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...

For the Love of Granada, and Katie Lent...

Some friendships start by dumb luck. On the first morning of the first day of Teach for America Induction I met this tiny blonde girl wearing a short skirt and red lipstick. She had a ton of luggage and a penchant for port wine and online television. We went to lunch and each consumed our weight in french fries. I would later learn that this feisty little rebel is one of the world's largest consumers of fried and frozen foods (as well as a hoarder of these things), did not own a pair of sneakers, and would chug coffee before and after every potentially thought-requiring task. This clever sweet-tart is of course Loren "Coach" Heinbach.

Also by coincidence on the very same day, I was introduced to future Supreme Court Justice Sarah Boyce when she and I were randomly assigned to be roommates at the very same induction. Later we roomed next door to each other in the dreaded Temple University suites where we were haunted by the absence of a person allegedly named Iwana Duck. Iwana never showed. Neither did her duck. Sarah and I became fast friends. By what Ignatius J. Reilly would call Fortuna's capricious nature, I also met some of my favorite people at Bates in coincidental ways such as these.

Other friendships of course require a bit more of stoking of the fire, or relentless pursuit, as some may call it. Danielle Touhey, for instance, was no easy sell on joining aboard the Westlake Well-Wisher Wagon. I pursued her. Eventually she succumbed.

Katie Lent is a friend of the former group. We met on the first day in Granada. She had braces and seemed fairly normal. I laughed in her face. I don't remember why. Thus began an epic friendship spanning time together on three continents, a fake accent, ridiculous sing-a-longs to Lil John as well as John Lennon, and our often repeated mantra, "Men are Mean!" led by the patriotic Patricio. Although Katie and I have spent time together in beautiful places, (including Lewiston, Maine and San Jose, California) the girl reminds me, as trite and pathetic as it sounds, that the people you are with are many times more important than the places where you are.

One day, no time soon, I will break another of our promises to each other (you really caught me at a low point, Ms. Lentyface) and in the far and cloudy future will decide to enter into that historically unsuccessful and dreaded institution some people recognize as marriage. (Joke, Mother, please do not have a heart-attack. Katie and I use to say things like that.) Katie will not respond to the Save the Date, nor the invitation but will instead show up unannounced and make a ceremoniously dramatic speech about the loss of sisterhood and the personal affront to her I will be making by accepting societal norms such as marriage, punctuality and time. The events that follow will be made into a Lifetime Movie.

Until then...here are some pictures of my trip to Granada with Vicki and Michael, two great travel companions. Granada is the same. It is the most beautiful place on Earth. The following images are an ode, homage, and tribute to Katie Lentface. There are mostly obnoxious pictures of me doing what I used to do with Katie and some of our other friends in my new purple pleather jacket. Granada was not as beautiful without you, my friend; nor would my life will be as boisterous or happy without you, either.

More pictures to come in my new Facebook album entitled, "I'd kill Lorca first..."

Cristobal: A controversial figure for some, a revered figure for others...some as IES Granada circa Fall 2005.

Cafe Central: it now has WiFi!

Natalia, who set me up with an internship once petting homeless dogs for 5 hours outside Granada with Helga, a German woman.

Introducing Vicki and Pedro to The Good Place.

The Mirador

Plaza Nueva: still dogs and hippies

In conclusion, of course, Katherine Lent:

When Your Mother Thinks You're Funny, You're Not

My mother, Susan Eydenberg Westlake, is a very special woman. Few other women of her generation continue to rock pigtails on and off the tennis court and have consistently fabulous ground strokes, even fewer can complete the NY Times Crossword Puzzle with rapidity, and even FEWER are so organized that they have tiny signs having over their desks with the expiration dates of the family passports. Rebecky: 2018, Dannyboy: 2022, et cetera.

I know my blog is a smashing success because I immediately make Vicki read it as soon as I write a new post and she always sends some ridiculous amounts of "hahahaha's" with other random letters thrown in as if she has had a small stroke and fallen onto the keyboard. My friend Laura who is in Pamplona and researching none other than blogs and citizen journalism reads my blog I think as part of her research demonstrating how blogs are a symbol of the decline of the American people. The greatest indicator of the success (or perhaps failure) of my blog is that during my mother's visit to Madrid she quoted parts of it back to me. The woman is an attorney and a stickler for details; you can't get anything past her and she clearly has committed all to memory. My mother thinks my blog is funny. In terms of my future as a humor columnist, this may be the kiss of death.

Alas, we had a fantastic visit together.

We went to the Reina Sofia and the Prado. At the Prado, I was reminded why uniforms are a good idea for students: they prevent the little ones from displaying gang colors, and they are also damn cute.

We went to tapas with my friends.

We went to Toledo.
We braved El Rastro.

She witnessed (perhaps in horror) how I do nothing at my job. Please note: this is not me at the front of the classroom. I no longer stand at the front. I usually sit at the back or poke children who are not listening. An additional note: I have not sunk as low as my Fulbright partner in crime Miguel "Lone Wolf" has. I do not arm-wrestle the children while the real teacher has her back turned. I draw the line at this. Our visit was full of culture, culinary luxuriates, (including a trip to Museo del Jamon, a recommendation from culinary expert Griffin Finan) and a good amount of whining (on my part.) Ever the trooper, my mother plunged into Spanish culture and bravely tried the foreign custom known as the siesta. She succeeded.

Here she is inappropriately using the bidet to soak her blisters. I include this last picture on my blog because my mom specifically said, "Rebecky! Do not put this on your blog!" She should have known better.