Friday, March 22, 2013

"Stuff I Eat," the inaugural issue - Chipirones en su tinta con arroz

“Do we really want to travel in hermetically sealed popemobiles through the rural provinces of France, Mexico and the Far East, eating only in Hard Rock Cafes and McDonalds? Or do we want to eat without fear, tearing into the local stew, the humble taqueria's mystery meat, the sincerely offered gift of a lightly grilled fish head? I know what I want. I want it all. I want to try everything once.”

There's no one wiser than celebrity chef/world traveler/pithy quote machine/professional wise ass Anthony Bourdain, at least when it comes to the profundity of food and travel. He'll go anywhere and eat anything, no matter how shady the establishment, how raw the meat, how undead the fare.

I'm no foodie, but a girl's gotta eat. So I'm embarking on a a food adventure of my own. It's a challenge that really isn't a challenge at all: to try something new every week and write about it.

That pathogen-laden bottom feeder? Give me a hearty sidedish and a nearby bathroom and I'll try it. That foul cheese whose mold is spawning grandchildren mold of its own? I'll try it. That bulging, deep-red intestine casing stuffed with throwaway mammal parts? I'll try it.

Hungry yet?

But seriously, considering I have no idea what half of the food is on any given menu regardless of where I travel, it shouldn't be too hard to dominate this challenge. Food and culture are intricately linked, especially in Spain, so I figure it's wise to flavor my experience a bit.

So here goes nothing: "Stuff I Eat," the inaugural issue. 

 Source

Name: Chipirones en su tinta con arroz

Translation: European squid in ink with rice

So what is it exactly? It's squid - full-bodied or sliced into rings - served with rice in an ink sauce flavored with garlic, onion, peppers, tomatoes, fish/chicken stock, etc. The fixings vary by the preparer, of course.

Where I ate it: In Don Benito, Spain, at a restaurant called "Cerveceria Gambrinus."

Before trying it, I was thinking...: "It kind of looks like the squid pooped on my rice." Then I wondered, "Do squid poop?"

Texture: Rubbery, gummy, as you might imagine. But it's not like I had to chomp mightily to get it down. I've eaten seafood in the past that pretty much exhausted my jaw. Fortunately, this wasn't like that. As for the ink sauce, it had the consistency of regular gravy.

Taste: Not a lot of it. It was supposed to be rich in garlic and onion, but it lacked a kick. The squid bodies themselves, which inside contained their tentacles, didn't have any notable flavor, either. It was a bit lifeless...pun intended?

Verdict: This dish has potential, and I would try it again without hesitation somewhere along the coast, where the squid is fresh and the preparation is a bit more inspired. 

Source

Until next time...
Un saludo,
Teresa

Tuesday, March 19, 2013

Hey, back off of Nebraska

The cowtown perception of Nebraska has pervaded Europe.

Coming here, I assumed no one would know anything about Nebraska, given that it's a flyover state that even Americans pay little attention to. To be sure, there are plenty of Europeans who haven't heard of the place, but I've met many who are familiar with it, surprisingly.

But what strikes me most about their reaction is the general negativity and/or snickers that follow my introduction. Is there a lot of corn, farms and cows in my great state? Absolutely. Stereotypes are generally rooted in truth, so it's no surprise that people link Nebraska with cows and corn. But why is it viewed so negatively?

Postcards like this might have something to do with it.

I'm the proud daughter, granddaughter and sister of hard-working, driven, intelligent farmers who are nothing like the tired stereotype of backwoods buffoons. I find it ridiculous and downright offensive, quite frankly, that I have to defend my farm roots as if they're something to be ashamed of. Some of the most dedicated, genuine, gracious and appreciative people I know have agricultural backgrounds.

So, the next time a Spaniard, American, European or anyone, for that matter, chuckles when I say I'm from Nebraska, I'll cite this national index that shows Lincoln, Nebraska's capital city, is the happiest metro area in the U.S.

And oh yeah, 96 percent of Nebraska's active labor force is employed. So to super-cool-dude-from-LA-whom-I-met-at-the-bar, who's laughing now? You've got beaches, Britney and oppressive debt.

We have jobs.

Here's to "The Good Life."

Un saludo,
Teresa

Friday, March 15, 2013

This week in errors

This is a new feature I'm introducing that will publicize the week's most epic/memorable/blush-inducing language fails.

1). ...in reference to a "real heartbreaker," I said, "Es un rompecabezas, de verdad," which means, "He's really a puzzle."

2.) ...from a Spanish friend who's learning goofy English phrases from a Mr. T phone app: "Get out of my finger." He wanted to say, "Get your finger out of my face," which he wanted to follow up with "or I'll turn it into chopped liver." (He didn't really understand the chopped liver part, either. He thought Mr. T was saying he was going to insert his finger into his liver.)

3.) ...during English class, I told the kids I was going to sketch a "cheat sheet" on the board regarding the proper use of "some, any, an and a." Turns out if you say "cheat sheet" quickly it sounds like "chichi," which is Spanish slang for female genitalia. My students erupted in uncontrollable laughter, which I suppose I would've done, too, as a 12-year-old if my Spanish teacher said she was going to draw a you-know-what on the board.

4). This is a must-read: "The best worst translations between Spanish and English."


Tuesday, March 12, 2013

15 (+2) lessons learned in Spain

**I've added a couple of gems since I posted originally. 


1.) When you venture into the bowels of Spanish bureaucracy, you lose. 

Getting my foreign identity card was the disasterous, mindblowingly inefficient process I was warned it could be. The workers were incompetent, and the "rules" were nonexistent at worst and fluid at best.

We Americans were each given different "official" forms to fill out. The workers told us it was OK we all had different ones because it didn't really matter anyway. Some of us were told we needed to get a verification from the town hall that proved we did, in fact, live where we said we did. Some of us weren't told that. I was told twice that I needed three passport-sized photos. Ultimately, I needed two.

But the kicker was when my American friend told me that her American friend had gone to the station, and a worker told her that "she and her friends" needed to bring in a copy of every page of our passports. Is that really a bit of information that should be given to someone I don't know and then spread through the grapevine?

If you don't believe me, watch this hilarious-but-sad-because-it's-so-true video about Spanish red tape. 


2.) The travel gods like me.

I arrived at the airport in Mallorca at 6 a.m. for a 6:25 departure. And they let me on the plane with only a minor "you should really be earlier next time" scolding. I have twice had mishaps with trains in Merida, a city more than 30 miles from Don Benito. And twice, the train company paid for me to take a taxi from the Merida area to Don Benito. No official form asking for my name or an explanation of the situation. No money out of my pocket.

3.) Don't speak too soon. 

I wrote this post and saved it as a draft. Then I went back to Mallorca and got my iPhone 4S and my wallet (with that hard-won foreign identity card inside) stolen.

4.) If you're going to get robbed, don't let it happen in Spain.

Because replacing a stolen phone, canceling bank cards, dealing with police and applying for new identification is best done in your native language.

5.) Always carry coins. 
Spaniards really, really prefer not to have to make change. 

6.) In Spain, you arrive late, leave late, plan late, stay out late, eat late, wake up late, be late.

Puncuality just isn't a big deal. I think you can tell that from #2.

In Spain, lunch at noon is blasphemous. Going to the club before 2 a.m. is social suicide. Waking up at 10 a.m. on a Sunday is absurd. And being early is sooo foreign.

Source
7.) The siesta is still alive and well in southern Spain.

It's a ghost town around here between 2 and 5 p.m. Don't plan for midday productivity.

8.) "Customer service" is more like, "Wouldn't it be better for both of us if you just did this yourself?"

One day at the bus ticket window, the worker was on a personal call. I waited a few minutes, growing evermore impatient. Then I enlisted the classic American/British foot-tapping tactic. All in vain. Then she pulled out a tin of orange tobacco and started ROLLING CIGARETTES while I waited there.

A different day, I was having beers with my roommate, and I asked for the bill. Ten or 15 minutes later, I still hadn't gotten it. Then the waitress came out, sat down at the table across the way and had a beer with some friends.

I laugh only because it makes me cringe at the same time. Source

Source
9.) Official timetables are really just general approximations.

Shout out to #4 up there.

My 10:15 a.m. bus to work showed up at 11 o'clock once, without explanation. It generally rolls into the station around 10:30. Not once have I been in a plane, train or automobile in Spain that left on time, which has led me to change my arrival approach. I generally add about five minutes to established departure times and show up then. Turning up seven minutes late would be moderately risky, but three minutes would leave me with too much spare waiting time.

10.) Spain is a time warp.
  
Where did the past 5 1/2 months go?

11.) You can send used underwear to Spain, but don't try to send new ones.

Or detergent to launder them. If you send anything new from the U.S. to Spain (you can send used items without issue), you risk having it detained in customs in Madrid. They can slap you with hefty import and sales taxes on the goods and then charge freight costs to send the goods to their final destination (even though you already paid for them to be sent to their final destination).

I didn't actually learn this lesson from a shipment of underwear, but it makes for a more sensory example, eh?

12.) There are five requisite words/phrases to rock at Spain Spanish. 

Dime - literally means "tell me." This is an acceptable greeting on the phone and at customer service counters.
Vale - means "OK."
Venga - generally means "c'mon" but can also be used as a sort of "ok" or "yeah, right."
Vamos - generally means "let's go" but can also mean "enough already."
No pasa nada - means "it's OK," "everything's all right," "don't worry about it" or "no problem."

13.) It is possible to have an entire phone conversation using the terms listed above. 

I've heard it done.

14.) When out and about, it's not ideal to go more than a few hours without a coffee or small beer.

That's just the Spanish way. It's as much about rest and refreshment as it is about socializing and seizing the day.

15.) Sharing is caring. 

Be careful with what I like to call the "American food and drink faux pas." If you're buying something at the coffee vending machine in the teachers' lounge, you should offer to buy coffee for everyone in the room. (I learned that one in the teachers' lounge after seeming like a real American you-know-what for months.)

And if you go out for dinner with Spaniards, and you order the cheapest platter while your friend gets the most expensive one, the bill often gets split evenly in the end. (That's assuming they actually let everyone order individually instead of ordering a few plates and sharing it all, which is what I often see.)

16.) So just order the big beer and some filet mignon and see what happens.

Because that's the best way to cheat the system.

This might be overkill. Source
17.) Spain is imperfectly perfect. 

I may complain about inaccurate timetables and the siesta. And sure, I inject a lot of sarcasm into my posts because I really do see some things that are just outright ridiculous, in my opinion. But I've chosen to live here. I've chosen to subject myself to inefficient public transportation and mindblowing bureaucracy so that I can bask in the general gloriousness that is my life in Spain.

And you know what? I´m having the time of my life. I love Spain, Spanish and the Spanish people. And I don't regret a thing.

Un saludo,
Teresa





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