Sometimes I do things by myself such as go to a café, or Portugal

For the puente in December, (literally translated as bridge, puentes are long weekends in Spain where a holiday falls on a Tuesday or Thursday and businesses, schools, and banks adopt an extra day off to create a super-long weekend), I went to Portugal. My friends had other plans. In a feat of poor-planning and a surge of independence and brazen self-confidence, I boarded a 7 hour bus from Madrid to Lisbon. Peacocks and woolly sheep littered green expanses as my bus leisurely traversed the sleepy, Spanish countryside.

These sheep baaaaa in Spanish.

Lisbon offered the perfect antidote to the aspects of Madrid I loathe (pretty much all aspects of Madrid). I found the Portuguese people with whom I interacted to be friendly, helpful, and patient. Things were cheaper. The city was smaller and greener. With the suave-sounding Portuguese language echoing in my ears, I wandered around the city in my bright pink raincoat. I spoke Spanish in a sing-song voice. I climbed numerous hills. The city of Lisbon is full of pastelerias so I had no choice but to eat croissants filled with ham, rolls filled with sweet creme, hot dog-looking concoctions, and sweet buns lightly covered with some type of powdered sugar. At times I felt empowered by my independence; other times, not so much.

My first day, I rode a giant bronze elevator for a view of the city.

Trapped inside the elevator.

Cobblestone, windy, uneven, and at times full of vibrant colors, the streets of Lisbon offered a quad workout to be envied.

I explored an Alhambra-esque castle, Castelo de São Jorge. Not as big, expensive to enter, or impressive as my favorite Muslim fortress, I was able to climb all over the castle along narrow, slippery walls with frightening drop-offs. Although thrilling, the high-elevation exploration would never be permitted in my litigious American society. TWNHIA, or This Would Never Happen in America. I have been experiencing a bout of homesickness and when I come across occurrences that are impossibilities in my favorite superpower, I scoff and mutter. In the case of the Castelo though, I felt privileged to hyperventilate at such high elevations.


While looking for the Information Center, I stumbled upon a wine tasting center. It was covered in maps of the wine regions of Portugal and information about grapes. The friendly young man behind the bar informed me that I could taste up to four small glasses of wine for free. But, and the expression on his face turned somber and apologetic as he explained, I would have to fill out a questionnaire with my opinion about the wines. After explaining my task, he remained silent and scrutinized me, questioningly. Biting my lip to avoid smiling, I pretended to hesitate and ponder what he considered an arduous task. I assented. "Ok," I said.

I know little about anything, and less about wine. I gave both wines a 5 out of 5 and a "needs improvement" on their label designs.

I rode one of these up the windy streets after drinking the wine and wanted to vomit.


I met up with fellow Fulbrighter and previous owner of a mini-horse, Adam Schafer, on my third day. We went to Belem, a smaller part of Lisbon to see the Tower.

Here it is.


I also went to Sintra, a city outside of Lisbon where I did the usual: climbed to the highest vantage point, went to the Moorish castle and mourned the fates of the Muslims in Spain, went to the palace, stuffed my face, tried to break a 50 euro bill by buying a coffee.

This ends my documentation of my trip to Portugal. I am going back to the US for 3 weeks. I will be bringing back 2 giant ham legs, a small statue of a bull holding paella, and the siesta.

"Madrid is for Lovers, Smokers, Wine-Drinkers and Black-Clothing Wearers"

Welcome to Madrid, Daddy.


Dennis Westlake formulated some excellent, astute opinions about Madrid based on careful observation. In a 5 day visit, we crammed activity-after-activity in ponderous, cultured days. We engaged in a bit of playful banter. I made sure we always rested in at least 1 hour increments. We went to the Prado twice. He wore socks with sandals and spoke English and a bit of French to everyone. Overall, it was fantastic.


We had a liberty-loving, God-fearing, meal of KFC for Thanksgiving at Michael and Miguel's.
We went hiking in Cercedilla where we were not properly dressed for the surprise hail-pellets gently hitting the backs of our necks.

We took a train to El Escorrial, an hour from Madrid. As we relaxed on the train and watched the passing scenery, my dad looked up from his book and casually commented, "This is such a civilized way to travel." Who knows what prior thoughts/concerns he may have had about his possible modes of travel in an impending trip with his daughter in Madrid. Camel? Hitch-hike? Rickshaw? Glad that the commuter train met with his approval.
Here we are, very cold, in El Escorrial.

We went out with my friends to celebrate Miguel's birthday. What started out as a simple celebratory shot turned into a Last Man Standing Competition with my father instigating and provoking, and ended with sweet Michael Clemons trying to talk but only moving his lips.

Another of my father's observations: in Spain, the dogs wait patiently as their owners drink, smoke, and otherwise leave the canines to fend for themselves on the dirty streets.
Lastly, here is one of the people I like from the Motherland. We call him The Llama. All he wants for Christmas is his two front teeth.

Thank You, American Tax Payers... You Suckers

Thank you, American government and tax payers for employing and paying my boyfriend in a time of economic crisis (pronounced cree-sees in Spanishland over here). Thanks for allowing him to stay in hotels where he can get points and enjoy the benefits of sets of golf clubs, and free nights and upgrades at hotels where I can stay in exotic locations such as the Baltimore and Tenerife, Canary Islands.

I felt a bit guilty about staying at such a nice resort in Tenerife when I feel that my contribution to society, the world, social justice and all that old shit I used to think was important, is nil. I quickly got over said guilt and swam, lounged, gambled, ate, and tried to make leeway with the libidinous, bedeviling plot of New Moon, the second in the Twilight series that I am attempting to read in Spanish. Luckily Jeff is contributing to society enough for the both of us in some sort of top-secret, I-probably-wouldn't-understand-it-if-I-knew, kind of way.

I have a lot of top-secret important friends. The FBI once contacted me and my mother about Kelly Colligan. It was unclear why her good friend and elementary school soccer coach needed to provide statements about her character and dispel any ideas of nefarious activity. But as my dad says, when the cloud (my dad's idea of the amorphous, omniscient being which tracks our every move through the internet controlled by the government) wants to know, the cloud digs deep.

I often lamented to Jeff my lack of responsibilities, and my feelings of uselessness, and nostalgia for my life in DC, and friends in the US. During one of our dinners, he tried to eat a fish eye.

Here are some pictures.

Man vs. Wild

I enjoyed the beach. Jeff informed me he had already swam in the Atlantic.

I only win when I keep score.

This is my favorite animal. I asked him if he was a dog or a wolf. He panted and stared at me.

Lastly, when I think of America, freedom and small people, I think of Meredith...