Meat-Tastic

"So you don't eat meat?"
"Nope."
"No meat? Like, none?"
"None."
"But...no meat..."

This is the typical conversation that I have with Spaniards that I meet for the first time when we are eating tapas (small portions of food that bars serve with drinks). I am the first vegetarian most of these people have met before. There must be other vegetarians in Granada, but they are far and few between. In Madrid and Barcelona, the big cities, there are vegetarians, and a lot of vegetarian restaurants, but in Granada, I’m a freak of nature.

This is what my dreams are made of

The Spanish eat a lot of meat. Not in huge quantities, but with almost all their meals they are accustomed to having some sort of meat with the food (except for breakfast). So going out for tapas can be a bit challenging.

When you go to a tapas bar, you sit down and the bartender asks you what you want to drink. You tell him, and depending on the bar, one of two things will happen:

a) The bartender brings you your drinks and a tapa to share. This way, you don’t get to choose your tapa, it’s luck of the draw, whatever the bar is serving that day.

b) The bartender brings you your drinks and asks what kind of tapa you would like, and you choose from a menu.

Guess which system I prefer. When the first system happens, 90% of the time the tapa has meat in it, because most tapas have meat in them. I understand that it is just how the system works here, and it is really a very hospitable system, because it is like being in the home of a friend. You sit down, and without even asking, you are brought food, which really is very sweet. There’s just a bit of a culture clash when I receive food I can’t eat.

Here is a typical tapa for 3 people. These wouldn't happen to be soy burgers would they...

The Spanish are not picky eaters. In America, we are used to ordering food exactly the way we want it and with the ingredients we want. For example, Burger King’s motto is “Have it Your Way.” American restaurants pride themselves on giving their customer exactly what they ask for. For example, in a restaurant, I will ask the waiter to grill my food instead of fry it, substitute in a different kind of cheese, hold off on the spicy, and put the dressing on the side, all for one dish. The Spanish are less picky (although, compared to me, the majority of the inhabitants of planet Earth are less picky), and just eat whatever tapa is put in front of them. There are fewer details mentioned when ordering food in Spain. For instance, when ordering a hamburger, details like ketchup, mustard, kind of bread, types of vegetables, etc, are just not as important.

My boyfriend and I were visiting a nearby village once, and we went out for tapas in a bar. When we ordered drinks, we asked for a tapa without meat. I went to the bathroom, and when I returned there was a plate of ground beef in front of me. I thought it was a joke. But it wasn’t. I’ll never really understand how that happened, perhaps the bartender thought we were kidding and ACTUALLY wanted the meatiest tapa they could serve us, or confused “tapa without meat” with “tapa with meat.”

Andddddd here's your tapa

I wasn’t even a vegetarian until I studied abroad in Spain. I just wanted to add some excitement to bar and restaurant trips.

Would You Like Some Ice With Your Milk?

Milk, everyone's first nourishment. I am a big fan of milk, and drink about 2 cups a day of it. I'm a vegetarian, so milk is an important source of protein for me.

Milk is...different in Spain. It doesn't come in the refrigerated section. It comes in cartons, just hanging out on the shelf with the other non-refrigerated food.

No need to rush home to put the milk in the fridge in Spain

This was one of the things that stuck out to me when I first started living in Spain. In Chicago, when I see milk that has been out of the fridge for more than a few minutes, I start to lightly sweat and panic and immediately put it in the fridge. After all, doesn't milk curdle when it gets too warm?

The plastic gallons of milk from my childhood are a long lost memory now

Nope. I don't know what UHT is, but I think that's the reason this milk doesn't curdle. Better not to ask. Once opened, however, the milk needs to be stored in the fridge. Kind of like, uh, mayonnaise in the U.S. After a semester of study abroad and 2 more months living in Spain, milk still remains a mystery to me.

By the way, cheap wine comes in cartons here too

Some Like It Hot

I mentioned in an earlier post that Spanish girls don't really wear shorts without tights. The dress code here is a bit different from the US. Spaniards have a pretty excellent sense of style, especially the women. In late spring/summer, the young women in their teens and twenties always have a nice shirt on with either pants, a skirt, a dress, or occasionally shorts with tights.

These girls look nicer taking a casual stroll around Granada than I do at most formal events.

Even the women in their forties dress like adolescents. From behind they look like twenty-year-olds, and then they turn around and I realize that they are at least thirty-five years old.

For example.

Granadinos, i.e. people from Granada, are a durable race. It is an understatement to say that Granada is a hot city in the summer. It's basically Africa, as far as latitude is concerned. In the summer it is usually between 30 and 40 degrees Celsius, which is somewhere in the high 80s and 90s and even 100 degrees Fahrenheit. It isn't humid, which is always a plus, so at least it's not muggy beyond belief like Chicago. However, air conditioning is less popular here than one might hope, and it is almost always sunny, thus the sun does not hide behind clouds very much. I like to wear cool clothing, so I don't lapse into heat exhaustion too often. However, the residents of Granada don't even seem to notice to heat. They walk around in pants, PANTS, which is understandable for going to work I suppose, but on weekends too? Really? Why? I wore pants one day when I thought it was going to be cool, but it was not, it was not cool at all, and I thought my legs were going to melt off my body.

Case in point: this picture was taken on Saturday, June 19. These people are not going to work, they must just enjoy sweating out all their bodily fluids in one afternoon.

Chicagoans will put on shorts the first day that hits 60 degrees Fahrenheit (15 degrees Celsius) in March, whereas Granadinos seem perfectly content to continue on with pants until...well, ever?

My theory? The Granadinos are used to sun and warmth, and don't need to take advantage of being able to feel their limbs, because they don't have the excessively cold 8-month winters that Chicago has. Perhaps Chicagoans appreciate the sun more and therefore wear cool clothes the first chance they get, or maybe Granadinos really are just a stronger species who don't have sweat glands. Personally, I think it's a mixture of both.

Bureaucracy Much?

There may be some differences between Spain and the US, but they do share one giant thing in common: a large and inefficient bureaucracy.

I want a job, right? I decide to visit the friendly folks at the temporary job office to get some help in my search. I go the main street of Granada, Gran Vía de Colón, and find the office. However, there is a sign on the door saying that as of October (ahem, 8 months ago), the office has been on the opposite side of town. Oh ok, that’s cool, but why does Google Maps still think it’s on Gran Vía de Colón? I march across town and find the new location. The woman behind the desk kindly informs me that I need a social security number to look for jobs through the temporary job office. She advises that I go to the social security office, on Gran Vía de Colón, where I had just come from. So I do. I arrive at the social security office and am informed that I cannot get a social security number without a foreigner identification number. I inquire about the location of this foreigner identification office and am told to go to the police station, which is about 10 minutes away. No problem, I figure, I’ll go to the police station, then back to the social security office, then back to the temporary job office, and by the end of the day, I’ll have at least 5 jobs lined up for sure.

Wrong.

I wait an hour and a half at the police station for my number to be called. The place is packed with people, but they all look suspiciously Spanish, and all I can hear is Spanish. Where are all the foreigners wanting to get their identification numbers like me? Finally my number is called and I walk up to my assigned desk, even though the man at the desk is still helping the lady in front of me. He glances at me and asks for my passport and Spanish identification card. I inform him I’m not Spanish. He does a double-take at me and my heart sinks. I know then and there that I’d just wasted and hour and a half of my life.

See the pissed lady in the front of the line? That's me.

He told me that as of November of last year the rules had changed and foreigners can no longer go to the police station to get identification numbers. He took me outside the building and pointed to a piece of salmon computer paper taped haphazardly to the wall that mentions something about a foreigner office. I stared at it, then at the man, and back at the sign. I jotted down the information and was on my way, yet again. Luckily for me, my cell phone has Google Maps. I arrived at the location in about 25 minutes annnnnnd it was closed for lunch.* It was Friday so I decided to return Monday.

The Spanish just really like to make lines. These students are waiting in line to enter one of the university libraries so they can study for their final exams.

Fast forward to Monday. I go to the foreigner office, this time with my boyfriend for emotional support (and his language skills always come in handy). The foreigner office finally accepts my documents, however I need to return in an hour and a half so they can prepare the documents. Well that’s fine, no pasa nada as they say here in Granada. We go back an hour and a half later, and I am given a sheet that says I need to go to a bank and pay 10 Euros. We go to the bank, I pay my 10 Euros, they give me a document, and we return to the office. They stamp the document with my identification number and I am now an official foreigner in Spain.

Super, I think, now I can get a social security number. But of course, that would be far too easy. We go to the social security office to be told that I cannot have a social security number because I don’t have a job. Once I get a job, they will give me a social security number. Um, but, I need a social security number to GET a job at the temporary job office. My boyfriend talks quickly and incomprehensibly with the woman behind the desk, nods his head, and we leave. I stare at him. He explains that what the woman said goes completely against what the woman in the temporary job office said. So we go to the temporary job office to tell them what the social security office told us. The lady at the temporary job office clucks her mouth and says with no social security number, I can’t work. We explain the dilemma of my Catch-22 and she allows me to fill out an application with my foreigner identification number.

Not nearly enough.

I’m going to hope very hard that my sheet actually gets turned in somewhere that will pay attention to it, and will, of course, hire me in a somewhat efficient manner. But no promises. This is, after all, Spain, and being in a rush goes against everything they believe in.

So all in all, I truly do love Spain, and the Spanish people really are very nice (except that one that snapped at me in the social security office), but if they could communicate just a bit more between themselves that’d be really super.

*Sidenote: Spain loves its siesta (nap). Monday through Saturday, everything, EVERYthing, except large supermarkets, gas stations, and restaurants, closes from 2 pm until 5 pm, for lunch/siesta. Nothing is open on Sunday, except restaurants and gas stations. The Spanish eat their lunches around 2 or 3 pm and then pass out in a food coma until 5 pm, when they resume their daily tasks. Stores then typically stay open between 5 or 5:30 pm until 8 or 9 pm, and people have dinner between 9 pm and 11 pm, at which point I often have stomach cramps from hunger if I have not had my merienda (snack) at 6 or 7 pm.

When they close for lunch, they mean business.

Rrrrrubia!!

Yes, that is my name here in Spain. Blondie. It’s not that they don’t have blond women in Spain, because there are some, with skin that is even lighter than mine (yes, skin lighter than mine does exist). However, the vast majority of Spanish women have brown hair and brown eyes, they're called morenas, and that’s just how it is. Some dye their hair, and the Spaniards call them blondes from the bottle (i.e. dye kit).

I’ve never considered myself a true blonde, my hair is more light brown, if you ask me. However, in Spain, I’m blonde, no doubt about it. My Spanish friends laugh when I claim to have brown hair. They point out a Spanish girl with dark brown hair and say, “That’s brown hair.” Fine, I surrender, I’m blonde, and definitely not from the bottle.

= Blonde from the dye kit. Oh, I forgot to mention that hair dye comes in soup cans in Spain.

Thus, blondes are noticed. As are foreigners. Especially foreign girls. With blond hair. And blue eyes. I stick out like a sore thumb in this country, and I never expected that in Spain. After all, I am half Italian, I have some Mediterranean blood in me, surely I could pass for a Spanish girl?

Nope. You would think that as there is always a steady stream of foreigners in and out of Granada (foreigners love to study in Granada, it’s a relatively cheap part of Spain) that Spanish people would no longer feel the need to stare at the foreigners as they pass them on the sidewalk. Well, actually, they do. Not all Spanish people, but a good 50% of the 30 year-olds and under do. There are always a couple of obnoxious ones that will whistle or catcall. But most just stare. And it’s not just Spanish guys; Spanish girls stare too. Sometimes it’s due to my clothes, as I wear shorts in the summer (call me crazy, but it’s like a trillion degrees here). Spanish girls usually only wear shorts with tights, or skirts and dresses in the summer. I have always enjoyed my shorts sans tights and don’t plan on changing that anytime soon.

I don’t even have to open my mouth for people to know I’m definitely not Spanish. When I meet a friend or family member of my boyfriend, they immediately, without hesitation of any kind, ask where I’m from before they have a chance to hear my American accent. I was in a bar once, wearing a hat and a heavy winter coat, and a waiter behind me, who couldn’t even see my face, said, “Excuse me,” in English. It’s like they have a sixth sense for sniffing out foreigners.

Blonde or brunette? I guess I'll never really be sure.

But that doesn’t even begin to compare to the looks that my boyfriend and I get when we walk down the street holding hands. I am now accustomed to double takes and looks of utter confusion when we are out together. It’s not unusual to see a Spanish guy with a foreign girl in a bar or a club, and the Spanish young people and the foreigners love to spend time together in big groups, but they’re not usually seen as couples in the light of day. So I suppose we’re unusual.

But I’m not complaining; it's a nice change from the monotony of blending into the Chicagoan crowd. After all, I never minded a bit of extra attention. It got me a boyfriend, didn't it?

My Spanish Adventure Begins...Ish

College: check.

Everyone congratulated me for such an amazing achievement, because apparently 4 years of studying during the week and drinking on the weekends is quite a feat. I did study pretty hard for my grades, but for me, college was relatively easy. Now I've hit what I fear will be a substantially more challenging part of life - getting a job and living independently.

I moved to Spain to be with my oh-so-wonderful Spanish boyfriend, but it was also quite convenient that I want to teach English to Spanish-speakers, so making the move was an easy decision.

However, getting a job has not been quite as easy as I might have hoped. Spain is notorious for its high unemployment rate, and the recession pushed the rate to 19% in December of 2009. Surely a job will come around, but as of now, I'm unemployed but quite content to enjoy the Spanish summer leisurely. And of course blog in the meantime. It's a good way to fill my time and keep my friends and family updated on my life, and hopefully attract a few other readers along the way. I have noticed a plethora of fun little differences between Spain and the US, which I will describe in detail in the posts that follow.