sock shock

I was pulling my clothes out of the washer this week when I suddenly stopped and wondered, "why so many socks?" Socks, who until only recently represented a relatively small share of the laundry-split, have apparently grown to dominate my wash by number if not by volume. How the...?

I'm not one to rip on socks. After all, they've seen me through many a ski-trip, hike, and sporting event- not to mention the occasional cold night. They've served me well and I fully expect them to continue the trend; I just wish it weren't every day.

Socks mean shoes, a concept I've tried to avoid since birth. Growing up, my feet were hardly acquainted with shoes before preschool, if then. The sharp rocks on our driveway served primarily as "tough feet" training, and shoes had no business wading in irrigation ditches or making mud pies in the sandbox. In the event that some form of sole-covering were required, an open-toed or sandal version was always preferred. Even the boots of winter were tolerated only to make the spring's first official Barefoot Day that much more glorious. I would later claim "academic programs" as my primary Pepperdine pull, but who's to say flip-flop dominance didn't rake me in?

And so, imagine me having to wear close-toed, semi-heeled shoes every weekday from nine-to-seven, eight-to-eight with travel time. There are a few shoe options out there, true, but there's only so much you can do with slacks, collars, and the occasional suit. I'm just going to have to consider it a really long winter.

This year's Barefoot Day will be glorious.

barcelona weekend

We had Friday off last week, so Joyce, Regina, and I picked up and went to Barcelona. No reason in particular, really- no tomato fights or running bulls- just a good, old-fashioned tourist trip, and I must admit I enjoyed it thoroughly. Madrid has its charm, but Barcelona has a beach. The Catalan is beyond me, but there's just something about a city on the sea that relaxes people. Bring out the flip-flops, I say. It's been four years since I set foot in Barcelona, so I joined up with Joy and Regis and we did it all: Las Ramblas; La Sagrada Familia; everything Gaudi; seaside; el barrio gotico; I even got conned into feeding pigeons in la Plaza Cataluña, which is pretty much against everything I stand for. I hate pigeons, and even moreso now that I have photographic evidence of one attacking my face. That's disgusting. I almost sang "Feed the Birds" from Mary Poppins, but felt more like the lady in, what, Home Alone 2? The pigeon attack was fortunately offset by our Saturday night visit to the "magic fountain," which for me would justify a Barcelona visit in and of itself. The water, the music, the lights... can I get this Friday off too?

"Feed the birds, tuppence a bag. Tuppence, tuppence, tuppence a bag."

september's santa

Bea went to the US this week. I tried my best not to be jealous, but she was going to none other than my old romping grounds of Los Angeles, California. While I'm not the biggest of LA fans, the mere thought of the Targets and BJ's and beaches almost got to me. Luckily, sending Bea stateside is the next best thing to actually going. Since I'm not scheduled to return to the US until- oh wait, I'm not even scheduled yet- I sent Bea off with a hug and a list of goods. My Spain-ignored essentials included: Herbal Essences Mousse (surely you called that one), American Eagle jeans, Trader Joe's dried mango, Victoria Secret Lovespell lotion (Kristy!), marshmallows, cocoa, and strawberry quik. I also requested peanut butter and mascara, as Spain has been blessed with such luxuries but their pricing/sizing leaves something to be said. Thanks to Bea, I'm back in business on all accounts.

Now if only she could have packed a few of you Los Angeles-residers along...

but the mango will have to console me.

new job

I call it a job. It's officially an internship, but I call it a job. Any "work environment" that requires I be there from 9 am to 7 pm has far surpassed internship status in my book- whether or not I have a two-hour lunch. It's going well for now... check back in six months. I'm in the "Comercio Exterior" department of the "Banco Transaccional" sector of the Corporate and Investment Bank of BBVA, theoretically analyzing the competition's electronic banking strategies, but currently just trying to figure out what in the world is going on. It's a strange transitional period, going from knowing nothing at all to (supposedly) learning everything. Nevertheless, I hope to soon convert myself- with the help of Alberto, my boss- from burdensome becario to productive personnel. All in good time. My first days have consisted primarily of me learning everyone's names and positions, locating the coffee machine, reading up on all sorts of past presentations and formation manuals, and organizing my desk when my boss isn't looking. Having a so-called job sure cuts down on posting time, though, and makes for some potentially boring topics besides. We'll see what I can do.

la tomatina!

- buñol, spain
- august 31st, 2005
- 11:00 am to 1:00 pm
- 40,000 people
- 100,000 pounds of tomatoes
- me

I will never look at a tomato the same way again. I first heard of La Tomatina four years ago when, after returning from summer school in Madrid, I was asked if I went to the "huge tomato fight." "What?" I asked. To be honest, I'd never heard of it and had returned to the US before it. Four years later, I can proudly say 1) that "yes! I went," and 2) that calling it a "huge tomato fight" is an understatement.

Background: The whole thing started with a plaza food fight in 1945, and has been an official Buñol (pop. 9,000) festival since 1959. Even better, the city provides the tomatoes. As our other friends were working, Benjas, Carlos, and I drove four hours to the grand event and arrived just in time to partake. At the first bang, seven trucks' worth of tomatoes are dumped into the street and the madness begins.

I was saturated in tomato within the first five minutes, and did my fair share of "saturating" as the tee-ball and softball years paid off in a series of direct hits. One of the few rules is that the tomatoes be "squished" before throwing, easing the blow and multiplying the mess. Once no whole tomatoes remain, everyone resorts to straining and slinging the street slush that resembles the "crushed" tomatoes of your mom's spaghetti sauce. The whole deal essentially becomes boys vs girls with whoever's next to you, accompanied by a great deal of chanting and jumping around. In the end, I was standing calf-deep in what looked and smelled like a river of tomato soup.

After the second bang, all the neighbors come out with hoses and everybody does their best to rid themselves of the tomato-seed helmet and armor effect. I strategically selected what appeared to be the highest-pressure hose, but let's just say my fifth and sixth Q-tips were still coming out with ear-tomato remnants last night.

Excellent.