Texas Joe.

Dear Diary,

I have developed a theory about people. There are three types of people in the world. People you would like to meet, people you would not like to meet, and people you have already met. This theory is as true as the heart that beats inside your chest. It works for every single person on planet earth (dead or alive). For those of you re-reading, contemplating, and siding-against this theory, let me explain further. You name any person that you can think of, and they will fall into one of the three categories: "people you would like to meet," "people you would not like to meet," and "people you have already met."

For example, Mark Twain would fall under "people I would like to meet." I can see us now, frolicking in a prairie, throwing clever remarks at each other's feet that are as welcoming as doormats. An afternoon of giggling, whispering, and taking our friendship to new levels.


Hillary Clinton would fall under "people I would not like to meet." This is simply due to a personality clash in my opinion. I have played it all out in my head already. I know if I asked her to hang out she would show up in one of her Laura Ingalls Wilder skirts, and I would be wearing an all blue sweat suit (because I don't like to suppress movement). We would order a pizza, and argue over pepperoni or sausage until I finally sided with her and agreed to get pepperoni. Then, once the pizza came, she would pick off all of the pepperoni's and dab the top of her pizza with a napkin. The conversation would commence, and I would be staring at the pepperoni's on her plate that she probably won't eat, but desperately needed. I would have to pretend to know something about government issues. She would have to put up with me trying to oil her joints because I am convinced she is a robot. Our time would end with me finally asking which state she is the secretary of, and one of those awkward handshake-hugs (clearly I went in for the hug, she, the handshake).



Bernie Conley would fall under "people I have already met." Once you are aware of the existence of a person, you make that decision in your head, "Yes, I would fancy an encounter with that person," or "No, I wouldn't come within a biscuit's throw of that person." Bernie Conley was someone I aspired to meet, and eventually had the honor. You can check his stats below..



My tendency to ramble has suppressed me again. This past weekend I had the opportunity to turn "someone I would like to meet" into "someone I have already met." I was a couple of sips into my cafe con leche at La Plaza de Zocodover when I heard someone shouting out what sounded like English words. My ears perked up like a dogs would when someone says, "let's go for a walk," and I began to pinpoint the sound. My eyes settled to the left of me on what seemed like an older fellow. He had a black cap placed in front of him, a guitar in hand, and a charismatic wobble as he sang what I later found to be the country twang of the late great Hank Williams.

I took one small sip of my coffee to test the temperature, and, deeming it safe, followed it with three large gulps to finish it off. With caffeine running through my bones, I did a quick Kramer-like twitch, and started walking towards the street musician. My mind was blank as I was walking towards him, I was simply trying to get closer to the music. I found, what seemed like, a sturdy tree to lean up against not fifteen feet away from him. After watching him for a full song I realized he was much younger than I first thought.

There were two kids playing with a soccer ball in front of him, and at times, when the ball would escape them and run across the plaza, they would stop and listen, and fake strum along with his guitar. He had a quiet guitar, and a big voice. His shouts bounced off the walls of the Plaza swooping back around in the form of an echo. He would give a courteous head nod as people slowly passed dropping silver centimos into his black cap.

As he was playing all I could think about was how surprisingly comfy this tree was to lean against. Is God making a new, softer kind of bark? Then I started to think, why would God try to improve the comfort level of bark? It's not like there is another God that is trying to undercut his prices, or attempting to make a better product. I mean, he does pretty much have a monopoly on creating living organisms.

When my wandering brain stumbled back into reality, I noticed that the street musician was looking directly at me. At first, I looked away not knowing if he could see me because I felt I was meshing with the tree really well. Then, I looked back at him, and he was still looking my way, but this time he had a big smile on his face. I thought the worst, "ohhh, real funny, it's going to be some tall joke about how I look like the tree (real clever street musician)." However, when I looked back he was looking away. He shook out one more song from his repertoire, and then sat down on the bench closest to him. As soon as he sat down I blurted out, "Where ya from?" He looked as if he was relieved to hear English as much as I was and responded with, "Texas, how about you?" I told him Wisconsin, and his eyes got a little bigger. "My old girlfriend had a place in door county, and I use to spend a lot of time up there." I responded with the always appropriate, "sweet." He started to put his guitar into the case, and my head was frantically searching for some talking points. "So, that situation in Haiti is looking pretty bad, huh?" "It's a pretty average day, no?" "Did you know crocodiles swallow rocks to dive deeper underwater?" All of these were deleted as quickly as they were manufactured. Finally, he came to the rescue with a simple, "Do you want to, uh, go get a beer?" I tried to play it cool, and settled with, "Why not?"

At first, I was a little skeptical. You can never trust strangers, or street musicians. I'm pretty sure I read that in a book somewhere. However, it is Spain, and the English feels good on my ears. I can actually have a conversation and not sound like C3PO. In Spanish I am limited to things like: I am hungry. Hello, how are you? It is nice out. I go to school here. Nice to meet you. In English, I can say things that are a little more rich in content. At that moment, I decided Joe was "someone I would like to meet."

We got to the local pub, O'Briens, and we shared a pint and some conversation. We ended up talking for a couple of hours, and he turned out to be a really interesting guy. His name was Joe, and he was from Texas. He told me that after he watched the movie Into the Wild he made a drastic change in his life. It inspired him to live out of his car for a year, and travel all the way up the west coast in a Chris McCandless-like fashion. He took all of the money he had in the bank (which wasn't much), his guitar, and a few pairs of clothes. Whenever he needed money he would go to the nearest city, fill out as many job applications as he could find, and start working until he could afford to move on. He worked as a pizza delivery guy in San Diego. A shoe salesman in Salt Lake City. A grocery clerk in Eureka. A chinese food delivery guy in Eugene. After a year went by of living in his car, he applied to the University of Oregon, and was accepted. As soon as he got into the program at Oregon, he applied for the study abroad program there. He was accepted, and was awarded grants to live in Barcelona and study Spanish literature. He graduated from the University of Oregon with a degree in Spanish Literature.

Now, he is living 20 minutes outside of Toledo, and teaching English at a nearby school. He is only in Spain until he has to go back to the University of Oregon to start graduate school. He travels to Barcelona, Madrid, Pamplona, and Toldeo frequently to throw his cap on the ground and perform some of Hank William's classics. Texas Joe is a vagabond, student, street musician, and a "person I have already met."


Always (an adventure!),
Coop

Words Would Only Mess It Up (Pick Sures of Toledo).

Walking Hunched Over.

This post will be a little word-y seeing as I just woke up from a slumber, and recently purchased a new keyboard. Also, before we get into things, I want people to know right off the bat that this blog cannot be taken lightly. This isn´t some thirteen-year-old girls emotional outlet (or is it?). This is a blog for the reckless (but we will be talking about relationships), so if you have a tendency to do dangerous things such as avoid crosswalks and eat without a napkin on your lap, then this is the blogspot for you. I´m only saying this because I am overwhelmed by my 19 followers and I am trying to narrow my reader base down. Anyways, I'll cut the bologna and get to the sandwich..

This is going to sound a bit harsh, but the only thing older than the buildings in Toledo are the people. Some 80% of the people that live inside the walls of Toledo are over the age of 60 years old (I would site my source, but I base my relationships off trust). You are probably thinking to yourself, "every day must seem like bingo night at the VFW..." However, that is not the case. Many younger kids come to Toledo every day from nearby suburbs. There is also a small university in Toledo called the University of Castilla La Mancha, which attracts a number of kids to the area. Furthermore, there is a high school close to my hangout spot (La Plaza de Zocodover) so you can see a good number of kids hanging out around 1 p.m. when they have their break.

One particular day, my stomach was being the impatient stickler that it is, and it demanded a bite to eat. I searched far and wide for the most authentic Spanish cuisine I could find. As I opened the door to the McDonald's, I noticed the line was a bit long, but I decided to tough it out because even my eyes were drooling over the Big Mac they set their sights on. Are you wondering what an eye drool looks like? It's when you see something that you want so bad that you start to perspire from the corners of your eyes. You are right, essentially it is the same as crying.

So, I was crying in the McDonald's, feeling a little more emotionally unstable than usual due to hunger and fatigue when I noticed three, young, Spanish kids pointing and laughing at me. They were all about 15 years old, and immediately I got the vibe that they were the bullies at their school. They looked sweet. Their hair looked as though a mechanic gave them all a head message before they departed for school, and I think they were sponsored by UnderArmor because all of their clothes were tighter than necessary. However, for some reason, these kids were making fun of me!

I stepped closer, and pretended that I wasn't listening to them. I sort of turned my head to the ceiling as if I took a sudden interest in light bulbs (what is that? a 40 watt?). One of the kids, the group leader, was talking too fast for me to make out a proper sentence. Eventually, the bully dumbed it down for me. He repeated the word "jirafa," which means giraffe, and persisted to giggle with his friends like a couple of girls at a middle school dance. I searched for the right words to say back to him, but as you can probably assume my "disses" in Spanish are inadequate. Even if I could have given him a direct translation of what I wanted to say, it wouldn't have hurt his feelings. I probably would have said something like, "well, I bet your far-sighted" or "I hope they put too much mayonnaise on your McChicken." I've never been that good at come-backs.

Anyways, the lady behind the counter called out my order, "Un Big Mac," which sounds hilarious in Spanish, and I decided to eat out on the patio to cleanse myself of the situation. I took one bite of my Big Mac, and it hurt me in all the right places. All the cares I thought I had, disappeared. It felt like Jesus was jump roping on my taste buds. I had already forgotten about the situation when I heard familiar voices. The three kids sat three tables away from me and started to eat their lunch. I avoided eye contact because that is what they say to do on the Animal Planet when you encounter a predator. I tried to focus all of my attention back on the Big Mac, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. I sat their eating, waiting to be bullied. Soon enough, the rain came. The group leader (I've seen Mean Girls so I know how this stuff works) repeated "girafa" over and over, and every time I looked up they looked down pretending as if they didn't say anything.

At this point I had to make a decision. However, before I tell you what decision I made, I would like you to understand my thinking. The first option was to get up and leave. However, I didn't want the bullies to know they got the best of me. Also, I didn't want to stand up. If I stood up, it would only bring on more "jirafas." The next option was to stick it out, and finish my Big Mac. This would involve some serious composure. If they were prided on their persistence, I was looking at ten minutes of, what I consider, a hate crime.

My stubbornness made me stay, and I finished my Big Mac in record time without too much gawking. Finally, it all seemed like it was over. However, I was still a bit nervous to get up. My palms were getting sweaty, and I was starting to feel a little more clumsy than usual. Can you imagine the thunderous laughter if I stood up only to fall down? I would be like Russell Crowe in Gladiator, dusting myself off, screaming, "Are you not entertained?!" I quickly checked back into reality and told my imagination to stay out of this one.

I grabbed my backpack from the ground, and felt a new sense of cool as I began to rise from my chair. However, Worse than words, I heard SOUND EFFECTS coming from three tables away. It sounded like, "Ohhhh shhhh Myyy." Pretty soon, he was running over to his friends in the Plaza and pointing to me with an open mouth and wide eyes. By the time I left the Plaza, I felt like a bicycle-riding bear at the circus.

Naked (and alone!),

la jirafa

p.s.

The Mayor of Toledo is trying to pass a law only allowing me to go out at night (like I'm some sort of Gargoyle). Until then, I walk in the shadows.

Brain Food.

Here it is, a couple of things I thought would be better to drop in an open forum. Those of you reading are expecting some sweet facts about Spain, or some poorly told story about a tall fellow´s adventures. How wrong you are. In this post, I will discuss three simple things that would improve the overall happiness of the world.

We begin..


First, is a sock sorter and matcher. If each separate household in the world had some sort of device that could sort and match your socks, it would increase the overall happiness of the world. I can´t tell you how many times I´ve woke up in the morning, stumbled to my dresser, opened the top drawer, and found a pile of un-matched socks. It is a terrible way to start every morning. Also, it seems as though every time I do laundry, I lose one sock. Only one sock, but as you know, one sock can throw off your entire sock rotation. You start moving in other socks to take the lost socks place. Soon, you have a top-drawer full of jealous socks because their swapping partner´s like a rec-nite in 2001. I heard that if you lift up the pant legs of Hu Jintao (the communist leader in China), you will see one blue middie-sock and one white ankle-sock. I´m not sayin, I´m just sayin is this this the beginning of world democracy?

Second, we can replace every door in the world with a revolving door. This would increase the overall happiness of people because it would make it impossible to slam a door. It would be impossible for an angry person to emphasize their point with an intense "door slam," and it would create a nice gust of wind in the hot office or school from the revolving door. Also, if all doors were universal (the revolving door) there would be no indecision when approaching a new door. You don´t push when you need to pull, you don´t pull when you need to push, and you don´t look stupid on dates. Not to mention, going through a revolving door is like riding a carousal. Every time you go through the door you have a quick recess from your day. Also, most doors are limited to one person at a time. However, a revolving door can have up to three people at once, thus improving daily traffic time, and creating a bonding experience between those three people. If you are a building, or a house and you are reading this blog..What can you do to help?


Lastly, we could make it a law that you must have cargo pockets on all pants, skirts, and shorts. This would increase the worlds happiness because it would free up your hands for loving hugs, friendly waves, and courtesy hand-shakes. It is impossible to be cordial when you are holding your cellphone, wallet, purse, loaves of bread, ipod, and calculators. If you could shove all of these things in your extra-big cargo pockets, you would free up your arms and hands to give your friends (and strangers) the welcome that they deserve. Not only are cargo pockets comfortable and convenient, but they also have a twang of style. If you are shaking your head in disgust saying hurtful things like, "Cargo shorts are worse than Whitney Houston´s last record," then I suppose we will see who is laughing when cargo shorts take over, leaving you friend-less.


From the Window to the Wall,

Coop

Differently the Same.

There is something in my bones that makes me think you all want to know about the major differences between the United States and Spain. I´m going to drop my thoughts on the topic, and hopefully it will take you places you thought could only be reached by Aladdin´s carpet. (I think I will use the list format to steer myself away from using unnecessary adjectives to fixate those of you who read this mumble jumble).

In Spain..
1) The toilets always look clogged.


2) The toilets flush harder (you need to have the seat down to flush otherwise your feet will look like you were standing to close to the curb, on a bus route, during a rainy day).
3) They have what I have made out to be some sort of a butt washer right next to their toilets. I want to try it, but I am afraid when I work up the courage that it will get stuck on, or she will walk in on me because none of the doors have locks.


4. None of the doors in my house have locks.
5. Every single meal that my host mom cooks comes with a loaf of bread (which I have grown to love.)
6. Their dessert after every meal is usually a piece of fruit.
7. It is rare to see someone drink a beer without tapas except in the wee hours of the night.
8. They have tapas, which are basically little snacks, and they are usually free when you order a drink.
9. Tipping your waiter or bartender is not as common (Austin is probably double fist pumping).
10. People are curt with each other. They rarely say things like "thank you" or "Pardon." I think it is just expected. (I compare it to when you enter a shopping mall and you don´t steal anything, no one waits by the door to say, "Thanks for not stealing anything." ya dig?)
11. They clean their streets about seven times a day without exaggeration. However, I constantly find my feet dodging dog poop.
12. The stores are open at different hours. Most stores open at about 9 a.m., then they close at about 1 or 2 p.m. for siesta, and then re-open at about 5 p.m. for the remainder of the night.
13. The streets are much more narrow. You have to back up against a wall when a car comes like you are being frisked to avoid a potential collision.


14. I have galletas y cafe con leche every morning for breakfast. (galletas are basically sugar cookies, they are the -ish.)
15. Their television is horrible. It is hilarious to watch. They have shows like "House" in Spanish with the same actors, so their mouthes don´t line up with the words. Also, my host mom loves the Simpsons. Today, is the simpsons 20th anniversary in Spain. They also have a knockoff "heroes" show, which my host mom won´t let me watch with her anymore because I was laughing too much during it. If I can find it on DVD I will.
16. The people don´t know that much about the United States. Before I arrived, everyone warned me that I should brush up on my knowledge of the U.S. because they are well-informed. However, we are equal in our ignorance. Granted, they speak more English than we do Spanish, but perhaps out of necessity due to tourism. I guess with our growing immigration rate from the south are excuse is feeble.
17. They eat dinner at 9:30. It is impossible for me not to snack between lunch and dinner.
18. The kids here go out late and stay out late. Sometimes they don´t leave the house until 11 p.m. and they dont return until 4 a.m.
19. The lifestyle here is far more relaxed. I´ve learned patience while eating, walking, and drinking.
20. They are short.


Un beso,

Coopaloop

My Name is Davy.

When I was presented to my host mom at the opening ceremony in La Fundacion I was nervous to say the least. I could feel my palms sweat and the backs of my knees get weak as if I was stuck in the middle of morning mass with an empty stomach. They called my name, and the room erupted in laughter as I walked down. "Muy alto Julia, muy alto," they all said. Julia, my host mother, walked up to me and craned her neck out to make it easy for me to kiss both of her cheeks.

We did the common greetings as we walked to a cafe to grab a "cafe con leche," exchanging names, homes, and family information. It was a terrible feeling to realize how little Spanish I could actually comprehend. Everything that jumped off her tongue seemed like one long word. She would stop for a reply, and I would stammer the first thing that came to my head, giving her information she didn´t ask for.

I found out a lot about her. She has one daughter, named Dayana, who sleeps at the house every so often. She has one son, named Maikel, who lives with his father. She is divorced and now lives in Poligono, which is a suburb of Toledo. She owns a small skin and nail care business right next to the apartment where I will be living for the next four months. She does anything from manicures to tattoos! She smokes and has three birds. Each one is a separate delight in the morning. She loves Mel Gibson in Braveheart, and she hates George Bush.

Anyways, to the story. I was not sure how evident the language barrier was until this past weekend. Since the moment I stepped foot in her apartment she started calling me "baby." She would say things like, "Let me show you how to make coffee 'baby.'" OR "'Baby, do you like chicken?" I thought this was weird at first, but I figured it to be a culture thing so I started calling her madre in return. "Thanks madre." "Yes madre, I love chicken!"

Then, she told me that Dayana and Maikel were coming to eat dinner with us at 9:30. When they showed up, I introduced myself with, "Encantado. Me nombre es Cooper." Then Julia jumped in and said, "No, No, his Spanish is not that great yet... His name is Davy." I looked at her weird, and then explained that my name was Cooper. She laughed and told me she had been calling me "Davy" since I came to the house because she thought that was my name, and I explained to her that I thought she was calling me "baby." A minor mix-up, but an important one none the less. I don´t know where she came up with the name Davy, and I don´t know how I never picked up on her pronunciation of "baby," but after telling many of my friends at La Fundacion the story I have adopted a new nickname here in Spain.

See You On the Streets,

Davy

In the Thick of Things.

Hey baby faces! This post might seem a bit scatter-brained due to the lack of computer access, but I expect you to get the gist of things.

As soon as I stepped off the plane in Madrid I could feel my eyes open wide as if they were trying to climb out of the sockets and explore for themselves. My legs felt weak at first step, due to the 6 1\2 hour flight from Philadelphia to Madrid and the inconsiderate female passenger in front of me who clearly had something out for my kneecaps, but they everntually re-gained their composure as I proceeded to customs. Customs was different than I expected. With all of the terror in the world today, I thought the over-gelled Spanish Police would pin my lengthy self against the wall and search every crevass imaginable. Fortunately, I slipped through customs like a fish in your hand and took my newly stamped Spanish visa to the baggage claim.

I thought my bright blue bag was one-of-a-kind due to its unconventional color. However, I was wrong. It seemed as though every person on flight 3461 decided on a bright blue bag for their venture to Spain. I stuffed my hands in my pockets and watched the lonely bags pass one by one as they sat on the carousal waiting to be picked like the chubby kid at recess (Charlie Roherty). Eventually, I said, "hell with it," and started flipping over blue bags like they were dead bodies on a battle field until I eventually found mine.

My new friend Isaac and I then headed, in what seemed like slow motion, to the door that led outside of the airport. Unfortunately, I let my imagination get the best of me as we walked. All of a sudden I found myself taking the form of fictonal literary characters. The first was Lemuel Gulliver from Johnathan Swift´s Gulliver´s Travels, in which I opened the airport door and found myself to be a giant, almost 30 times the size of the Spaniards. They all pointed in fear as I left my addidas shoeprint on the tops of local cafes and cervecerias (these keyboards are different so you will have to excuse my lack of an accento on letters). Next, I took the form of Lenny from Steinbeck´s Of Mice and Men, and everything I touched died. Dramatic? Perhaps, but you must always prepare for the worst (anyways that is what Isaac´s Traveler´s Guide told me).

Turns out, I had my imagination working for nothing. Beyond the doors were a long line of white taxi´s, and one dark-haired japanese woman frantically waving a sign that read, "La Fundacion de Jose Ortega." Isaac looked at me and wiped his brow because we both envisioned a more strenuous experience. His was probably more realistic than mine. Yuki, the woman with the sign and the coordinator of the Fundacion, herded us over (biblical style) to the other students that were huddled together.

I introduced myself in English to a couple of people in the group because I wasn´t ready to fully commit myself to the new language. All of the students were very nice, and most of them were from Minnesota. However, there were a couple of students from the University of Colorado, the University of Nebraska, and the University of Notre Dame.

Before we departed on the hour bus ride from the Madrid airport to Toledo, I made a quick $-€ exchange. It was defeating to see first hand how little the dollar gets you these days. Thanks corporate scum! Even my pockets were offended as I walked to the bus with a whopping €68 from my $100.

The bus ride over was extremely mellow because most of the students were jet-legged from the seven hour time change. However, one group of students directly in front of me were wide awake, and surprisingly jovial given the circumstances. There were four of them, and they were bundled up from head to toe in black. black hair. black sunglasses. black clothing. I wanted to ask if they knew Keanu Reeves, but I thought it was best to leave it in my brain. They were playing with a deck of cards that I had never seen before, and they were speaking Spanish faster than I had ever heard it. I could only make out a couple of words at a time, until eventually they turned to me, "Quieres jugar?" I told them I didn't know the game so they explained it to me (slowly). Before I knew it, I was deep into a game of "brisca," which turned out to be the Spanish equivalent of Euchre, but with a couple of different rules. My new brisca friends hailed from Puerto Rico, and they were coming to study in Spain just like me. However, their native language is Spanish so I'm sure they felt more comfortable than me.




From what I've seen so far, the puerto ricans are some of the nicest people I have ever met. It is amazing that all of them are also fluent in English. However, It makes me feel a bit incompetent.

They have turned out to be my good friends and my walking Spanish-English dictionaries!

I'm Here (for you!),

Coop



p.s. sorry this end was a bit rushed, but I have my first class soon! More about my host mom, giraffes, and Davy later. All different stories, all rediculous.


NOS VEMOS.