This feature publicizes the week's most epic/memorable/blush-inducing language fails.
1.) ...trying to tell my mentor that "tienes que bailar esta
noche, sabes." ("You have to dance tonight, you know.") When I speak
quickly, proper pronunciation goes by the wayside and things can get a
bit hairy. In this situation, "bailar" became "balar," which means
"baaaa," like a sheep.
2.) ...while working on vocabulary with my fifth-graders, we
came across the word "beach," which induced back-of-the-classroom
laughter. English-language learners are infamous for confusing the pronunciations of
"beach" and "b****," so I figured the juvenile chuckling was related to that. I launched into a spiel about how "beach" is not a
"palabrota" (bad word) and how the pronunciation of minimal pairs
completely changes the meaning of the words. The teacher and the
students were noticeably confused by my sudden soapbox lesson and what
had initiated it. Turns out a kid in the back had accidentally written
"beach" on his name tag instead of his name. There was no "palabrota"
confusion. Awkward.
3). ...I'd nominate this label for the worst Spanish-English
translation of the year. It's certainly the worst I've seen in person.
This doozy of a disaster comes from the label of a sauce my roommate
brought home from the Canary Islands.
I'm no professional, but the translation shouldbe
something like, "'Mojo rojo' is a red sauce typical of the Canary Islands that's
used with meats, fish, vegetables, roasted cornmeal, baked potatoes,
etc."
Here's to being entertained by shaming myself and others.
Much of what I saw in Bulgaria was shabby and not in a chic way. It was shabby in an unkempt, paint-peeling, windows broken, "what happened to this place?" kind of way. There's graffiti, cracked sidewalks and renegade gypsy camps. Lots of buildings are blocky and gray and worn, some with exteriors that seem to house the remnants of a horror story inside. (The country has a fair share of stunning buildings, too, I should say.)
Vratsa
I saw lots of people who were noticeably hardened -- not
mean but hard, haggard, perhaps struggling and losing. There isn't the brightness, the carefreeness, the "let's grab a beer and work later" mentality that's so classically Spanish. For the 20 percent of Bulgarians who work for the equivalent of 1 euro an hour - minimum wage - it's about
surviving. People sell tarnished coins and animal pelts and treasures from Grandpa's attic at makeshift markets to make ends meet. (Bulgaria, of course, isn't the only country where people do that.)
Even so, Bulgaria is an eclectic, endearing, intriguing ex-communist gem - nothing like the traditional European beauties of Vienna, Venice or Prague. I adored it and would love to go back someday. It's unconventionally beautiful, like a guy with a gap in his teeth or a crooked nose -- you have to look past a superficial flaw or two to see that he's peculiarly handsome.
Sofia
Vratsa
Veliko Tarnovo
Vratsa
Veliko Tarnovo
Veliko Tarnovo
Sofia
Bulgaria has plains, hills and mountains, green in summer and white in winter. It's got charming medieval towns that have endured centuries of Ottoman rule and later, communism. It's got what I'm told is an awe-inspiring Black Sea coast on its eastern side, which I sadly didn't have the good fortune of visiting.
Vratsa
And goodness, the food. MMM, the food. It was the most glorious sort of hearty and heavy - think meats, bread, potatoes. Even the salads alone were enough to over-stuff an empty stomach. Eating our three- and four-course meals was like de-layering those Russian dolls; when you think you've reached the end there's yet another surprise. And all of it was guilt-inducingly cheap: You can get a delicious meal with way too much food for the equivalent of five euros or less.
Is it lunch time yet?
Typical tomato and cucumber salad with delicious Bulgarian cheese.
Mix of veggies with chicken and pork
Potatoes and more of that delicious cheese
Pork and more delicious veggies
This was a starter...for one person (served on traditional Bulgarian ceramic).
Bulgaria may not have the Statue of David, the most well-manicured face or the most notable European architecture (we've got Churchill to partially blame for that. Sofia, the capital, lost something like 12,000 buildings when he ordered the city's bombing during WWII). But sometimes conventional beauty is boring.
It's been a while since I've penned a travel dispatch. I'm trying to move away from the whole chronological "this is where I went, this is what I did" formula, but in case you're asking, "Where in the world was Teresa Lostroh?"....Stick with me. I promise there's an entertaining line or two.
1.) Tenerife, Canary Islands, Spain.
Went there for Los Carnavales, a Mardi Gras-esque liquor-fueled free-for-all. Was a tourist by day and a martian/some sort of Asian by night (we dressed up for Carnaval, in accordance with the custom). Felt like I landed on the moon when I visited the Teide Volcano, the world's third largest. Declared my panoramic shot of Los Gigantes (massive rock formations) the most epic ever. Ate three times my stomach's capacity at a typical Canarian eatery - and enjoyed every second of it. Got two Spanish friends to ask for a take-home food box for the first time in their lives. Broke my camera during an ill-advised self-timer attempt, therefore losing my beloved "vivid" setting forever.
Lunar landing?
The "Los Gigantes" panoramic
2). Mallorca (Majorca), Balearic Islands, Spain.
Was hoping for a glorious, snafu-less return trip to my favorite place on Earth. Went to the Cap de Fomentor peninsula on the island's northeastern tip, where I captured more epic panoramics and several Awkward Family Photo shots with my roommate. Also went to Sa Calobra, a remote cove reached by a mess of winding mountain roads. Went out, got my iPhone 4S and wallet stolen, effectively losing all photo evidence of the trip. So much for snafu-less. Thank goodness for memories. Ate fresh oranges from my friend's orange tree. I think the saying goes something like, "Once you go fresh oranges, you never go back." Let Mallorquin food win my heart even more (snails, bread, squid, vegetables, frito mallorquin, etc.) Spent Sunday in the obnoxiously Anglo neighborhood of Magaluf, where Spanish is a foreign language, Brits run amok shirtless and sunburned and Happy Hour starts at sunrise. Dipped into a bar at 7 p.m. that was packed with hammered middle-aged Brits reliving Spring Break. Jammed to lots of oldies and continued jamming even after the Brits' bedtime struck at 9:30.
3). Cordoba, Spain.
Split my heart in sixteenths as I fell in love with yet another colorful Spanish town. Got my mind blown by the Mezquita's wondrous mix of Christian and Muslim architecture. The place is huge. Went to a flamenco show in a nondescript basement on some Cordobese side street. Ate oxtail and flamenquin, a traditional dish of pork loin wrapped in ham, breaded and fried. Both dishes filled my belly but didn't change my life. Decided I must return when the city's ubiquitous residential courtyards are flush with May flowers.
Mezquita
Mezquita
4). Sevilla, Ronda, Trujillo, Granada, Malaga, and Nerja, Spain
Parents came to get a taste of la vida espanola. Cried when I met them at the train station in Sevilla (hey, it'd been five months). Launched a 10-day tourist blitz on this fine country. Did a generally terrible job of sharing with them the delights of Spanish cuisine (the best meal they had was at the hotel restaurant, without me). Made the mistake of ordering a fried seafood platter at a restaurant in the interior of the country. Acted as translator at a Case International implement dealer in Don Benito for my dad, who has an insatiable curiosity about agriculture no matter where he is. Took parents to Sevilla and Ronda, two places I'd already been. Forced my parents to be in more pictures together than they've been in over the past 35 years combined. That's not hyperbole. I'm serious. Went to a flamenco show in a kitschy tourist haunt in Sevilla. Enjoyed it despite its kitschy-ness. Fell in love with yet another pair of Spanish coastal towns, Malaga and Nerja. Pretty sure my parents are still talking about Malaga's marble sidewalks. Despite my love for Malaga and Nerja, thought both towns would be infinitely better if we could expel at least 70 percent of the northern Europeans and make the towns more authentically Spanish. Dad drove through snow - in southern Spain, of all places - to get to Granada, where that damned white powder covered the city for the first time in 25 years. Mom about lost her feet to frostbite while we tried (kind of in vain) to enjoy the Alhambra in the cold. Most importantly, was reminded of how awesomely loving, generous, fun and supportive my family is.
Plaza de Espana, Sevilla
Snowy Granada
Alhambra in Granada
Malaga from the fortress
5.) Toledo and Guadalupe, Spain
Have to wonder if my superlatives lose their weight when I overuse them: favorite, prettiest, most Spanish. But each trip manages to equal or top the previous. Loved Toledo's sublimely medieval core, which is on a hill reached by arched stone bridges. Toledo doesn't have the bright-colored buildings (much of the city is sandy stone) or the it-feels-like-this-entire-city-is-smiling vibe of Cordoba, but it's as genuinely Spanish. Guadalupe is what every small town should be: quaint, walkable, endearing, enchanting. It's all of those things despite the omnipresent tourist shops and carbon-copy signs hawking Guadalupe's typical blood sausage. Must admit the blood sausage is worthily hawk-able, though. Town's massive monastery has perhaps the loveliest courtyard I've seen yet. There I go with the superlatives again...
Toledo
Toledo
Guadalupe monastery
Guadalupe
Toledo
That's the quick-and-dirty version of my life as of late.
“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.
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.
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.
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.
**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.
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
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.
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.
