It's late and I'm pensive...

Okay, so this isn't about Valencia, but it's 4:21 am and I'm feeling a little punchy. And a little...well, I'm feeling like it's 4:21 am. So I'll keep this short and leave you with an appropriately vague quote:

Lester: So, you're the one who's been sending me those articles from your school newspaper.
William: I've been doing some stuff for a local underground paper, too.
Lester: What, are you like the star of your school?
William: They hate me.
Lester: You'll meet them all again on their long journey to the middle. 

P.S. I'll award a postcard and a whole lotta good vibes (which, let's face it, are priceless) to the first person who correctly identifies the source of this quote.

Spanish toilets and John Travolta

(Got your attention with that little title, didn't I?)

Like a good little student, I read the University of Virginia's handbook before I came to Valencia, and I pored over the information in the "Culture Shock" packet I received from them as well. So I knew about some of the differences I would encounter, like meal times, nightlife, etc. And yes, those things are different, but the most surprising differences have been the little things -- things that no one thinks to mention when they are telling you about life in Spain. Take the sidewalks, for example. The other day while walking in the Centro, I noticed that the sidewalk seemed particularly smooth and even. And then I realized that I was walking on marble. Marble! You would never see that in the United States. Because as you all know, ugly grey cement is practically an American tradition. And not only is the sidewalk material in Spain generally better all round, but the care is incredible. The other day I saw someone mopping the sidewalk outside a café. I was so shocked, I almost ran into a lamp post. Seriously.

            There are other little things I’ve noticed, too. Milk comes in sealed cartons that don’t have to be refrigerated (until they’re opened), washing machines are tiny, and toilets use buttons on the top to flush them. It also amuses me that dance clubs are called discos, as I can’t help but picture a young, white suit-clad John Travolta boogying across a colorful, bottom-lit dance floor every time I hear the word. In fact, discos aren’t too much different than clubs in the U.S. Overpriced drinks and hormonal twenty-somethings are apparently a standard of dance clubs worldwide.

However, the music is a little different than what I expected. As with most bigger cities, it seems that one can find clubs with many different types of music here; pop, rock, and hip-hop are the genres I’ve come across so far. And house. Lots and lots of house. But one thing I never, ever expected to hear was a sudden transition to Bon Jovi’s “It’s My Life” in the middle of some bass-filled house music. Now, I can deal with grandiose sidewalks, different types of food, and even the presence of bidets in the bathrooms. But Jon Bon Jovi in a Spanish disco? That’s pushing it. Pass me another one of those $10 beers, please. 

So, it's been a while...

Hello all.

(And by "all" I mean the four to five people who decided to procrastinate on something important by checking out this blog. Or maybe that's just me...)

Anyway, I started this blog several years ago but sheepishly abandoned it after only a couple posts. I've never really enjoyed writing in journals, so I'm not sure what I was thinking when I jumped on the blogging bandwagon. However, I decided to resurrect this dusty ol' thing with the aim of killing a bunch of birds with one stone. That is, several people have asked me to describe my life here in Spain, and I think this might be a good way to keep more than one or two people informed at a time.

DISCLAIMER: Given my correspondence history (which is spotty, at best), I can't promise that I'll be great about keeping up with this. But I thought I'd give it a shot. So here we go...

I'm going to lead off with something funny I saw the other day. Last week I decided to wander around the centro for a bit to take some pictures. The centro is the oldest part of Valencia, so it's chock full of magnificent old buildings, tourist booths, and of course, shopping. I was looking forward to using my old camera, particularly because the weather was beautiful that day. However, I emerged from the metro station to find that the clouds had rolled in, which created an incredibly flat, gloomy lighting situation. Not wanting my trip to be a total waste of time, I took out my camera and half-heartedly snapped a few pictures of Valencia's municipal building.

Let's talk about this structure for a minute. Valencia is the name of the city, as well as the region. This is actually the "capitol" building of the entire Valencian region. So that kind of explains the size, but I mean...this is a municipal building, for crying out loud. Nothing is half-assed here. And as you can see, the Valencians threw a couple palm trees in there just to seal the deal. Show offs.

Anyway, I snapped a few pictures of the building and then sat on a bench in the plaza (called the Plaza de Ayuntamiento, for those of you keeping track) and people-watched for a while. I was just getting ready to go when I happened to look over my shoulder at the street behind me, and saw this little gem:

I posted this on Facebook last night with the caption, "I see you, Smart Car." At any rate, I got a kick out of it. Much more so than the beautiful municipal building, ironically. Leave it to me to get sidetracked by a type of car that we actually have in the U.S.

Friend: What was the coolest thing you saw while you were in Europe?
Me: Wow, let me think. Hmm...oh! Well, I saw a Smart Car hiding behind a tree.


Hey, so I was just about to go ahead and post this entry, and I happened to stumble across something interesting that I think I should note. Apparently someone else has a very similar title and description for their blog. I mean, ridiculously close. This other blog is titled "Oye rubia: Snippets of a life in the capital of España". Mine is "¡Oye, rubia!: Veritable snapshots of my life here in Valencia". Weird. At any rate, I wanted to let everyone know that I did not, in fact, steal this other girl's title. (Although I should probably contact her, since apparently we think the same way...)

Oh, and for those of you who are wondering what "¡Oye, rubia!" means, it's something that Spanish men will call out to get the attention of a blond woman. Or, apparently, Americanas with blond highlights, like me. So why did I name my blog after a form of Spanish cat-calling? Because I think that little phrase is indicative of just how much I stick out here in España. On one of my first days here, I wore my green peacoat, regular boot-cut jeans, and my running shoes. The shoes were a medical necessity after that marathon trek I took across the city (since dubbed BlisterFest 2011) that some of you heard about. At any rate, I don't think I could have stood out more if I'd tried. On that day, I embodied four things you almost never see in Valencia: short hair on a female, bright colors, jeans that flare more than .5 mm from one's ankle, and running shoes. I mine as well have stood on the corner wearing a red, white and blue sandwich board, and belted out the Star-Spangled Banner.

But I digress. Forgive me for being so abrupt about this, but I really need to wrap up this beast of an entry.

Stay classy, United States.

-me

Creeped Out

I wonder why creepy people exist. Seriously...is there some sort of hidden purpose that I'm completely clueless about? Why are they there? And do they all know that they give off such odd vibes? I don't think so. At least, I hope not. I hate to think that there are people in the world who knowingly dress, act, and speak in a way that gives other people goosebumps.

Some of it can't be helped, I suppose. Some men can't help looking like adults but having little boy voices. And some women have eye conditions that prohibit them from blinking in a normal manner. However, barring basic cultural differences and uncontrollable mental conditions, I think that most people should understand that staring is not okay, and walking back and forth past the end of the grocery aisle with a strange smile on their face makes women uncomfortable. I'm not sure I understand why it's so hard to grasp the idea of acceptable social interaction. Just don't stare, okay?

And maybe writing your number on the back of my taco bell receipt, isn't the best way to glean a date. And what does one expect from that? That I would excitedly whip my car around and get back in line at the drive through so that we could converse through the intercom? What?! It just doesn't make sense! The saddest part about that, though, is that such tactics have probably worked in the past.

I'm straying from my original train of thought. As much as horrible pick up lines don't measure up to my acceptable social standards, they aren't always creepy. Sometimes, but not always. (And by sometimes, I am referring to old men in the car next to you who make kissing faces and honk at you while you're sitting at a stoplight. Gross.)

No, the worst kind of social dunces are the creepy ones. I have to assume that they are blissfully unaware of how or why they are driving others away in staggering numbers. I want to assume that because the other option is that they know they are weird and have other motives. I want to assume that, because if people like that know exactly what they are doing, I need to start carrying a can of pepper spray to work. Not for the unseen oddballs lurking outside the hospital, but instead for the one who routinely tries to strike up conversations with me, more often than not, about my appearance. I made the mistake of wearing a skirt to work the other day, only to be rewarded with a long scan of my entire body, and a low, husky, "You look really great in that skirt." Yikes. It was all I could do to keep my gag reflex in check. The only thing missing was the wolf whistle, and my can of pepper spray.

Oddities

I think I'd like to write a book. Maybe not now, or two years from now, but some day. I file away so many details about people and things that I see, and I have so many ideas for characters tucked away in my brain. True-life fictional characters, if you will. For instance, there's a woman I work with who plods in night after night, dragging her rolling suitcase behind her (which is chock full of goodies, I'm sure). Most nights when I walk through the door to my department, I find her suitcase parked in the hallway across from the time card room. Every night it's the same. She walks in, leaves the suitcase in the hall, stamps her time card, then walks down a few rooms to retrieve her pager from the office. Then it's back out to the hall, where she picks up her rolling bag before making her way up to her unit via the elevator. I mention the elevator because I've never seen her use the stairs (it is, after all, only one short flight up). And maybe the elevator is just practical, seeing as how she carries a bulky bag, but still...the same thing, night after night. (Me, I live on the edge...stairs one night, elevator the next. Woo! I'm a traveling wild card.)  

At any rate, I've often wondered what kind of person she really is. Perhaps she leads a tumultuous life outside of work, but I don't think I'll ever find out. Because every time I pass her in the halls, she avoids eye contact until the very last minute, and then only allows a shy sideways glance if I've literally stared her down. Her greetings are only uttered in response to mine, and whenever I've attempted to converse, she's been polite but evasive. I don't get the sense that she has any sort of aversion to me, I just don't think she really talks to anyone. What exactly DOES she think about? Who does she live with, if anyone, and what does she do outside of work? Is there a family waiting for her when she gets home in the morning? What kinds of odds and ends does she carry around in that suitcase of hers? Books? Rubber chickens? Manilla envelopes? I wonder...

In other news, tonight one of the techs found an enormous beetle in one of the patient's rooms. I sincerely hope that the patient was fast asleep during the discovery/capture process, since this thing was gross and would have been a disturbing sight to awaken to. Shortly after I paged the housekeeper, he arrived and picked up said insect, but not before insisting that it couldn't possibly be any larger than some that he'd seen while living in Kentucky. Some of those were "bigger than his fist," apparently. I didn't really know how to respond to that comment. I was equally speechless when he mentioned that he'd take it home and feed it to his snake, although I did nod along with that remark, thinking to myself that he is exactly the type of person I would expect to own a snake. Not that I have anything against snake owners, of course -- Sammy used to be one. In fact, he still has a box of snake skins on a shelf in his old room at his parents' house. (Wowza.) But you know what kind of person I'm talking about. The kind that tells a stranger about his giant insect collection back in Kentucky. That kind.

Testing....*taps the microphone* Is this thing on?