Istanbul. We took a river tour, we waded through the Basilica Cistern (a must, by the way, if you ever get to travel to Turkey, it's an amazing leftover from the Holy Roman Empire), we saw the Dervishs whirl, and let me tell you something, we got completely ripped off at every turn. Don't get me wrong, Istanbul is a wild and wonderful city, and I have to say, the Turkish people as a nation are unbelievably friendly. They are so friendly, in fact, that they smile with delight and warmth as they take as much money from you as possible. They laugh with joy and excitement as they welcome you to their fine city, as they pour you glass after glass of raki and give you plate after plate of food, food which you didn't ask for and couldn't possibly- well, maybe just a bite. You yourself are pleased as punch about all the lovely things you bought that day, and what good deals you got on all of them. Thrilled with your immense bargaining skills, you get yourself another plate of baklava and compliment the city. They beam with pride as you tell them how much you love Istanbul, how glorious it is, how colorful, how loud (all nice ways for saying Ethnic, you'll notice). And then the bill comes. Tired, full to the point of bursting, your head spinning with the horrible liquorish scented liquor, you fumble for your wallet and lay down bill after bill of Turkish Lira. After all, it basically looks like monopoly money went on a trip to the middle east, it can't be worth much, can it? You stumble off to bed, sleepy and grinning. Why can't the people where you are from be so nice, you wonder, it's such a shame, really.

Then you wake up. And you realize you just spent the entire contents of your wallet (and possibly your bank account) on four scarves, a leather jacket, two plates (which will inevitably break in transport), a carpet, and dinner for three. What's more, you have the sinking feeling that people who are actually from Turkey pay approximately one tenth of what you paid for the same exact items, plus a free lamp. Because the reality is, as charming and delightful as Turky and it's people may be, the thing they seemed to be most delighted by is the interior of the tourist's pocket.

On our last day together in Istanbul before Strugglemano headed off to LaLa land and mis padres returned to their own daily grind, we decided to visit a Turkish bath. So famous and praised are the baths of Turkey that we felt we couldn't leave the country without sampling their charms, at least once. Excited, and, given our inabilities to speak any Turkish, a little freaked out, we each headed to our respective parts of the bath, and my mother and disrobed and were lead into a larged steamy room lined with sinks. Through a great deal of observation (and people yelling at us in Turkish) we were able to figure out that you douse your body with water and then lie on a large marble slab that is the heat source for the room, so rather then the dry heat of a sauna you are indulging in a wet humid heat that opens your pores just as well. Because we had paid for the basic package, we found ourselves kicked off of the slab and forced to "relax" on the sidelines as we watched other women being scrubbed down and massaged by the baths surly elderly female attendents. A kind Turkish woman asked us why we weren't being scrubbed, and we answered her honestly that we had just gotten admission to the bath. She told us that the scrub and massage were just 5 lira (about 3 dollars) more, and started to explain before she was quickly interupted by a bath attendent. A rapid exchange in Turkish followed, and the woman turned back to us, her face red. "I'm sorry, it's 25 lira for you, to get the other things." My mother and I nodded sagely, wrapped up in our towels, un-scrubbed, un-massaged, unsuprised. 500% mark-up for foreigners? Yeah, that seems about right.

Of course, now that I've hit Northern Europe and am gazing at the price tags here, I long to be ripped off by the Turks again. Even if I was paying more then any Turk for evil eyes and eggplant appitizers, at least I was paying in Lira, right?

More on the Dutch and their most laid back and hash-heavy city soon. Right now, I'm just recovering from the flight, the sleep loss, and the currency exchange. Come on, dollar, you're killing me here. It's almost like there is something wrong with the economy...

A Struggle is Worth A Thousand Words: Istanbul Edition #1

 

I just, I had no idea that Istanbul and struggle were synonims. I will be writing to the OED when I can. I've seen more mannequin and gun stores today then I've ever seen in my life. It's my first day in Turkey. Someone in the Grand Bazaar literally called out to me, "Let me sell you something you don't need!" More to follow, right now, I have to lie down for a while with a glass of cherry juice (it's a thing) and some wine and just let the crazy pass. Or at least until I learn to say "go away" in Turkish.

Struggle Takes Five

Part of maintaining one's Real Estate license in the fine state of Strugglevania is the abominable and painful task of continuing education, which occurs once every two years and requires 14 hours of mindless, boring and totally redundant classes which make you want to stab your eyes out with a fork. Not that I'd had that thought or anything. And while I personally will be doing my continuing education classes online, preferably with old episodes of 30 Rock and Parks and Recreation playing in the background. But some of us, and by some, I mean my entire office, seemed to feel the need to sit through actual classes for 7 hours, so this past Wednesday and Thursday I was alone in the office, fielding whatever problem came my way.

Now, let me tell you something about real estate. The selling and buying part? That has it's issues, but in general, in comparison with the property management part, it's a WALK IN THE PARK. Because managing properties, that is, dealing with apartments and the people who use them, well, I have to assume that that is some kind of punishment for something my family and I did in a past life. Were we murderers? Cossacks? God help me, rodeo clowns? Well, whatever it was, I'm really sorry, universe, but I think you've had your just desserts, because you've saddled us with a set of task that has us dealing with people at their absolute worst.

Look, I have nothing but sympathy for people who arrive home at their apartments at 7pm and find themselves confronting real, actual, unlivable problems, like, for example, their pipes have frozen and burst, or their ceiling has collapsed, or their closet opens into a snowy kingdom that's a metaphor for Christianity. These are all real problems, though that last one might be fun if you dress warm and stay away from the Turkish Delight, and we would be happy to help you with them as soon as is humanly possible. But really, and you can trust me on this, true emergencies only take up about 30% of my time, and that other 70%? It's chock full of crazy.

Here's one for you. While I wandered around the halls of our darkened office, the printers and copiers silent, the computer monitors turned off, only the quiet sound of the footsteps of little mice to keep me company, I received a phone call so strugglesome, so insane, so stupid, that I continue fume about it even now. The caller, who shall remain anonymous just so that no one becomes as enraged as I am, hunts them down, and hits them in the face until they look like they just won the big fight with Apollo Creed, was extremely upset because, apparently, a post man was daily entering the building in which they rent a commercial unit and using the (public) bathroom. And this was NOT their regular postman, but some strange postman. And he takes up a spot in the PARKING lot. And he brings a NEWSPAPER in the bathroom with him, so you know he's going to be taking his time. And this is a DEEPLY upseting and serious problem, and just WHAT do we plan to do about it, the caller would like to know? Oh, the postman is black. Does that help?

When I asked this person why they themselves didn't, I don't know, call their local post office or confront this wiley postman before or after he did his daily business, they were shocked and affronted. WE couldn't possibly do anything, we have to protect our anonymity! Postmen TALK!  (I suppose that's true, I mean, I've never met a mute one.) We must get our MAIL!

Now, in the face of all of this ludicrous insane strugglesomeness, did I scream? Did I laugh? Did I imply that this may be one of the ten thousand reasons to look into this whole "email" thing so popular with the young folks these days? Did I even hint at the fact that this at the end of the day was one of the most worthless complaints I've ever heard? No, I did not. I took the nice crazy person's information and promised to do all I could do about the defecating public servent who is, apparently, ruining this caller's life. Because I am a professional. I am a grown up. And I am getting paid for this.

Whatever we were in a past life, I can't wait until we've made our karmic restitution. Because if hell is other people, then greetings from the 7th circle, and Dante has nothing on us. Clearly, the man knew nothing about Real Estate.

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.

The Road to Struggle is Paved with Good Intentions

This morning I woke up at 11:30. While for some people this might not seem like anything out of the ordinary, for me it is a bit odd, as I make a solid effort to rise daily before 10. As I have school five days a week here in Madrid, I usually wake up around 8:30 to make it to class on time, so on the weekends my system tends to be accustomed to getting up at a respectable hour. And because I really really really like sleeping, I tend to go to bed before the sun begins to rise in order to be able to wake up at these early hours. While to most people this might sound normal, here in Madrid if you aren't drunkenly watching the sunrise daily then, well, you aren't living. I've actually met people who come to Madrid for a three day period, just to party, and never ever see the city in daylight. (And I thought MY friends were partiers, hi Jon!) Thought this amazes me, I generally try to think about it as a practice of an extraterrestrial, that is to say, I can observe and respect it without really letting it impact my life. Or at least, I thought I could.

The fact is that the last two weekends when I have arrived in my apartment with every intention of going to sleep, waking up early, and generally being like everyone else in the world, well, Madrid just keeps getting in the way. During the period of time I fully expect to be sleeping I might, for example, find myself having a heated debate over American fast food chains with a frenchman while fighting a german girl for the last shot of whiskey. Or I might be talking about the Italian government with a pair of syblings from Turin while observing a Spanish barman ask a Chinese couple to leave. (Have I mentioned lately that this place might just be a wee bit racist?) Either way, when I look down at my watch it's at least 3 hours later then I think it should be and I'm within the 4 hour mark of sunrise. And the strange this is that almost everyone I live with has remarked on how early I turn in when we go out.

Now, I recognize that as a 22 year old living in a foreign country I really should probably want to explore the discotecas and body-shots so popular with the young people these days. But frankly the idea of pumping techno music and aging Spanish lotharios taking a break from their wives for the night doesn't exactly appeal to me. Moreover, I happen to think that there are plenty of things worth doing in this city or it's surrounding countryside while there is still sun in the sky, regardless of what some guidebooks would have you think. But I don't want to be rude, and at the end of the day it's better to be talking to drunken Swedish people then no one at all, so I end up going out most of the night AND, because I'm just too compulsive not to, exploring this area of Spain all day. I honestly don't think I'm going to sleep a full night until I return to the States.

For a fun beverage when drinking socially here, they literally mix red wine with coca cola. It's called calimocho and it's a real thing. What is it they keep saying about how sophisticated Europe is?

Struggle Goes Medieval

While there are certainly enough things to do in Madrid to keep a person occupied for quite a while, I mean, the street performers alone deserve at least a month-long tour, it can be nice to get out of the city, if only for a day. So earlier this week when wandering around Madrid and thinking for the 10th time that day that Madrid is bizarre, I decided that it was time for me to spend a day away.

One of the delightful things about Madrid is that not only is it a gorgous city in and of itself, but it's frighteningly well located. Within two hours from Madrid are at least 10 cities, five of which are worth seeing. Sorry, other five, but I think you know that to be the truth. So when you want to take some time apart you've got a lot of options. I myself, for my first day trip out of the city, decided to venture to the beautiful city of Toledo, whose winding cobblestone streets and golden stone buildings make the place look like it just time traveled from 1305. Luckily for those who visit Toledo today, they will not be required to invent the horse collar or do anything involving midden. Instead, what they will find is a claustrophobic little place with twisting turning paths and a 500 year old church around every corner. That is, if they can even REACH Toledo, because, as we all know by now, getting anywhere by train in this country is the equivalent of inventing the wheel, it's not impossible, obviously, it can be done, but DAMN is it a struggle!

When I arrived at Madrid's Atocha Train Station I made my way quickly to the ticket office. Now, it should first be said that Madrid is clearly a very modern city, and the Atocha Train station is a very modern train station. Clean, relatively, and full of signs in both English and Spanish, at first glance the station doesn't appear to be a mess on top of a struggle. How deceived I was, my friends, how deceived. As you enter the main ticket office, which issues all tickets for trains going outside of Madrid more then 20 minutes, you might observe what feels like ten million people waiting. After a few moments, you might also realize that everyone is holding small slips of paper with numbers on them. Okay, that makes sense, right? Taking a number? But where could the number machine be? Certainly it wouldn't be in plain site, in an easily accessible location, that would be CRAZY. No, it's got to be in the corner, half covered by a plant, an unsung hero living in the dark. And is the machine a nice clean new object that looks like it was made in the last 40 years and is being held together by more then tape? Why, of course it doesn't! When I finally got my number it turned out that there were 37 people in front of me in line. Say it with me, can you? STRUGGLE.

So perhaps it isn't that Toledo is so beautiful, but rather that after the ordeal of buying the tickets and waiting for the train and walking 20 minutes uphill to reach the city made getting there such a relief that it could have been Pittsburgh and I woul have been thrilled to see it. Luckily, Toledo is not Pittsburgh, so I'm going to give it the benefit of the doubt.

I spent the day strolling, or rather, climbing the hilly little city which is chock full of tiny Mosques, huge Churches and medium sized Synagogues. It's a regular monster-mash of sacred spaces, really, all beautiful and all chock full of tourists staring at maps. I myself was among them, to be fair, as I got lost no less then 5 times in the space of five hours. By the time I returned to Madrid Saturday night it was almost a relief to find myself back in a big city, because at least by this point I know the way back to my bed. Sometimes, well, that's all you can hope for.

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...

Madrid makes Struggle Sick

There is nothing quite as uncomfortable as being sick in a foreign country. I could not recommend this less, and it's a real shame, because I personally have been sick in many foreign countries. Blame on the change in environments, all the new people, the different food, the lack of United States style sterility, hell, blame in on the henny, whatever you blame it on, it always happens to me. Let's not go to far, here, because, knock on wood, I've never gotten anything really terrible and life threatening, but what I lack in severity I seem to make up for in volume, because I've gotten sick in almost every place I've spent more then a week. While I have been lucky enough to travel quite a bit in my short lifetime, there have been periods of said travels that I recall only as a haze of tissues, tea, and desperate searches for a translation of the word "antihistimine" in various languges. Not that that doesn't have it's charm.

Here in Spain I managed to last about 3 and a half weeks without getting sick, so, really, that just might be a record. However, this past Sunday as I walked down Calle Atocha I recognized that I could no longer ignore the fact that I could barely breathe through my nose and my throat felt like something had died in there. Super.

While getting sick in the comfort of your own home at least has the comfort of soup, tea, daytime television and more blankets then a dorm room in Minnesota, getting sick in a strange place while staying in a hostel is uncomfortable to say the least, and tragically free of trashy television. Moreover, I would advise all of you to be careful mixing decongestants with travel, and here is why: When you are traveling everything looks a bit off to you anyway, as, you know, it's all accented and European, or whatever, and when you add cough medicine into the mix, well, that's just a whole new ballgame, you know? Finding myself wandering aimlessly yesterday with no idea where I was or how I had gotten there was certainly a fun new experience for me, and one I wouldn't wish on my enemies.

Luckily, no one really noticed that I seemed to have no where to go or nothing to do because, well, honestly, spend a day in Madrid and you will assume that everyone is unemployed. For no reason that I can asertain at this moment, the denizens of Madrid seem to delight in standing around in public. Every square, plaza, street corner and parque has people just waiting there, passing the time, inevitably smoking, reading, sipping "Cola Lights" (EUROPE), and generally just doing nothing. Now, to be fair here, I have realized that a fair number of these people are, in fact, prostitues, in which case, it's totally clear for what they are waiting. But the rest of them, well, seriously now, what's the deal? I mean, they can't ALL be recent college graduates high on dayqil putting off real life by hanging out in Spain, can they? And if they are, well, I don't know, maybe we should form some kind of club. It's a thought.

I woke up feeling a lot better this morning, which is a good thing, because the closer it gets to the weekend here the later people go out at night, which makes for some awkward early morning conversations as I get ready to go to class and everyone around me is stumbling into bed. It's hard enough to speak Spanish with drunk French guys when you are sober, let alone hopped up on cold medication. Trust me on that one.

A Struggle le gusta el vino

Let's run down the pros and cons of hostel-dwelling, shall we?
Pros:
1. It's very very very cheap. For the price of around 25 dollars an evening you can have a bed, bathroom access, free wireless internet, laundry services, a safe for your valubles and daily breakfast. Not bad, for Europe, where sitting on a bench in a park can often run you at least a couple Euros.
2. If you are the kind of person for whom traveling in foreign lands is an opportunity to get wasted in a variety of bar and club-like locations, a hostel is a great place to stay, because for a set price you can do a "pub crawl", which is an event, as some eager young Canadians explained to me, in which helpful strangers lead inebriated travelers through a series of "pubs" and clubs. Traveling really does broaden your horizons, doesn't it?
3. There is a bar in the basement.

Cons:
1. It's very very very loud. It's more then possible that because you pay so little to be there they had to make the walls out of paper, cleverly concealed as walls.
2. The lack of personal space can overwhelm one, as can changing in the bathroom, sleeping on a bunk bed (how do children DO this?) and hiding all your stuff because as nice as other travelers are, well, you gots to live by Hitchcock rules and TRUST NO ONE.
3. There is a bar in the basement.

Nevertheless, as uncomfortable as hostels can be, and as much as my friend Jon makes fun of them (hi, Jon!), I do enjoy staying in them overall because, well, did I mention cheap? But more then that, really, is that you can meet people of all kinds, which is a blessing and a curse in it's way. Currently as I type this a stressed out Korean man reads in the bed near to mine and a Brazilian guy dozes, which is socially acceptable during the day here in Spain, point to Europe. Last night I sat in the hostel bar ( I mean, I could leave, I guess, but it's RIGHT THERE, so...) with an extremely, painfully earnest german boy and about 20 loud french teenage girls. Ah, the world, it's such a great place where teenagers everywhere all dress exactly the same. Like a Delia's catalogue just threw up all over them.

Luckily, my Spanish classes here have started, so I no longer feel obligated to connect with strangers in the hostel, because I can now connect with strangers in my classes. Speaking Spanish with a dutch girl, an austrian girl and a french guy can get a little awkward, but I'm not going to lie to you, it beats watching french girls writhe around a hostel basement to the soothing sounds of Rhianna. And not, you know, new, post haircut Rhianna, but old vintage Bring it on: All or Nothing Rhianna. Some things travel so slowly across the Atlantic Ocean...

While is is a commonly held belief that Spain, and, in fact, all of Southern Europe, is a balmy land of sunshine and smiles, the sad truth is that Spain enjoys a winter just the like the rest of the world (or the rest of the Civilized world, as I believe I've made my thoughts on California crystal clear). When I walked out of my Spanish class this afternoon, it was cold, rainy and disgusting. Just like fall at home.

Kodak Moments, Tobarra Edition

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.