After The Party It's The After Party

SO, after a lenghty, but a quite entertaining train ride we were in Madrid. For those of you, who have never been to the central railway station in Madrid, IT'S GARGANTUAN! It looks more like an airport than a train station. I tried to take a picture, but I couldn't fit it in a single shot from any angle, sorry about that. But it has dozens of stores, about a thousand platforms and at least one hotel. So imagine it, please. Now imagine me, looking like a moron with my camera twirling around like a fart in leather pants. But I did find a cool mailbox, so it was totally worth it.



From the station we took a taxi to Martina's house. She's Kataya's curling friend, who lives on the outskirts of Madrid. Now, when I say outskirts I don't mean some cheap suburb. I'm talking about La Moraleja, a restricted community where everyone has huge yards, high fences, pools, the works. (Westmount in MTL, Westend in Finland) Finally we arrive at the house, which is a few hundred meters from the Beckhams', by the way. Kataya had luckily given me a heads-up on where we were going, so I managed to keep my cool. Apparently I attract lairs, because the house was one, too. (Uni of Vigo the previous one)



From the moment the door opened, someone pressed fast forward.

Hiimmartinanicetomeetyou.
Thisismymomhelloimwies.
Kissesoncheeks.
Thisismartinasfriendlauratheyknowfromwaybackencantadomorekisses. Donttalktothedoginababyvoiceitwillgetexcitedandpeeeverywhere. Thisislaurasgrandmotherlauraistryingonadressforherhenpartyshes
gettingmarriedmorekissesoncheeks.
Holaimmartinasfatherpleasehavesomethingtodrinkhowwas
thetrainorwasitbushandshake.
(exhale)



In the first 35 seconds in that house I heard four languages. Martina speaking Dutch to her parents, the grandma speaking English, Martina's parents speaking English AND Spanish to us, and myself asking Katja in Finnish if she possibly knew what the hell was going on. She didn't.

We were shown to our room which was in the north-wing of the casa (could be any direction really, but you get the point), and I had to sit down. After a couple of deep breaths I got rid of my North Carolina Tar Heels cap (not the right crowd, really), put on several extra layers of deodorant, chewed frantically on some gum for 30 seconds and changed my shirt to one that doesn't say:



After this brief time-out (called "Jamo" in Finnish, after a legendary hockey goalie) I was ready to mingle. This is what I found out: Martina's family was originally from Holland (ishn't it veird?), but they had lived for years in the States, before moving to Madrid. Laura was getting married and her Grandma came to visit Martina's parents, whom she had known for a long time, whilst the girls where searching for a suitable outfit. And the wiener-dog called Inka would, in fact, take a wee-wee all over the place if it got too excited. This was interesting, because she already looked like she was trying to jump, and run to 3 different directions at once. In my opinion her getting any more excited would definitely involve some kind of a spontaneous combustion, turnig the wiener-dog into a hotdog wiener. (My God, think of the irony!)

AAANNYWAY, I got the tour of the house and the yard, that were both impressive, to say the least (Kataya had stayed there several times earlier). In time the situation cooled down and we got to, once again, tell our story. (Where do we know each other from, study in Vigo, why, so do you speak Spanish, really, seafood's really good etc.) Soon it was time to start planning the evening. Kataya complained that she was kind of tired from teh train ride, but as The Good Book says in Isaiah, 57 "No rest for the wicked", and boy, has it ever been so true.

11 pm:
We left the house. With Martina as our driver we headed to a local mall to get some dinner.

00.30 am:
We start towards Boss, a local college-type bar. Martina tells us she used to work there, and thus knows the bartender -> cheap drinks. I drink mine as well as the next guy, all the while trying to watch some NBA All-Star Weekend coverage on the wall-mounted flat-screen, and pay attention to the girls' stories. Time passes and we decide to go for seconds, since the drinks at the night clubs are VERY expensive. Unfortunately, either my beard is a dude-magnet or the guy thought I was looking at him, when I was actually looking over his shoulder; but the young man next to me turned to me and proceeded to introduce himself and ask how I was doing on this lovely night. Seeing this, the girls quickly decided to piss in my cereal, so to speak, and went to the bathroom, leaving me to be hit on. Ah. After some awkward conversation and a few polite smiles I turned around and was forced to take a long sip from my 50-50 drink. Luckily we were going to leave soon, so I didn't have time to unintentionally charm any more men.

2.57 am:
We arrived in front of a classy-looking club called Archy (possibly a misspelling of "artsy"). The valet took care of the car and parked it next to the other regular cars. The curb in the immediate proximity of the entrance was decorated with mostly Porsches, with an Audi A6-A8 here and there. The cue was as long as this story, but luckily we had a man inside. Josito, as the girls called him, was a man of 29, that turned out to be a synonym for Madrid's night/morning life. He talked to the bouncers and only I had to pay to get in (I'm not hot enough). The place was packed. The music was crap, but everyone knew the lyrics. Apparently they were some evergreen Spanish pop-rock classics, but they sounded like bad remixes of Nick Kershaw- songs. After we finally found seats a man came over. He offered me a half-full bottle of Bombay Sapphire on ice, with some glasses, tonic and lemon slices. I leaned in and said "WHAT?". He then quickly explained that his party was leaving and I looked like a nice guy that could use a drink. (I almost took a taxi to the nearest 24h barbershop to get a shave, but decided instead to blend back into the crowd and play it cool.) I thanked the man, as he left with his friends, and turned to my party who was staring at me, looking very confused.

4.40 am:
Josito says it's time to move on to the next club, and we start towards a place called Pacha. This one has a slightly upgraded entrance, boasting a silver Maserati and a true old school classic, a pitch black Ferrari Testarossa. We go in, and this time even I don't have to pay. The dance floor is so packed that no-one has any room to actually dance, so people just sort of flow around in a single mass. Drinks here are 10 euros a pop, so I concentrate on observing the surroundings in order to let You, dear reader, grasp some of the atmosphere that I experienced. The music was mostly shit to be honest. I was kind of looking forward to some groovy house or something, since it was supposed to be a really hip club, but no. Crappy techno with a couple of old pop/trance hits. They weren't even so old, that they would have been good in a funny way (so uncool it's cool), they were just...well..poo. Kataya and I ventured upstairs with hopes of finding some other kind of music, which we did. But after two good songs they closed the upstairs, to our disappointment. It was 5.30. We rejoined the others next to the dance floor only to find out that it was time to leave. Finally, I thought. Thank goodness I had foreseen something like this, and just had a few drinks. But instead of going home it was vital, apparently, to go to an after-hours club, that opened at 6. Since I didn't really have a say in anything, I followed reluctantly. I guess the people who were hammered had a good time there, but I wasn't exactly thrilled, being really tired and having paid a 20 to get in. Girls, as the custom is, paid diddly squat. The DJ was obviously a schizophrenic, playing whatever he happened to set his hand on, including a definite highlight "Freestyler" by the Finnish Bombfunk MC's.

8.15 am:
The J-Man blows the whistle. Enough is enough. Evidently most of the people there were there just so that they could tell people that they partied until 9am or 12am or the next Tuesday, or where too drunk to find their way home. I grabbed the nodding Kataya from the wall and told the rest that WE though it might be about time to hit the old dusty road. They concurred, so I didn't have to open a can of whoop-ass. After some maneuvers with the car we were home at around 8.47am. Josito wanted to cook breakfast. I folded.

8.49,23:
I'm asleep.

8.49,25:
My head hits the pillow.

In retrospect, a very interesting night, a lot of new experiences, but a bit forced towards the end. Even Kataya had to confess, that although the free (obviously) booze helped, she had had a lot more fun the previous times in smaller, salsa-type clubs. So next time we'll know better.

Sunday came and went. Since we woke up at around 5pm and everything was closed anyway, we rented a movie (Office Space, a true classic) and ate dangerous amounts of Ben&Jerry ice cream, a rare treat for us "Skandies". Although I bet they have that stuff in Sweden, the bastards.

On Monday we walked around Old Madrid, which was awesome, even if the weather wasn't the best possible. Madrid has, hands down, the coolest main post office that I have ever seen, judge for yourselves.



Also found a hysterical bobble-head angel in a Pope-store (capes, hats and everything). I'm still not over this one.


Later some very controlled shopping and some tapas at a very idyllic restaurant. The evening was capped off by some seriously delicious Mojitos at a small club/bar, together with some salsa and reggaeton. Home at 2am. Much better.

On Tuesday, we enjoyed some frozen ice-strawberry-shake-shiznits, that resulted in serious brain-freeze.



Later we went to check out the Thyssen-Bornemisza art museum. In a nutshell it was: generally very solid, partly a bit boring, but with moments of brilliance. Favourite pieces by Estes, Church, Andrews and Lindner. El Greco was representing the home turf quite nicely as well. Saw Bayern München in front of the Palace Hotel

, and had some melted cheese at a Mexican place. And no, it was not a fondue, just a huge lump of cheese.. Go figure.



Back in Vigo, after a comfortable 45-minute flight, we decided that it might just be worth the extra 12 euros to travel by air as much as possible. However, as You might agree, I think the train ride was definitely a worthy experience. Kataya doesn't concur.

Next time: TOP 4 Nastiest Things

The Train Ride: a Play by The J-Man

Scene I "The Idea"

It's a typical Galician apartment, two girls are just..hanging out. A handsome man enters.

J:"So Ella (Big-headed Finn), any plans for the weekend?"
E:"Well, actually I'm going to Leon, I have a friend who studies there."
J:"Really? That's nice."
E:"I think so too. So, what about you guys?"
J:"No plans really, at least not yet."
E:"Oh, OK."
K:"Hey, how 'bout we go to Madrid?"
J:"Let's DO IT!!" (Voice of Joe from Family Guy)

Girl exits.

Scene II "The Girl"

It's morning the next day, about 8.30 am. J and K are sitting on a train, looking slightly puzzled, but excited.

J:"I can't believe we're actually on a train to Madrid. This is WHACK!" (much like PlayStation)
K laughs.
K:"Yep, I just called Martina, she said we could stay at her place, so why not?"
J:"Outstanding!"
J listening to music, K rolling around in her seat, trying desperately to sleep.
A woman enters the train with a little girl.
K:"AWWW, so cuuuute!!" (pronounced khjuut)

Five minutes later the little girl starts asking random things from a gentleman in front of her.
The mother looks bored, not really paying attention.

Girl:"Mom, you're boring, I'm gonna go play with the man."
Mom:"No, you're not, sit down."

Girl does the lower-lip-thing that kids do and mopes.
Two minutes later she gets tired of moping and starts to bother the man again.

Girl:"How come you got earphones and I don't?"
Man:"Because I'm trying to watch a movie."
Girl:"Oh yeah? What's it about?"
Man:"It's about some robbers doing a heist in Venice."
Girl:"Are you a robber?"
Man:"No."
Girl:"Why not?"
Man:"Well, I like my current job and I wouldn't like to go to jail."
Girl:"You're funny."
Man:"Thank you."
Girl:"Can you give your earphones?"
Man:"I think you have a pair in the seat pocket in front of you."
Girl:"Yours are nicer."
Man:"All right, here you go." (hands out earphones to girl and takes a new pair from the empty seat next to him)

Time passes. Girl tries to squeeze herself through the gap between the window and the seat in front of her, being more and more annoying/funny. K and J stare in growing disbelief as the mother acts like she doesn't notice anything. Tension rises. The girl sticks her fingers into the man's ears from behind and wiggles them around, laughing hysterically. K and J take cover, predicting an explosion and, possibly, a double homicide. Against all odds, the man laughs and frees himself by tickling.

Follows a montage, in which K laughs at times at the girl, at times whines about the 9-hour train trip to J. Meanwhile, the man whips out some chocolate for the mom from his man-bag, some crayons! for the girl and proceeds to assist her in drawing a colorful picture, that he then ties up into a neat roll with what looks like a twig and some horse-hair, that he pulls out of nowhere, all the while amusing the girl with some conversation.

K:"What an adorable man!" (man continues to enact chapters from the book "Being the perfect man/dad" by...someone)
J:"Seriously, if that woman isn't going to propose, I will. Or I'll hire him to be my dad on my road trip."

As the train approaches their station, the woman and the girl gather their things to get off. As the train comes to a screeching halt, the girl falls flat on the corridor like a domino piece.

K:"Aww, poor thing."
J trying desperately not to burst into an uncontrollable laughter.

Girl:"No me gusta este tren!" ("This train sucks!")

K and J crack up completely, joined by the mother who escorts the girl out of the train.

Scene III "Before sunrise"

K and J gaze at the changing views, pointing out beautiful trees, hills and rocks to each other, basically acting out the 1995 hit movie starring Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy, only with no romance and an uglier beard.

K:" Would you look at those mountains!"
J:"Beautiful. Except I don't think they qualify as mountains, they're not steep enough."
K:"Fine, hills."
J:"I think they're more like rolling plains. Yes, definitely rolling plains."
K:"You're such an ass!"
J:"I know, it's what I do best.."

Slowly the countryside turns into suburbia and then into a throbbing (that's right, I said "throbbing") metropolis, as the train slows down. K and J step down to the platform.

K:"FINALLY!!"
J:"And to think we could have paid 12 euros more to make this trip on a 50-minute flight. We sure saved some money."

K:"AAAAAAARRRGGGHH!!!!"

K chases J into the sunset.

FIN.

PLAY BALL!!

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the epic battle between mankind and and King Alcohol!!

The reigning champion has held his title for as long as he has existed, now holding a compelling professional record of 6,3 billion wins, 0 losses, and 1,2 billion KO's. In the terms of today's sport, his batting average is around .998 and a whopping 1,2 billion career homeruns. This might scare most challengers, but today a feisty group of young academics is willing to step up to the plate and try to bring down the hitherto indisputable champion.

And now, let's have a look at the rosters. Home team today, Alcohol, with his basic line-up: as the pitcher, Tequila; first base, 1906, a local strong beer; and as the short stop, mojito, a seemingly docile, but deceptive drink.

Next, the visitors, a 3-person team from the icy plains of Finland. As captain, The J-man, a relentless fighter who rarely knows the meaning of "OK fine, but these are the last ones!". He was recently transferred from his long-time home team of HGC (Horrible Guys Club), where he fought alongside some living legends such as Mo "Vamos" Pete and F'Baian "The Dream Boyfriend".


On first, Kataya, an international talent who has played for several different franchises in her past, such as the infamous MBTS (Madrid Body Tequila Society). On right field, a rookie, who actually joined the team but 7 hours before game-time, Big-E.



In a pregame interview Big-E revealed that she had actually scouted the stadium earlier, in order to maybe spot some weaknesses in the opponent's outfield. The J-Man and Kataya arrived at the stadium in a rather original Reggaeton-Cab. This cologne-marinated shaggin' wagon, with it's Rick Fox-look-a-like chauffeur, were definitely not modest about the amount of decibels they produced. As the J-Man, trying desperately to make conversation and thus reduce the blasting bass-line below the 140 db threshold remarked casually that this was the song where the woman needs more petrol (DAME MAS GASOLIIIINAAA!!), instead of turning down the volume, the driver flipped open the LCD TV-screen!!! between the front seats, revealing the music video of the very song, and boosted the sub-woofer...

Once at the stadium, the Finnish team retires to their dugout to come up with a tactic. Nice and easy wins 2-1. The umpire blows into his whistle: LETS PLAY BALL!!

Trying to get a general feel of the enemy, the challengers go for a 1906, a Coronita, and a pink girly cocktail. Whilst taking his first sip, the Captain and pitcher of the team comes to the realization that he has, ipso facto, not eaten anything after a salad at lunch. STRIKE ONE!!

After two innings The J-Man decides that it's time to change strategy. So many attempts to beat the champion have ended in too slow drinking, and the girls were definitely not going to be able to beat Big-Al in his own game. The J-Man opts for an all-out offense and, without telling his teammates, orders the first round of tequilas.


After the initial shock and some mild resistance The J-Man's leadership is enough to bring the rest of the team aboard. Having finished the 3rd inning with some strong batting, the Finns proceed to the outfield.

The next few hitters are somehow all called "Tequila", but the outfield stays strong. The J-man keeps calling out for more hitters in a feeling of invulnerability, keeping the rest of the team in the game by leading by example.


Then, in inning 6 or 9 both of the girls suddenly end up at second base. After a moment of cheering The J-Man realizes to his dismay that this actually qualifies as playing for the other team.. STRIKE TWO!!


A couple of innings later the score is tied. The young Finns are fatigued, but the stadium is out of shot-glasses, both teams are looking to deliver the final blow. Trying to psyche out the home team the Finnish captain moves to taunt the pitcher: "Hombre, no hay mas copas? hahahhahahha!!!" To his disappointment the home team replies by whipping out bigger glasses and pouring doubles. The girls are ready to throw in the towel. The J-Man however, hearing a crescendo of the song "Sirius" by Alan Parsons Project in his head, decides to knock the last one out of the ball park. As a desperation move, he points out to the left field, reaches for the last two glasses and downs them.
STRIKE THREE!!
As an attempt to kick them when they're down, the bartender tries to offer the visitors some more tequila, but it's no use. This game is over.

In a mixture of disappointment and disbelief, the Finns exit the stadium. Kataya suddenly remembers that nobody paid the referees, and returns to the stadium. Meanwhile, Big-E in a relatively bad oxygen succeeds in hailing a cab and retreats home to lick her wounds. As an act of self-punishment The J-Man pulls a fast one and starts walking home without telling anyone. 5 miles later he finds his teammate Kataya on their home street, trying to explain to a very eager stranger that she does not, SEERIOUSLY, want to move in with him. Unfortunately Kataya's communicative skills have deteriorated to a point where the words only come out in a very high pitched sighs, and in Finnish. Ever the gentleman I escort my comrade to our door, while dismissing the Spaniard by saying BZZZZZZ!!

---In a post-game interview on the next day The J-Man admits to perhaps having been on a slight power trip when trying to drink all the tequila in a Spanish bar, with a team of 3, of which two concentrated mostly on dancing after the 7th inning. He also added that he would like a sandwich, and will not drink any tequila for at least 48 hours.---

Strike ONE! (explicit content)

So I woke up this morning bright and early, had some cereal, brushed my teeth and headed to the bus stop on Plaza America. Katja and I got on the U1-bus going to the direction of Universidad. This was all fine and dandy, until..

The buses don't go very often so they are often packed, as was the case this morning. Hence we had to stand the 28 minute climb to the mountains, where the university/agent training centre is so conveniently located. As we came closer to this one roundabout, where the road leading to the campus area begins, we started seeing cars parked on both sides of the road. There were dozens, parked bumper to bumper, with no drivers in sight. The other students started looking around as well, all the while murmuring indistinctly. After about 300 metres of this Parked Car Boulevard we reached the roundabout which, too, was surrounded by cars in addition to the several police vehicles scattered around the general area in a haphazard, Spanish kind of way. The bus stopped, and the driver turned on the loudspeaker to address the thoroughly confused passengers. Of course in this case the word "loudspeaker" was a pure oxymoron, because the noise coming from them was neither speaking nor loud. Either way, what we managed to decipher from Mr. Bus Driver's abysmal enunciation was: "......closed...up there..shorter....walk...get out". Everyone got out and started to shuffle towards the beginning of the uphill road towards the campus area. At this point a group of people caught my eye. They were standing in a random formation (häröpallo), holding banners that said something very catchy in Gallego, a language so useless it's amazing.

(I mean it's kind of like Portuguese, a lot like Spanish, with just a hint of Euskara. They only speak it in Galicia and the very northern parts of Portugal, and even then mix it together with their own language. They could have just created a dialect for the area like the rest of the world: a unique, distinctive and yet understandable form of Spanish. BUT NOOO, WE WANT TO BE MORE SPECIAL THAN THAT! WE WANT A LOT OF X'S AND A LOT OF ACCENTS THROWN ABOUT THE SENTENCES IN A CASUAL AND ÜBER-ARTISTIC MANNER! SO WE'RE GONNA TAKE SPANISH AND CHANGE EVERY WORD OF IT JUST ENOUGH TO RENDER IT IMPOSSIBLE TO READ!)

Moving on.. Baffled by the symbols on the banners we approached some of our fellow students and asked what IN THE NAME OF ZEUS' BUTT-HOLE was going on. They proceeded to talk over each other, explaining that this was a strike organized by the university staff, and that no vehicles, not even school buses, would be let through. WELL. We asked if there would still be classes held today, to which their reply was a comforting: "Depends what faculty you belong to.."OUTSTANDING!! Of course we wanted to go to class, if there would be one. After all, we had come this far and the bus had already left. So we continued to climb to the first hill overlooking the campus are, in order to see where we were and where our faculty's building was. Kataya's extremely well-pronounced "!Joder!" (the f-word, obviously) soon informed me that the news was not good. The department of translation and philology was about 200 metres above us, vertically that is, and about 1,6 kms away on the other side of the valley. Of course by roads the distance was anywhere between 2,5 and 3,5 kms so, once again I shared Kataya's razor-sharp analysis of the situation. We weren't going to walk all the way there with Kataya in high heels and myself in an acute lack of motivation.

Walking back down, hoping to catch one of the empty buses going down to the city, we tried to extrapolate some more information on the strike from our peers. They told us that the strike would PROBABLY be over by tomorrow, and that the good news was: the cafeteria was already open. WO-HOO!! What the HELL are we going to do with an open cafeteria on the other side of a closed campus at a handy distance of 2 miles?? And so, only asking for a reason to slap one of the teachers forming the road-block (who seemed to be having the time of their lives), we stood by the roundabout for 37 minutes, until we finally caught a bus and got back to town. Oh, did I mention it was 7 degrees, windy and raining..

My question therefore is: WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH THESE PEOPLE? Is it so goddamn hard to inform someone about a strike on the second biggest university in Spain? The university has everyone's address, phone number, and e-mail. They could have posted something on the university's RIDICULOUSLY UNCLEAR AND SHITTY web-pages, leaked something to a radio station, a local newspaper or ANYONE REALLY!
Or maybe the exchange student coordinator, the language centre people, the dude at the philology department or the singing janitor, that we all spoke to last week, could have shed some information on this farce ("careful there, wicker..!"), so that people wouldn't have to travel an hour to the friggin' mountains, just to stand in the rain, looking like retards.

For your information, I wanted to come to this country to learn about the language, the people and the rich culture and to see the world, NOT TO BE PUSHED AROUND BY A BUNCH OF FUCKING NON-LANGUAGE-SPEAKING, BACKBONE-LACKING, DISORGANIZED, UNGRATEFUL, USELESS COMMIE-TWATS!!



You can quote me on that...

"It's My House and I Live Here - Es Mi Casa y Yo Vivo Aqui"

Here I am, in my new house, in my very own room, freezing my butt off.

Because the one thing missing in this house is warmth. Actually it's two things: the lack of any type of heating system and the aforementioned poor insulation. But I'll live, don't worry. This might sound stupid back home, since it's about -15 Celsius outside, but at least it's warm indoors. Here on the other hand, it's usually warmer outside. For instance, at this very moment it's about 13 degrees outside and roughly 12 in my room, which kinda blows, I might add. Of course I don't mind the coldness too much, being the hairy bastard I am, but I'll tell you, it complicates things when nothing dries, ever. I have to dry my sports stuff and my towel using an "estufa", a very peculiar kerosene-burning contraption. And because the lady who owns the place is as poor as the insulation (she makes 800 e a month, before taxes), she doesn't like it when we use the "estufa". She still hasn't realized that we could keep that thing burning day and night, without it affecting our budget in any way. Negotiations are under way. But enough about temperature, just wanted you to know the general atmosphere.

SO, here I am. Travesía Tomas Alonso 15, tercero piso (third floor). The postal code is 36206, Vigo, Spain, for those of you still believing in old fashion mail. From the outside the place
looks like it should have been torn down a long, long time ago, but the apartment itself isn't actually too bad.


My room has a bed, a window, a closet and a table. Pretty basic, really. Except for the fact that the mattress is so old and soft that it's closer to a hammock than a bed. I feel sorry for anyone who tries to perform any other kind of action than sleeping in a similar bed. I have practised turning around in it for 4 nights now, and my current record time for turning from my right side to my left side is 8,2 seconds. The reverse turn is still slightly slower because usually the cat scares the crap out of me as I'm turning, by staring at me from my night stand, thus bringing my pulse up to about 230 and costing me at least 1,6 seconds. There's also another cat in my room (on my night stand in the picture) but he's not a live cat. It's Jim, my stuffed transvestite cat-friend (he wears a dress).











Other than these rooms, there's another toilet, a living room, Mabel's room (Maria Isabel, our landlord, more about her later..), and a random room, which is probably going to be a home for all of you coming to visit. The location of the house, that you can see in the map of the previous link, is actually very nice. It's right next to Plaza do Eugenio Fadrique, who was apparently a famous blacksmith because his statue is made of iron an is holding a large hammer. There are various cafés, boutiques, a bus stop etc. surrounding it, and Plaza America (with a mall and more bus stops) is only about 500 metres (or 35 cubic litres) away. All in all, not too shabby for The J-Man..

Top 4 Silliest Spanish Words So Far

1. "Estufa"
n. The only source of heat around here.
2. "Esponjoso"
adj. Spongy. Used for example when
referring to a certain type of seafood
3. "Malbitcho"
n. Apparently a really mean bitch.
4. "Ronronear"
v. To purr. As in: El gato está ronroneando.

No Longer Homeless in Seattle

I'll tell you, finding a suitable apartment in Vigo, Galicia, turned out to be a lot harder than I initially thought. I thought that with my standards (some walls, a roof, a toilet, a possibility for an Internet connection and a location within 15 kms from the city and the university), it would be relatively easy to find a place. Boy was I wrong, AGAIN. Most of the places were straight up dumps. Now, it's important that you understand that I'm not actually very picky about where I live, but if the fridge and the washing machine (at least I think it was a washing machine) are OUTSIDE in a country where insulation, both in walls and in electric appliances, is a mostly a bad joke, that's where I draw the line. Moreover, if the landlord, when consulted on the possibility to get an Internet connection replies, "I don't know, it dependds, is it big?!" (Pues no sé, depende, es muy grande?), it's time to move on.

Above are a few examples of our options..

So, after having called all the numbers that the international student coordinator at the university gave us, on a scale from 2 to 7, we were mildly desperate. Either the places were full, lacking vital elements for living, or owned by vile racists (one place dismissed Polacs, Chechs, and Slovacs already in the contact information form). And so, three nights in a row we came back to our faboulous Hotel Nautico (heating works like clockwork, every day, from 7 pm to 11 pm only), only to find the same retarted Cuban (guy, not a cigar), who would stare at us for no reason and keep asking us if we were going to stay for a month. This was because in our anguish we had considered the option for taking the hotel room for a month while trying to find a place and asked the nut-case about lower prices for a longer stay. This was before we found out that his verbal output makes about as much sense as running head first into a wall.

In an unbelievable turn of events we decided, as a "hail mary" type of idea (for those of you who like american football, for the basketball lovers this would be considered "putting up a prayer"), to give an odd-seeming woman another call. She answered, we went to see it, and moved in the next morning. That day Kataya felt an irresistable urge to let out a high-pitched squeal of joy every half an hour or so, and I may have had joined in a couple of times, I'm not sure.

Either way, more on the pad next time, maybe even tomorrow when we hopefully get our wireless Internet installed. And here is your daily TOP 4!! (first one of those actually)

4 Things That Currently ROCK!!!

1. My Fjällräven jacket.

In these rather MOIST and still cool surroundings this water- and windproof bad boy seems to be the best investment since sliced bread. (shut up, it's a perfect metaphor)

2. Sportmania (cable channel)
3 NBA games a week plus the All-Star Game, Play-Offs etc.
(I'm laughing hysterically but you can't hear me...)

3. Cheap wine
I'm talking 1,60 e for a glass of some nice Rioja Crianza, that would cost four times that in Finland. In America they probably think he plays 2nd base for the Padres.

4. Empandillos
These hot, filled pastries come in dozens of different filling-combinations and cost absolutely fuck-all, pardon my French.

P.S. Thanks Nick, You're my first real fan!!

J.

Tour de Vigo

Since the beginning of school was still about a week away, and all we had to before that was to find an apartertent, we thought we'd walk around and try to get a general idea of the city. Obviously that went to hell. The very first morning we thought it would be a good idea to follow the coast line towards the beaches in the west. After about 45 minutes of walking along the sidewalk of a road that failed our hopes to be an idyllic seaside boulevard by, in effect, being a high-speed, heavy traffic, city bypass road we decided to find a café of some sort to ask for information and hopefully to have lunch. The fantastically untidy lunch restaurant/bistro/hole that we finally stumbled upon was definitely an experience. For a very affordable 5,50 e we got a macaroni soup ! of some kind, some bread and what can only be described as "pieces of marinated meat alongside a cold potato omelette", all topped off with a plethora of suggestive looks and remarks from a bunch of dirty (in all the meanings of the word) guys in overalls, mostly directed towards Kataya. We decided it was time to move on.

Having covered the Docks, we looked back and counted the women we had seen thus far. We got a total of one: the bistro/hole's owner's daughter who had apparently had a major miscommunication with her hairdresser, as an important contemporary Nottinghamese thinker would put it. She basically looked like Jaroslav Sakala. The jury came to the unanimous decision that the Docks were not going to become one of our hangout spots. Samil, the beach area, or one of them, was actually pretty damn sweet, as Kataya expresses below.

Even though the weather was not exactly hot, I was forced to walk around in just a T-shirt, because that's what you do on a beach. However, remembering the heart-warming comments of me being fat and hairy by some of my dear friends earlier, in Facebook, I donned my shirt again, thus avoiding pneumonia and getting away with just a sore throat. We also saw some old guys (with old...) playing basketball, but I decided not to join, because I had a sore throat, and, well, they were about as good as my mom.


On Friday we visited the university. Well, they call it "the university", when in reality it unquestionably is only a front for a top-secret, mountain training centre for secret agents or guerilla soldiers, for the following reasons:

1. The buidings are illogical, they have loads of corridors, tunnels, pathways, ungerground lairs!, and probably oodles of trap-doors. The buildings are also low, and far away from each other, for anti-bombing reasons.

2. It's streets cannot be found on googlemaps or the commuter traffic firm Vitrasa's web pages, plus it has a Photomat. (Obviously for fake passports and IDs)

3. It is located about 15 kms outside the city in the mountains, making it almost unreachable by bus or tanks. It has a very good view over the valley below, and most of the landscaping looks suspiciously like bunkers.

4. The track&field area only includes possibilities for running, pole jump, long jump and rugby, all vital for spies. (rugby for being able to push people away while running away from the enemy on any given narrow alley/street in any given Asian metropolis) WHERE THE HELL ARE THE FOOTBALL FIELDS?? IT'S SPAIN FOR GOD'S SAKE!!

Anyway, I'll keep you posted on that, although I might have to kill you later..

P.S. I stuffed 12 Haribo candies in my mouth simultaneously. My personal best.

D-Day

I made it! I am currently, actually, physically and finally in Vigo, Spain. Here's how it happened:

On Wednesday I took a cab from home to the airport, after finishing packing about 8 minutes before I had to leave. I told the cab driver that I was going to Spain. Being the sophisticated conversationalist that he is, he asked me if I was going for an "ass-vacation" (direct translation from finnish) I said no, actually I'm moving there. He was quiet for a while and then proceeded to tell me that at least it's going to "hot as hell" where I'm going, right? I was forced to tell him that Vigo is, in fact, one of the coolest (at least climate-wise) cities in Spain and that it also rains a lot there. After this the cab-driver had nothing, and we spent the remaining minutes by staring at the road and feeling mildly awkward.

Once at the airport, things went surpringly smoothly up to the point when I was supposed to board the plane. Because, for a reason unknown to me, half the population of Japan had simultaneously (pronounced saimultanaieiousli in Finnish) decided that it was impervious for them to fly to Madrid at once, preferably in a huge lump of cameras, badly dyed hair and sumimasens. Fortunately however, I was laughing my ass off listening to Dane Cook on my mp-3 player (NO, not an i-pod), while he (Dane) explained how he likes the girl to have a "good situation" "down there", so I didn't really mind the japaneesu. This was until one of them, midway to Madrid, decided to use my seat as a target to his hourly mawashigiri-kick practice. I tried to jump up, but 2 things happened that made me change my mind, 1: I realized that there was absolutely no way that, despite my uncanny vocab-skillz, I would be able to communicate to him that I didn't particularly care for his martial art moves, without beating him senseless that is, which would not have been cool. And 2: my seat belt was fastened, so instead of being able to stand up, I rocked the chair, dropped my book, and looked stupid. Later I wondered if I should have asked the elderly flight attendant to move me to an another seat, but I was too busy betting against myself on whether or not her bones would crumble and turn to dust before we land, so I dropped it.

In Madrid a lady, who was standing beside a very curious looking machine, asked me in Spanish if I would like for her to wrap my skis is plastic. Obviously I was not in possession of any kind of skis, whatsoever, so instead of saying "no thank you" I stared at her for about 10 seconds (bet it felt like 5 minutes to her) with a confused look on my face, and moved on. After 8 escalators, an intra-terminal metro (WHAT?), a bad sandwich, and a surprisingly uneventful flight, I was, to my amazement, in Vigo. Of course, my partner in crime Katja was also there, but she was less amazed. To get to the hotel, we took a cab whose driver, while giving us some random information about the area, ran a couple of red lights in a very casual manner, without even taking his hand off my shoulder. The hotel Husa Bahia de Vigo turned out to be slightly less than what the information on the internet said (shocking). According to them, it was a four star hotel, according to me, two and a half, but you know. Having checked in effortlessly we proceeded to the elevators that, we thought, would take us to the 12th floor where our room was. Unfortunately the button with the highest number on it was 9, so I thought:"that's not right". My next idea was to press 1 and 2, until I realized that there was no number 1 either. Well. We went for 9 and decided to play it by ear. The ninth floor was nice. The rooms were named after famous composers. (908: Sibelius, YEY!!) However, our room was nowhere to be found. After a careful recon I spotted a small staircase and headed up. The 10th floor had an elevator, which we happily took after dragging our luggage (weighing in at a respectable total of 73 kilos) up the rather narrow stairs. 12! We'll take it! But why the two sets of elevators? I'll tell you why: the first two go from the lobby to the 9th floor, and the second from a small corridor behind the reception area to floors B,3,10,11,12,13 etc. See the logic? Neither did we.

And so we slept like babies. The next morning we had a big (pretty good) breakfast, and headed out to the Docks, but that's another story...