The Blow Out

The following is the actual email I sent to my family about my trip to Cairo, Egypt.  I must preface this by saying that despite what this story suggests, I am not a habitual pants pooper.  If you are wondering why the writing is so poor as compared to my other pieces, all I can say is that I was having a relapse… Enjoy.

Today I jumped out of bed around 9 am with a lot of fire in my belly.  I had mapped out my entire day.  Since things are only open until 4/5 pm here (due to the heat).  I had a full day of sightseeing (8 different things in total) to cram in in about 6 hours.  I followed what has been my normal routine since I got here.  I ate a piece of fruit and a granola bar (both smuggled in from Spain), took a shower, and went down stairs to buy a bottle of water.  I chugged some water and pranced back upstairs to grab my backpack.  I immediately felt a little rumble in my stomach.  I ran into the bathroom and, splat… I didn’t know what to associate this tinge of illness with, and thus considered it a freak occurrence.  I took two Imodium, washed down with more water and hit the street.

Now, because I am poor (and extremely cheap) I decided to walk to every single site today.  Even though they aren’t on the same map and even though when I asked the head of the hostel if it was possible to walk he kind of just laughed.  I set out on this nice 5 mile-ish hike (doing good time it took me about 45 minutes to get to the first spot a quaint little mosque. I ran inside eager to see what it had to offer.  At this point I had another nice little rumble in the tummy.  But, I am a good boy (and because I don’t speak Arabic) I decided to hold it for a while.  I next went to the market and on to the city gates.  All along the way checking to see if there was a bathroom anywhere.  Nothing was urgent but I knew that from my traveling experiences you should use a bathroom whenever you can find one.  Needless to say 2 hours later (and about 1 mile more) I found myself in danger… I went into the twin mosques and glanced around (each one I saw with a little more sense of urgency as I was squirming more and more).  I decided the next site would be the best chance of finding a bathroom because it was the most touristy.  I pranced out of the twin mosques and headed towards where I thought would be the “Citadel”.  But not 25 steps outside the grounds I reached code-red.  My step was affected, my stomach ached, and I saw no way of not being able to go to the bathroom.  I ran back to the mosques and said (in about 15 different ways) bathroom!!! Toilet, wash closet, anything!!!!  They pointed me down to the washcloset on the grounds and I ran down there as fast I could.  I slammed into the bathroom, ripped off my pants, and (I admit I missed the toilet a bit) splattered all over the stall…  Now I was relieved.  However, in my rush I didn’t take into account that there was absolutely no toilet paper.  I decided that I would just shake off and “tread softly” considering the force with which the poo had come out I figured there was no way that I could have residue… Needless to say as I stood up to pull my pants up I decided to check if I was dry… not a great idea.  I’ve shit in a hole, but I never wanted to shit on my hand.  What was I to do now?  Thank God I had my Frommers book.  Not only is this book useful for the sites, but the advertisement pages can also be torn out and used as toilet paper.  Thank God for the resourcefulness Boy Scouts taught me!!!!

With this problem solved (I scorched my hands to sterilize them) I re-hydrated with the rest of my water and took more Imodium.  I went off to the next site (site 5 of 8 ) and immediately felt a rumble in my stomach.  I ran through the sight and decided to call it quits.  I needed to get home and use a real bathroom, with toilet paper.  Myself (Dad this proves I’m being frugal with the money I borrowed) decided to walk home because A) I don’t speak Arabic and can’t give directions to my hostel, let alone say it, and B) I figured that rush hour would take just as long as walking.  So, I walked home (all 5 miles and 50 minutes) in pain.  I ran up the stairs of my hostel (sweating and in pain) and slammed my room’s door open to freedom.  After a couple blowouts, I passed out for 4 hours.

Don’t know what did that (either the Egyptian food the previous night or the ”bottled” water).  Needless to say I ate at an American students’ pizza joint for dinner tonight.  Tomorrow I will go on a private, air-conditioned, guided tour of the Pyramids (hopefully blow out free).

I’m Back…

Indeed it has been months, chance an entire year since I last blogged.  But due to the demand of the masses (or should I say due to the demand of 3 people) I am back.  While this blog will no longer serve as a gateway to the trials and tribulations of my travels, it will serve a purpose that is perhaps better for most of the readers.  I plan to use this blog as a gateway for all my friends, family members, co-workers, bosses, and whoever else might read to dig up dirt on yours truly.  My name is Adam and I make mistakes.  Lots and lots of mistakes.  While many of them are alcohol assisted, some simply come from bad luck or general stupidity.  That said, I must preface the blog with the following: I will not hold back on the details of my stories… if you don’t want to know what your innocent little son, grandson, friend, or whatever you might call me is up to, do not read.

The first of my stories is perhaps one of the most infamous among the people close to me.  It all started back in the summer of ’07.  Myself and my two roommates were really into chips and dip.  Yup, the great American snack of ruffles and onion dip.  We ate this stuff like it was nobody’s business.  Chips and dip for a snack, chips and dip with lunch, chips and dip with dinner, chips and dip drowned in milk for breakfast.  Basically, we ate a lot.  Needless to say when you have an addiction, you are in constant need of satisfying the craving.  Combine your addiction with intoxication, and you have a problem.  It’s like giving Winona Ryder an inconspicuous bag inside of Neiman Marcus and telling her that the security department is off for the day… shit will get stolen.

It all started off innocently.  My roommate and myself had returned from a satisfying night of drinking, bull shitting, and heckling women.  We cracked open the onion dip and a fresh bag of ruffles and stood around like pigs at a feeding pen for about 20 minutes satisfying the drunken munchies.  This is where things went dark.  All I know about what happened was deduced from the evidence I woke up to.  Apparently, we had both settled on calling it a night and headed up to bed.  But, as my roommate wandered upstairs, I decided to take chips and dip to a whole new level.  I grabbed the bag and the dip and marched up the stairs, psyched to be able to sit in bed and continue going to town on the ever-satisfying snack.  You may ask how do I know I preceded upstairs with the food?  That, is where this story takes its infamy.  The best way to describe how I woke up would be to compare it to a more commonly known awakening.  Imagine the scene from the Godfather when the director wakes up with his prized horse’s head tucked neatly into his sheets with him.  Similar to him, I woke up and immediately felt that something wasn’t quite right with how I was lying there.  I rubbed my eyes and looked down.  I was naked, except for my shoes and socks.  Typically waking up naked is a good thing.  In this case it wasn’t.  As my eyes came into focus I saw something a bit disturbing.  Crumpled on the floor next to me was an empty bag of ruffle chips.  Not good.  I struggled with the fact that my ever-healthy body had consumed an entire bag of artery clogging, heart attack producing chips.  However, the nakedness and the chips were the least of my worries.  What was more concerning was the onion dip smeared all over my chest.  Lets rewind and get a better image of how I woke up… Naked (except for my shoes and socks), covered in chip crumbs, and smeared with onion dip.  Either I was sloppy drunk, or my roommate had blacked out and used me to fulfill some kind of sick fantasy in which he replaced the more typical whipped cream with French onion chip dip.  Gross.

Unfortunately the story doesn’t end there.  As we sat around that Saturday afternoon recapping the evening I shared the story with my roommates who laughed at the fact that once again I had gotten drunk and done something stupid.  We all wrote it off and expected never to think about it again.  Until that night.  As if in some sort of scene from the Twilight Zone, the events of the night screamed Déjà vu.  We came home, ate some more chips and dip and I woke up naked.  This time, however, was worse.  Not only did I wake up smeared with onion dip, but I also had the lid (coated in dip) plastered to the side of my face.  I woke up groggy and all I remember was assessing the situation and literally saying out loud “Oh no, not again”.  I tiptoed out of my room trying to hide the fact of what happened as to avoid some serious ridicule.  But there my roommate stood.  As our eyes met, I could see that he had figured out what had happened.  I bowed my head in shame, turned around, and went back in my room marked with my scarlet letters “C & D”.

Time has passed since that epic weekend.  The story has been told over and over, and now it finally is in print for the entire world to know.  As for chips and dip, we don’t talk much anymore.  I’ve moved on.  I can reminisce on the good times had, but something about what happened that weekend changed how we feel about each other forever.

Madrid Fashion

Popular among the college-aged females here in Madrid, we have what is commonly referred to as “Princess-Jasmine Pants”. Apparently I don’t get it. To wear properly: the pants must a) be 5 sizes too big (completely hiding whatever form they are draping) and b) must be sagged so that their “cute” underpants are completely exposed. Gross. I think Matt Werner described it best when he said, “They must be covering something that they don’t want us to know about…”.

Please Send Help

Three months into my European Odyssey I can honestly say that I miss very few things about the good ol’ U.S.A.  However, the things that I do miss are enough to have me making a 50-foot long paper chain counting down to the day I return (which is June 20^th by the way).  Among the few things I miss, one thing that sticks out as much as “friends and family” is CHIPOTLE.  For those of you who don’t know, I have what many would consider “a clinical addiction” to Chipotle.  I work at Chipotle, and I love the food.  I eat Chipotle for lunch, I eat it for dinner, I eat it for snack, and I eat leftovers for breakfast.  Basically I eat it whenever I can.  In the last 3 years as an employee of Chipotle, I have managed to eat the food for approximately 8 meals a week (not including the times I snack at work) which amounts to approximately 1,250 burritos.  Consequently, I am having some issues over here in Spain where the closest to Chipotle you can come is Europe’s first Taco Bell (I just threw up a little in my mouth thinking that that could even be a comparison).  Imagine taking a person who smokes 8 packs of cigarettes a day, throwing them into a white, padded cell, and forcing them to go without cigarettes for 3 months… that’s about half of the misery I’m experiencing. 

 

Lets take a look at the various phases of my life without Chipotle (and foods that are remotely similar to Chipotle).   

 

Phase 1) Denial.  For the first 2 weeks I was here I was in denial of the fact that I wasn’t going to be enjoying Chipotle for 5 months.  I would scoff at people when they asked if I missed Chipotle (they all know that I work there because I sport my jacket with pride EVERYWHERE I go.).  My typical response would be: “we’re in Spain, I’m sure that I’ll be enjoying plenty of good food that isn’t Chipotle”.  Basically, I ignored the fact that I wouldn’t be sinking my teeth into that tasty 6-dollar (or free) steak burrito for another 5 months.

 

Phase 2) Irrationalism.  At the week 2 point, the cold shakes began.  I couldn’t function without a burrito.  I found myself sitting in the corner of my room without the lights on rocking back and forth and hallucinating that I was on the way to eat Chipotle.  Every time I thought about Chipotle I laughed maniacally, I cried uncontrollably, I foamed at the mouth like a rabies-infected dog, and then I ended up on the floor chewing on my own hand imagining that it was a chicken burrito with hot salsa, fajitas, and all of that good stuff.  These unhealthy reactions to the lack of Chipotle led me to some irrational thoughts.  The first thing that came to my mind was “Chipotle in London”.  I had heard from a good source that Chipotle would soon be spreading its wings and flying across the Atlantic to open a restaurant in London.  Upon hearing this, I tapped every Chipotle resource I had, planned my trip to London (immediately), and was eager to make the 300-dollar journey just for a burrito.  This dream was immediately crushed when I heard from one of my sources that the Chipotle in London wouldn’t open until well after my return to the States.  Oh well, I guess $300 is too much to pay for a burrito (although I don’t really believe this). 

The second part of my irrationalism came in my willingness to pay over $50 to have 1 single, succulent, cilantro-lime-rice-stuffed burrito sent via overnight shipping to me.  I checked the UPS prices, the importing food regulations, etc. and was ready to go.  But, something just wouldn’t let me pull the trigger.  I, for some reason, was unable to pay $50 dollars for something that I usually got for free.  So I went into hiding.  I pushed Chipotle as far out of my mind as I possibly could.  I told myself it was like Lent… the fact of that matter is, it is like Lent.  A horrible, never ending Lent.  For those of you who have seen the movie “Groundhog Day”, that is what I’m going through.  Every day I wake up with the hope that everything will be better.  I expect to wake to the haunting aroma of adobo-marinated steak being cooked on the grill to a delicious medium rare.  But nothing ever changes.  I wake up every day, disappointed, in this permanent inferno of a Chipotle-less world.

 

Phase 3) Unnecessary pushiness.  So far I have had two people visit me in Spain.  My father was the first to come.  I was so excited for him to arrive.  He was going to bring a little “taste” of the homeland over here to the Iberian Peninsula.  For dad, I compiled a large list of things that I wanted.  This list included books, headphones, etc.  But, at the top of the list, in a world of its own, was Chipotle.  My Chipotle fever was at an all-time high.  It had been 2 months.  Enough was enough.  As with London and UPS, I had it perfectly planned.  He would make the pick-up on the way to the airport.  He would get a bol, no cheese, no sour cream.  This would mean that A) there would be no tortilla to get soggy and B) no dairy products to go rotten.  I felt that cooked meat could last 16 hours.  And, if it didn’t I would’ve been willing to eat it anyway.  Yes, I would’ve vomited my guts out just to taste the food that God created for me.  I outlined the master plan for dad.  I gave him the details, my order, etc.  He said he would “see what he could do”. 

The entire week I eagerly awaited the arrival of dad.  Not only because I wanted to see him, but also (as sick as it is) I had the hope that he would come bearing gifts.  I stayed up the entire night before he arrived, praying to God that my food would arrive (and dad) safely tomorrow.

            When I approached dad at the airport I was like the love-struck girl awaiting her boyfriend who was coming back from a 3-year tour in Europe during World War II.  I have never been so excited in my entire life.  However, when I saw him my eyes immediately fell to the empty left hand attached to his body.  No brown paper bag (made of post consumer material, great), no bol, no happiness. When he did not come bearing that one gift, I was crushed.  My heart felt as though it had been ripped right out of my chest.  I immediately wanted to grab a copy of The Stranger and read all about existentialism, thinking, “if I can’t get a Chipotle burrito, then there truly is no God”. 

 

Phase 4) Substitutes.  I rarely eat Tobasco sauce when I eat my Chipotle.  I prefer to get my spice from the red tomatillo chili, the green tomatillo chili, the roasted chili corn salsa, the fresh tomato salsa, and often whatever I have invented in the kitchen on that particular day.  However, one day at the grocery store I was browsing the aisles when my eyes where drawn to one particular red bottle.  It was glowing, practically calling me.  Imagine the burning bush scene from the Bible.  This bottle of Tobasco sauce was the Chipotle gods’ way of speaking to me.  I snatched the bottle off of the shelf, threw the 7 euros it costed (totally worth it) at the cashier, and ran.  I ran all the way home like Charlie when he found his Golden Ticket.  I honestly think that my feet touched the ground twice on the 3-block journey back to my apartment. 

            At first I was reasonable with my Tobasco sauce.  I cherished this little piece of Chipotle.  I made quesadillas out of a “French mix” of cheese (whatever that means) and the crappy version of tortillas that Spain has.  I used my Tobasco sauce exclusively on that and tortilla chips.  I truly felt that I was at Chipotle.  As time progressed, I couldn’t get enough.  I started putting my Tobasco sauce on other things (still normal) like eggs.  But, as time passed I once again became fueled with the craziness that Chipotle has the power of creating.  I started putting Tobasco sauce on everything in an attempt to create that familiar burn of spiciness in my mouth at all times.  Some people say they eat a lot of Tobasco sauce.  “I put in on pizza” or “I eat it with soup” are common statements.  I think I have those people beat.  Tobasco sauce goes on everything I eat.  For example, tonight (while I wrote this blog) I ate tuna casserole, a fresh baguette, and salad for dinner.  Every single one of these dishes was completely drowned in Tobasco sauce.  I eat Tobasco sauce on potatoes, on bread, on veggies, hell I even eat it on my cereal.  You think you like Tobasco sauce?  Think again.  I go through about 3 seven-dollar bottles a week, all to get my Chipotle fix. 

 

While Tobasco sauce can suffice for now, I do know that one of these days it won’t be enough.  My paper chain is at 60 days.  60 days until Chipotle.  Steak burrtio… chips… salsa…60 days until I get to sink my teeth into that meaty roll of deliciousness that is so successful in transporting me to my happy place.

 

Please, if you have any hint of kindness in your soul, send help.  Send help in the form of a Steak bol extra Chicken.  With extra cilantro-lime rice, sautéed green bell peppers and red onions perfectly cooked, vegetarian black beans, all 4 delicious salsas (extra of each), and perfectly cut romaine lettuce.  Anything can help.  God bless.  

Yes, I am Alive

Greetings (again) from halfway around the world. I can tell that you have all been driving yourselves crazy for weeks in anticipation of my newest blog. I do acknowledge that it’s been a long time. Consequently, a lot has happened. So bear with me as I provide you with a brief recap of life on the Iberian Peninsula. Life is good, too good. I find myself watching over my shoulder daily, knowing that things cannot go this well for this long. Yesterday I hit the 3-month mark on this European Odyssey. Since we last talked I have had several visitors, gone on several trips, and attempted several times (often failing) to be a good student. This entry is simply to alert all those curious souls out there that A) I am alive, B) I am enjoying myself, and C) since I know you all miss me so much… I get home June 20th. On this website you will find more “case-specific” blogs. Read on if you dare…

Spanish Conversation Will Change Your Life

Just a note about Spain.  

So we’ve been talking in one of my classes about what Spaniards are like.  Two major things we talked about were about their sense of space and how they go about conversations.  Apparently Spaniards are very intimate.  They like to be really engaging and really close to you when the talk.  Of course this description immediately brought my mind to a certain clip from Christmas Vacation (the clip I’m talking about goes from about 0:50 to 1:10).  Next, we talked about how it’s part of everyday conversation for Spaniards to interrupt each other when they talk.  There’s no rudeness about it, it’s just part of everyday conversation.  To see what my mind wondered to when my teacher told me this, check out this clip from Sooper Troopers (this clip is 1:55 to 2:05).  So as you now see, talking to a Spaniard is a constant combination of these two clips… because of this, I can’t help but laugh every time I engage in a conversation.

My Spanish is Much Bettering Since Have I Been Here 2 Months

Ok.  So it has been a while since I blogged, but in reality life is pretty quiet here in Madrid.  It’s not like I’ve been to an island off the coast of Africa where I got to see whales and dolphins, go sea kayaking, and nearly climb to the top of a volcano.  Oh wait, I did.  Cool.  Oh well, that’s all boring compared to what I am here to tell you about…

As I discovered this summer during my trip to South America, my Spanish, along with my ability to fit in, is not nearly as good as I sometimes think it is.  As far as language goes, I often find myself shaking my head yes and saying ok, even though I have no clue what is being said to me.  I swear to God, one of these days I am going to agree to sell my body to the Gypsies and live in a cage.  It is very possible that people are saying “you are a practicing satanist who eats babies, nod your head if you agree”, and there I sit, grinning and nodding like I understand every single word.

Yesterday was a good example of the language and cultural  barrier that still exists.  Due to construction in my apartment building, all of the water was shut off.  Because my life and entertainment are completely run by the ability to turn the water off an on I decided to get out of the house when that ability was taken away.  I threw on my under armour, strapped on my nikes, and pranced out the door to go for a jog.  

Jogging is very fashionable here.  All the young, rich, and hip 20-somethings do it.  Great for me right?!?!  Unfortunately, I still don’t fit in.  The first reason is obvious; around here people my size (the freak size) are usually confined to 24/7 medical experiments and therefore don’t get out for a run very often.  I especially notice this because when I run towards someone, instead of just stepping to the side, they drop to the fetal position and pray to God that the Jolly Green Giant isn’t coming to crush their bones and eat them.  But, even if I was the correct size (pocket size) I would still fail at fitting in because of my attire.  There are 2 different running outfits people wear here.  Full-body spandex, which I am seriously debating buying, and the “preppie” style.  Yes, if people are not running in their wrestling singlets with matching hats, socks and shoes, bearing all to the world, they are wearing polo shorts and khaki shorts.  Just a little bit odd.  I never would’ve thought that what I consider church clothes could be used to soak up someone’s sweat.  People are just strange…

So as I return from my socially awkward workout, I come upon my next social barrier.  The doorman of my building is really cool.  He’s old, but kind of hip.  He always jokes around and smiles when I come through the door.  However, my communication with him has always been small talk (i.e. how are you? how is your day going? good morning, etc.).  Well this night all hopes of appearing like I was a Spaniard to this guy were crushed.  

I finished off my run with a nice sprint, which left me short on breath, slightly lightheaded, and definitely not in the right state to be speaking in some kind of foreign language.  So, to my demise, there he was mopping up one of the elevators.  I quickly grabbed the other, hoping that I would be able to skirt by without him noticing.  Not a good idea.  As I tip toed by, he grabbed me and mumbled something in Spanish.  I of course took this as a common greeting (although I had no clue what he said) and responded with a “good, how are you?” in Spanish.  He looked at me a little funny and repeated himself.  This time, what I heard was “now you can’t take the elevator because I just mopped” or something to that extent.  So, I laughed awkwardly closed the doors, and stood there- which only made the situation more awkward.  Now he definitely knew something was up.  He repeated himself a third time.  Having no clue what he said, I smirked and said “ok”.  At this point, he gave up.  He opened the elevator that I had just closed and said “sube” which means “go on up”.  I jumped into the elevator and only after I had ridden up 3 floors did I realize that the whole time he had been saying “you can’t take a shower because the water is still off”.  Great timing… now I have to walk by him everyday with my head hung in shame hoping that he doesn’t see me because I have this strange feeling that he is going to point and laugh at me.  Maybe nodding your head ok isn’t always the best solution.

After this experience I got to thinking.  If I have that much difficulty understanding Spanish, what the hell do I sound like when I speak it?  Nothing can sum it up better than this clip from Family Guy.

http://www.hulu.com/watch/18335/family-guy-the-magic-is-happening

In conclusion:  I have very much increased the quantity speaking ability of my skills language of Spanish.  I good enjoy speaking the language of Spanish and wish to come to be a speaker fluent.  To make communicating is very entertain and I much pass time funly doing it.  I am to fit on well of this culture Spanish.  

 

 

I love Madrid… However, sometimes I really do get frustrated. I’m a stereotypical guy who hates asking for directions, and hates getting lost.  Most cities are common sense, find North and South and you are set. 

This is what normal streets look like

 Imagine my pain when I studied a map of Madrid and realized that I would have to use my sense of direction to get around this for the next 6 months!!!

Did you ever play with a Spirograph as a kid? Apparently the city planner of Madrid did... (Actual Map)

For Love of Laundry

Over the last couple of days I’ve come to one depressing conclusion about doing laundry; it’s a huge part of my life. I’ve gone through several “stages” of laundering in my life. The chair stage was the first. When I was 4 or 5 I officially became the family laundry boy. Doing my family’s laundry was supposed to help me “grow”, take on responsibility, even be more appreciative of everything mom and dad did for me. So I dragged a chair across the room, pulled my 4-foot frame up onto the chair, and hung everyone’s laundry. This phase continued (but without the chair) until I graduated from high school. What did I learn from that? Dryers, that make clothes drier faster rule (I’m a grammar nerd). I haven’t hung a shirt since the day I moved into my dorm.

The second phase of my laundry-life was the Laundromat phase. Sometimes I can be very OCD. After having heard stories about some of the sick things that go on inside dormitory laundry rooms (none of which I was involved in… that I choose to admit) I vowed never to do my laundry on campus. So, every Tuesday I would pack my laundry bag to the brim, grab a book, and head to the shadiest Laundromat in Boulder. This phase wasn’t as glorious as you would think it should be. For those of you who’ve seen the movie “40 Days and 40 Nights”- it is nothing like that. There are no Laundromat romances, no relationships started over folding each other’s dainties (who the hell wants to fold someone else’s clothes anyway). The only flirting you do is with the little old immigrant lady, who happens to be the owner, as you try and score a few free tokens so you can save 5 bucks (because everyone knows that in college money is for booze, not clean clothes). That having been said, I served my one-year sentence of Laundromat torture and happily parted ways with South Boulder Laundromat the day freshman year ended (I still drive by on weekends and reminisce about what we used to have).

Phase 3: Condominium laundry machines. This is the phase that until arriving here in Madrid I have been locked into for the last 2 years. It’s by far the simplest phase. You grab your quarters, your laundry, and your key. You put your money in, you put your laundry in, and then you go do something until it’s done… Sounds simple right? Not quite. Along the road I have encountered several road bumps, which I have so fondly referred to as “inconsiderate pricks”. These people are the ones who don’t realize that other people also live in the complex. They so caringly leave their laundry in the machines all day, thus completely taking away anyone else’s ability to wash their clothes. Although every inch of me wants to take their clothes, throw them in the dumpster, set them on fire and leave a note on the machine that says: “I think you need some new clothes. Better luck next time”, I refrain. I peacefully wait (checking the machine every 20 minutes) until they take care of their items. I really am OCD.

The final phase (the reason I decided to make a comment about laundry in general) is the comical phase that I find myself in right now here in Madrid. Two different things lead to my pain; first, they don’t believe in dryers over here. Second, Laundromats- while carrying a large fee for services- are few and far between. So, I have adopted the Spanish method (however painful it may be). As I stated in an earlier blog, I’m a giant among dwarves over here. The laundry machine that my host has in our apartment is clearly not made for someone of my size, but rather for a dollhouse or a Polly Pocket. The first time I did my laundry I suffered through 5 loads to wash a week’s worth of clothes all because I can literally only fit 5 of my flag-sized shirts in the thimble-sized machine. Just imagine me angrily struggling with this little machine to shove as much of my clothing in as possible. I wish that the machine had feelings that would get hurt by the insults that I continue to psychotically scream at it during the few moments of the week that we share. The machine isn’t the half of it. I’ve reverted back to my first phase of clothes hanging. If that wasn’t frustrating enough, apparently the air over here is “damp”. I have been staring at the clothes rack for the past 4 days, praying that something is going to come along and dry my clothes so that I can finally stop wearing the same pair of underwear I’ve had on for the last 4 days (I’ve worn them inside out, upside down, backwards, you name it) thank God that’s a joke… maybe. My roommate suggested that I wash my sheets and my towel. HA HA. I had to restrain myself from bringing up the fact that if I washed my sheets and towel I’d be sleeping on a bare mattress until March and drying myself with 55 paper towels after every shower. I think I’ll just have to be content with sleeping on my filthy sheets and drying with my moldy towel until June. Maybe they are more primitive over her than I thought.

Concluding, laundry (no matter how you do it) is never fun. For those of you who come visit me, don’t be surprised if I’ve gone granola and given up on laundry until I get back to the states. Hey, who doesn’t love walking around in stained t-shirts that wreak of stale smoke.

The Feminization of Adam Shunk

I’m used to being around humans of the female persuasion.  Which is to say, I have no problem with it.  Growing up as a kid I would take month long trips with my mom, grandma, and sister.  These trips usually involved drawn out stops at places such as The Mall of America or The Peace Gardens (a large botanical garden on the border between the U.S. and Canada).  I was of course always ecstatic because at that age I didn’t know any better.  Now days, a day long stop at a mall sounds like some kind of sick joke or at least an old scene from The Twilight Zone.  Another example of my love for the female persuasion would be this past summer’s activities…  I initiated a month long trip to South America.  And guess who I decided to invite?!?! Girls.  So for 30 days and 30 nights I spent every waking hour with 3 delightful young women.  Wonderful right?  All was hunky dory until one fateful night in which I had a lapse in judgment and “agreed” to go see the Sex in the City movie with the girls.  This could’ve been the biggest mistake I’ve ever made in my life.  I think it was best described to me as “female porn” in that there is everything a woman fantasizes about and not one single detail can bring a man any form of satisfaction.  The only memory of those 3 hours of hell that I have allowed myself to keep was my occasional glance down my pants to make sure that I actually was still a man. So I learned my lesson right?  That’s what I would have thought…

 

Lets just say, growing older has done wonders for my masculinity.  Being part of high school sports allowed me to start defining who I was as a MAN.   We talked about girls, and sports, and how we were gonna fight this guy, and how fast we’d driven our cars, etcetera etcetera.  College also has had a huge impact on my masculinity.  It has allowed me to constantly make stupid decisions, gamble, smoke big stinky cigars, challenge anyone to any type of drinking competition on any given night, grunt for no reason, scratch myself, and shamelessly watch reruns of Cops or Dog the Bounty Hunter.  Perhaps one of the greatest innovations in masculinity ever is the concept of “Guys Night Out” (thank good for the Coors marketing team).  For those of you who don’t know what “Guys Night Out” is, or have never experienced it here’s a quick recap…  Basically you get together a group of your buddies and go out and do stupid shit.  You pound beers, scream “Guys Night Out!” as often as you want, watch some kind of sporting event, and talk about guy things like cars, babes, and whatever else comes to your mind.  If you’re lucky you’ll even get a t-shirt that says “Guys Night Out”.  Awesome.

 

The second to last night I was in the States, I of course had to get my fill.  I shamelessly participated in a Coors sponsored Guys Night Out at the Denver Nuggets basketball game.  I got my fair share of “bros and beers” and of course, had a great night.  I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but THANK GOD I had one of those nights before I left.  The minute I touched down in Madrid, I was condemned to a semester of feminization.  There are 14 people in my study abroad program; 2 of which are guys; 1 of which (me) is the stereotypical “Guys Night Out”-guy.  I guess I’ll be doing some serious growing this trip…

 

My feminization has already begun.  On the second day of the trip I woke up, grabbed my phone and put in a call to one of my friends.  She said “we’re just exploring, come join us”.  Apparently what I would define as exploring is vastly different from what a girl would define as exploring.  What an evil trick.  In twenty minutes I found myself strolling through the supermall shopping for shoes, purses, and clothes.  Dear God.  The sad part is, for lack of something better to do, I stayed on for nearly 2 hours.  Just shopping, with no intent to buy.  At one point I remember praying in my head that one of my friends would appear out of nowhere and beat me up in disapproval. 

 

The next example of my feminization involves my drinking habits.  Being surrounded by a bunch of girls, I no longer drink, “just to get drunk”.  I must find purpose, and proper activities before I get (said with a lisp) “tipsy”.  Speaking of drinks, I no longer drink much beer.  I’ve really been enjoying the drinks that are sweet (these are more fun anyway because they’re colorful and come with an umbrella).

 

The only sign of male judgment I’ve shown so far on this trip has been my split-second decision to drop my dance class.  I was seriously pondering (for about 2 weeks) to enroll in a flamenco dance class (I’m sorry dad).  At the time, nothing was more exciting that tapping my feet and waving my hands in the air (as some kind of art form).

 

Perhaps the biggest change that I have experienced is the “friendships” I have been seeking.  In the U.S, I have all sorts of best friends that are guys.  When I go to class, or to parties, I do what every other guy would do; I try and meet girls.  I “vibe” and “give eyes”, etc. just to try and initiate conversation.  I’m not even necessarily looking for a date, I just don’t want to be known as the guy that has 500 guy friends, and doesn’t know a single girl.  While the girl seeking happens in the U.S., over here in Madrid I have taken on an almost creepy obsession with meeting guys.  Lets just say I don’t think that I will last 5 months without once having an opportunity to grunt and watch sports and scratch myself in public (or at least bump chests with someone).  Needless to say this obsession has already led to some trouble.  With in a couple of days I made a close acquaintance with a male student from the university.  My excitement showed as I told all the girls in my program “he and I are going out tonight to party” or “we’re gonna take a class together” or “he’s so chill”.  And of course, the maliciousness of the girls on this trip immediately showed, marking me as having a man crush and leading them to constantly saying “why don’t you just go ask your boyfriend”.  Damn, I guess I can’t get away with anything.

 

As painful as it all may sound to some of my friends, I am confident that I will take away a lot of good things from this experience.  I’m crossing my fingers for Mel Gibson like powers from the movie “What Women Want”.  If this doesn’t happen, at least I’ll have had some time to “virginize” myself from the Guys Night Out concept, which will only make it that much better when I experience it again.

 

Summary:  Masculine male seeking beers, bros, and a forum to talk about babes.  Search results in Madrd – zero.