spanish-english shirts, vol 2

I've been slacking off in the spanish-english shirts department. It's not for lack of material, trust me, but for my unwillingness to take pictures of people actually wearing them. Nonetheless, I managed to come across a few good ones in stores lately, enabling me to "try them on" aka take pictures of them in the dressing room. Hopefully this is not illegal.

I plan to update the album soon, but "my beautiful duckling" ought to tide you over:

Yes, soft feeling.

ping pong, anyone?

Once upon a time in a faraway land, my apartmentmate was on vacation. She wouldn't be back for another two weeks and we'd just changed apartments, so I did what any other person in her right mind would do and took to exploring the new neighborhood. One fine evening, I tried an until-then-neglected eastern route and soon found myself staring at the door of La Federación Madrileña de Tenis de Mesa. That is to say, ping pong.

I walked by. I walked by again. I walked by, and went in. I made my way back to the office, then pretended to read the bulletin board while waiting for local champs to offer me a place on their league teams, or perhaps throw out an endorsement deal. I was my 8th grade PE-class ping pong champion, after all- singles and doubles. But ignored at the board, I shrugged it off, found my way out, and walked on.

The feet moved on, but the mind did not. Visions of my excuse-for-a-forehand and Christmas family tourneys flashed through my brain, and I knew what must be done. Forehand reform, potential new friends, and a revival of the 8th-grade glory days? So be it.

I'm in ping pong school.

honking

I was woken the other morning by honking. Woken. By honking. And if there's one thing in the wide world that I can't get a handle on, it's unwarranted honking. That's not to say that all honking is unwarranted by any means; it most certainly has its time and place. When a dog wanders into the road, for instance, or if someone needs a little encouragement with the light change, a little beep here or there can go a long way. If you've arrived at a friend's house or if someone starts rolling back on a hill, let 'em know you're there. You can even use the horn to critique bad driving or to simply acknowledge a friend in passing. It's a handy little device.

It's a handy little device that's abused. Unwarranted honking has gotten entirely out of control and can be defined primarily by one moment: stuck in traffic with the desire to express one's frustration. Unacceptable. I guess the fundamental question really comes down to this: will it make a difference? Will the dog move? Will the person go? Will your friend come out? Will traffic suddenly move? In that last case, doubtful.

If your horn has no little-to-no effect on the outcome, lay off and keep the streets that much happier.

beep beep.

junkers

My apartment's boiler, a JUNKERS brand ZW28 Euroline, lived up to its name Thursday night with a sudden decision to flash a red button rather than heating my water and apartment. I know nothing of boilers, but hoped the poor thing would come back to life and figured that a few extra blankets and showerless days never hurt anybody. Since Friday was one of the biggest holidays in Spain, (Felices Reyes, by the way) I decided to wait until Saturday morning to call my landlady. When at last I did, I found she knows less about boilers than I do. Her son thought it might be due to low pressure, however, so armed with JUNKERS manuals and my Eddie Bauer multi-tool, I fiddled around for an hour or two before calling back with my failure report. One cold day later, my landlady and her son came over with manuals and tools, fiddling around an hour or two of their own before calling it quits as well.

My landlady talked to the JUNKERS man today, and it turns out all we had to do was hold down the flashing red button for 10 seconds.

Where were you on that one, manual.

a five-hour layover in amsterdam

I'm on my way back to Madrid, a trip that somehow included 3.5 and 5 hour layovers in Minneapolis and Amsterdam respectively- not to mention the perfectly good New Years' Eve that I lost somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. It all seemed worth saving $300 in plane tickets at the time, but the second-thoughts are now freely flowing. Ah well, nothing a little airport Internet can't remedy, and anyway the blog was in dire need of attention. Again.

Since I bumped off a poem last week, here's a little piece- of sorts- from the plane:

"Veggie curry or chicken?" she asks
"Chicken," I finally say,
[Debating, but since I had curry last week]
She smiles, goes to hand me my tray.

Chicken goes sliding, hits cranberry juice!
Who teeters, then tips on my lap,
On my pants, my jacket, my carry-on bag
And on KLM's World-Wide Flight Map.

Six napkins later, as "sorries" subside
I return to the chicken at hand,
Joined by potato and green bean supreme
I find all "surprisingly" bland.

For salad: some lettuce, tomatoes in-wedge
Carrot and cucumber dice,
Then cheese and a roll, some cake and of course
My cran-apple remnants: just ice.

Not a bad meal, all-in-all, I suppose
My juice stains you hardly can see,
But seven full hours: wet pants and one thought:
That next time, it's curry for me.