As American as Steaming Pile of Guilt Pie

I am a true American. I have no attachment to the old country, and I once signed a lease with a Native American. There are probably other, more actual reasons I am an American, but I can't think of any right now.

I try to keep a tight lid on my blatant Americaness while here, but I'm usually caught when someone asks me where I'm from or when I speak or when I just stand there. It's not that I'm embarrassed by it because I can't help it, but I always feel the need to seem a little apologetic or at least have the decency to lower my voice when admitting my nationality because of my guilt.

For example, here are some things I take full responsibility for in Barcelona that I never would have in the States:

1. McDonald's
2. Coca-Cola
3. the death penalty
4. fat kids
5. Taylor Swift
6. *Miley Cyrus
7. **Justin Bieber
8. Burger King
9. guns
10. t-shirts with English words that don't make sense
11. George W. Bush
12. buying in bulk
13. marriage inequality
14. all the problems anywhere ever
15. Santa Claus

Can you imagine carrying the weight of all that on your shoulders!? What if I shrug (I didn't read it either)!? Therefore, I never know what kind of reaction I'm going to get from people when they learn I'm not Irish (vicious stereotyping) or Australian (Niki Kid and I just got them things I guess), but these are the two most extreme thus far:

The best incident occurred the day ***President Obama was elected for a second term. My fellow American Ty and I were going out to celebrate but took a detour into a fabulous shoe store because we couldn't just not! The man who owned the shop asked where we were from, gave his congratulations then half-heartedly back peddled just in case we were "those" Americans. I have never unbuttoned my Gap jeans jacket (made in United Arab Emirates) so quickly in my life to reveal my American Apparel Obama (made in the U.S.A.) shirt. I kid you not, we all squealed then raised the roof before he ran out to buy some wine so that he could toast with us.

The worst incident happened some other time and went like this: Stupid Idiot, "Where are you from?" Me, "The United States." S.I. (mocking my voice), "I'm from America!" followed by, "You're not from America! You're from the United States. Get a map and learn some geography. You stupid fucking Americans are all the same. You think you rule the world? You don't! Go learn some Chinese." I can't repeat what I said next, but I can tell you that I said it in Chinese.

But mostly what happens is that I get a little shifty, check for the nearest exit, tell the truth and the people couldn't care less, or they just ask me about guns.

 

*She's higher on the list now.
**I heard he's Canadian, but I think we have to claim him because of the NATO.
***I can't speak about what my life would be like if Mitt and Paul had won. They'd have to invent a tenth circle of hell for that.

The Cookies Are Just a Metaphor

When I find myself in a pickle here, I try to handle it with grace, elegance and poise which are all different words that have the same meaning. Here's the thing, though. If the pickle is one those giant ones you'd find at a concession stand at sports games that the teenagers fish out with their bare hands, I handle el problema like a champ. However, if it's a mini gherkin situation, my panties get waded really tightly really quickly.

I was talking to Margaret (read previous post) the other day, and she said, "Sorry about the delayed response. I made some muffins. I think it went well." I was proud of her because baking muffins is an example of something that I find ludicrous, but I was also a bit jealous and resentful. I can't just wake up, decide I want muffins and make them. *Baked goods, as we know them in the States, don't exist here...I know...it's really hard for me.

Ask for chocolate cake, and you'll get an extremely dry dirt triangle. Cupcakes and muffins are similarly disappointing. Cookies don't exist here. They call these hard, blechy things galletas, but they're imposters. They ARE NOT galletas!

Correct me if you've heard something, but I don't think I'm up for any American patriot awards. Therefore, when I crave something from home, I try to scratch the itch because it doesn't happen that often, and today, I just wanted a damn chocolate chip cookie. I felt almost warm and fuzzy before the dread set in.

Because I can't just go buy one, I googled a recipe (yes, I know you have yours memorized).

1 cup butter, softened- I'll figure out how to do that not in a microwave. NBD.
1 cup white sugar- Our sugar is mixed with coffee grounds. That actually sounds more appealing.
1 cup brown sugar- Aaaannnnnd, here we go. It may as well say moon rocks.
2 eggs- They're unrefrigerated here which is a little off-putting, but everyone seems fine.   
2 teaspoons vanilla extract- Liquid gold and as difficult to find as Robin Thicke's appeal.
3 cups all-purpose flour- I have some because I made play dough with some students 3 months ago!
1 teaspoon baking soda- Would not happen if I searched for a thousand years.
2 teaspoons hot water- Is this real? Okay.
1/2 teaspoon salt- No, I will never measure salt.
2 cups semisweet chocolate chips- I was hoping these weren't an ingredient because I know I can't get them.
1 cup chopped walnuts- Duh and also, adults who don't like nuts are not adults.

I went to the store, something I don't like to do, and came back with individual packets of brown sugar for coffee, eggs, vanilla FLAVOR that cost 4 Euros, no baking soda because obviously and a chocolate bar with walnuts in it. Also, I found a woman's wallet there. I think they thought I stole it because everybody steals everybody's wallet here, so I just yelled, "No es mio!" and threw it at the cashier.

I converted the measurements using the only measurement tool I have which is a plastic cup I got at an outdoor house music party in the daytime called Piknik Electronik, so I knew it was **accurate.

While I was in the midst of opening 24 single serving brown sugars and worrying about what impact that would have on the environment, I stopped, slowly walked to the refrigerator and confirmed what I already knew. I was out of milk.

Mini gherkin situation.




*Bread is not included. The bread here is awesome.

**I thought it looked like too much. I went back and checked the recipe. It was for 4 dozen.

Cooking for Uno (this post isn't really about that)

Even though I'm pretty old, I never really had to cook regularly until I moved to Barcelona. My *parents did it when I was a kid so we wouldn't die and to give us a sense of consistency, security and togetherness (I assume). Margaret, my college/grad school roommate/**bfff was a control freak in the kitchen, and who was I to take that from her? And Danon, my ex-boyfriend/bfff, was always barefoot, pregnant and in the kitchen where he belonged.

All of those people are AMAZING cooks. I'm not, but that's okay because I don't like to do it, but on the other hand, it's not okay because I have to eat so I don't die and to give myself a sense of consistency, security and togetherness.

My first month here, I took a "certification course" to teach English. I hate ice breakers nearly as much as cooking, but apparently they're also something you have to do ad nauseam so you don't die. It was the one where you say your name then something you like to do. The next person has to say the names and activities of the previous reluctants before their own, and it builds from there until the last person is in tears, and everyone is just telling him/her all the answers.

My turn came around, and I guess my passion for things I hate is greater than my passion for things I love because I was the only Negative Nancy who said something I didn't like. "My name is Emma, and I hate to cook," I said followed by a dramatic 'ewwww get it away' hand gesture (we had to do a gesture to help others remember us better). It was obvious that most of the men who came after me were uncomfortable doing my gesture, so I spent the rest of the game obsessing over the fact that I didn't do something completely unrelated like a tight twirl with jazz hands or smacked my butt with my finger in my mouth so that we could root out all the homophobes because isn't that what breaking the ice is all about?



*Once, I was driving home but was running late, so I called my mom to inform her. She thought I was calling to tell her I wouldn't be there for dinner which was something both of my siblings had just done. Before I finished my thought, she strongly said (my mom doesn't yell), "I fucking hate cooking! I only do it because you're my family, and I love you!" I was really excited that my mom said fucking, but I was also happy to know that she didn't like it either. Then, I felt bad that she'd been doing it for me for so long, and I actually thought she was enjoying it.

**best fucking friend forever

How To Not Speak the Language of the Country You've Lived in for a Year

First, I'd have a whole province of pissed off people after me if I wasn't clear that Barcelona is in Catalunya and in Catalunya, the people speak catalan. I don't speak catalan, nor do I speak castellano or what we in the United States call Spanish because we're from the United States.

Here's why and how (if you're interested in not learning something) in order of most severe culprit to least:

1. I don't try very hard. This goes for most things I do because I'm decent at a lot of things, excel in nothing and quit the things I'm not naturally good at (e.g. learning new languages) almost immediately.

2. I speak English all day. I know that's not a good excuse, but I'm an English teacher, I live with two British women and a French guy (like I'm going to study French! Pffff!), and most people here switch to English after my 30 second long question/greeting in castellano that should only take 5 seconds because they have things to do goddammit.

3. Facebook

4. I think I'm speaking it when I'm not. There's a scene in Julie and Julia (terrible film...only watch the Meryl and Stanley Tucci bits) where Julia's French tutor says, "*En francais s'il vous plait," and Child says, "Oh! I thought I was speaking French!" That's how I feel every day.

5. I don't get drunk enough. I speak castellano almost fluently when I'm drunk. Ask anyone.

Of course it ebbs and flows. I really make headway if I'm trying to seduce someone who doesn't speak English or when I'm taking courses that are literally called "Almost Free Spanish Classes." It's not like riding a bike (I'm really good at riding a bike! It came naturally!). It's something you have to practice every day, and you sucking is not because Catalan people are mean to you. It's your own damn fault.

*I'm sorry I didn't do the things. I'll figure out how to do that because I assume accents will be very important in this blog but maybe not.

On Latin American Men

These are my thoughts on Latin American men now that I (and some friends) have had some experiences with them. My thoughts are all: no. For example, if one tries to start a conversation with you that is not work or emergency related, you need to say, "No," then walk away hurriedly. If you screw up and accidentally talk to one, you need to exit as soon as possible and say, "No, no, no!" if he asks you to move to a second location.

If you start to think about one. No! Then rewind and unstart thinking about him.

If he calls, texts, Facebooks or Skypes you. No! Then delete everything and block everything and wish that that thing in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind existed.

I'm not saying it's easy, but you'll thank me later no matter how hot he is because everything I say is true and nearly everything he says is not.

Disclaimers: I realize that this post is incredibly offensive to all Latin American men, and I would apologize to you individually were it not for my "No" rule which is, I'm afraid, completely nonnegotiable. I promise it's not personal. What I will say is: keep it spicy!

This post is also for gay men.

Also, many people think I mean Latin men. I know I live in Spain, but unfortunately a lot of men from Latin America do, too. That was not a typo. Latin men are okay...I guess.