Te llamaré

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“Te llamaré.”

He’s not kidding, either. Spanish men do not kid. They do not joke, and you can just kiss your average Western dating games goodbye. These guys are in a whole different league. Forget the league, sometimes I’m not even sure we’re playing the same GAME. All my practice in America, all those years of stress and turmoil are void here. Apparently, all a female has to do is stand around looking relatively normal and wait to see who bites. Ouch.

Forget the not so subtle allusions. Basically, Spanish boys may want dual citizenship more than I do (shocker, I know). Now that I actually know some people in the city (aka people I work with and kids in the program), I can afford (mind you, NOT monetarily) to go out and discover what it’s like to stay out until 6AM. Went out with Michelle on a Thursday night (2 weeks ago), and met a Spanish boy. My first night out in Madrid, I meet this devilishly cute Spaniard with blue eyes (Go me). We talked as much as we could save the language barrier, and while poor, not so single Michelle was getting harassed by this kid’s friend (nameless to protect the innocent), I was in my perpetual Spanish bliss. What I thought would be just one night’s fun at a club, I’ll say bye, you’ll get my number via protocol and I won’t ever hear from you again, turned out to be one of my many misconceptions in shining form. For argument’s sake, I would like to say that one of the questions I asked el caballero was “Do you have a moped?” to which he answered “No.” Even without the linguistic barrier, I should have gone with my gut.

I happily provided my number to the tall, dark and handsome who I envisioned to be my first Spanish boyfriend (I reasoned the vespa absence was negotiable). Mistake. Over the next weekend, I received on average 3 calls from this kid and a couple texts. Being the avoider that I am, I ignored the situation until Sunday night when I told him that my French boyfriend and I had made amends. Case closed, only to be reopened by Mystery boy 2. Mystery boy 2’s approach was more or less as forward as Mystery boy 1’s, as were Mystery boy 3’s, 4’s, etc. They love their Americans.

One of these contenders did seem vaguely promising and we actually did go get a coffee one night, but I was taken aback by his forwardness. Apparently, in European language, your first date gives your partner license to wildly suck your mouth in public. Nooooo thank you. Basically, the dating scene here is not going to dwindle and if you find yourself in a bar surrounded by males, relax, its perfectly normal. Also, only give out your phone number if you actually want that person to call, because he will. The 50-50 chance that holds in the US is void here.

Fun fact: hives in Spanish is uticaria. Emergency room is la sala de emergencias. I have yet to figure out what shot in the ass translates to. I was lucky enough to discover all this because I have developed some unknown, deadly allergy to God knows what over here (probably my non existent French boyfriend). Last Tuesday, I realized I was really itchy and my skin was reacting overtly sensitively to anything that touched it. As luck would have it, this worsened until Friday morning when I woke up covered in itchy hives with a swollen mouth, tongue, and throat. As I have always been a little bit of an over-reactor (when I was little, I decided at a young age that all dentists were the descendents of the fallen angel and as such, the dentists reasoned the best way to calm me down was to shoot me up with equal parts bubble-gum flavored laughing gas, stories of fairy princesses, and Rx tranquilizers), I figured that I was imagining my throat closing up and the swallowing difficulties. However, once on the hot, crowded metro on the way to work, I realized that I needed to see a doctor...stat.

Long story short… I got to my school, began relaying my story to the front desk ladies, and what I thought was a small hive problem resulted in a trip to the emergency room (driven by the director of the school HIMSELF), a shot of random medications in my behind, a week’s worth of prescription meds, and an appointment this Weds to determine what in the world I am allergic to. Oh, and all in a foreign language. Just when I thought I was getting settled, life just has a funny way of rustling things up a bit. Anyway, in addition to my lesson planning, my class work loads, a 100 page thesis, and warding off the Spanish boys with lies of Frenchmen, I am now spending the good part of my free time studying useful medical terminology for my surmounting appointment.

On a lighter note, I cooked my first meal without killing myself, my roommates, or anyone within a 11.000 foot radius for that matter. Since most people know that my cooking skills go about as far as judging Rachel Ray’s latest 30-minute creation as “edible” or “non-edible,” this seemingly simple feat has truly been life changing. I boiled some pasta (throwing salt over my left shoulder just in case), then in olive oil, cooked up some green onions, cherry tomatoes, and spinach. I added the pasta to the veggie mixture, then cracked two eggs on top of it all, serving it with fresh queso curado (Spanish cheese that I would readily give my life for). YUM. I’m excited for tomorrow when I can eat some leftovers…

The next entry will come sooner, PROMISE (unlike the last time I promised this, I really do see a wolf this time around). I have been lazy with the camera (especially because everyone I know seem to take more pictures than you would of your first born SON) but I think I’ll try to just get other people’s photos up here. Still don’t understand this photo upload thing.

Oh well, hasta pronto! As always, thank you for reading : )

Elsabet

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Comments

[Meg]

Glad you're following up on Wed. Skype me and let me know how it goes... or if you have any questions about what you should ask! Love and miss you Lizzy!