LLWorldTour

I celebrated my American Thanksgiving Holiday in Sevilla, Spain. I was lucky enough to be invited by a friend (an Australian friend, no less), Kristy, to the traditional American feast at where else? An Irish Pub, of course. I have found that these are the unofficial meeting spots of expats all over the world. And there seems to be an Irish Pub in just about every city and small town I have visited. Since moving to Sevilla to be with her Spanish boyfriend, Kristy has fallen into a group of American girls who also live there. They call themselves “the Americanitas, and one odd Aussie.” Catchy, isn’t it?

There were about twelve of us on a back heated patio of the Irish bar that was advertising a special scrumptious ‘Thanksgiving’ feast for 20 Euros—not very cheap for what they gave us, but it was worth it to me to be meeting new people and spending the holiday laughing and socializing.

Okay, I’ll admit the food they served looked more like airplane food or the ‘fine cuisine’ we got back in the day under the fluorescent lights of the high school cafeteria. The stuffing and mashed potatoes looked dry and were perfectly round ball shapes probably scooped out of some huge prison-like cooking vessel with an ice cream scooper. But looks can be deceiving, because it actually tasted quite good. And, believe me, it wasn’t because I was missing ‘American food.’ In fact, that brings me to my next point actually. What really is American food? Recently, a Spanish friend asked me to make him some traditional American dishes. He wanted to know, ‘what is American food?’ It took me mere seconds to answer, ‘Mexican, Chinese, Sushi, Indian, Thai, Italian (really what is more American—than pizza?!), Greek, Middle Eastern, Ethiopian, Polish, on and on.’

He was like ‘No, I mean real American food?’

Unfortunately, around the world, for those who haven’t stepped onto our fair shores, many assume we are all chowing down at the ‘Golden Arches’ (McDs) or KFC and eating hamburgers and hot dogs ‘til we explode. Now, for some, I guess there is some truth to this. But, I would say, living in Chicago, I have food from all over the world right out my front door. I guess it’s just like the stereotypes Americans have about some foreign cultures. Well, don’t feel bad ‘my fellow Americans’ because there are many, many negative stereotypes floating around the world about America and Americans especially amongst people who have never traveled to the US, but feel they have because they have seen “Cops” reruns or movies like “Dumb and Dumber” and “Hey Dude, Where’s My Car?” (cinematic excellence I’m sure…but this American hasn’t seen either of these Oscar-worthy films).

“Okay, fine, but what did you eat growing up?”

Well, that was easy—like most people coming from the Northeast—Pizza and Chinese food.

Still not sounding very ‘American’ to him he replied, “Okay, but what foods did your parents or grandparents cook at home?”

Okay. Okay. We had our fair share of meatloaf, chicken with rice, and the occasional spaghetti with meatballs (still sort of Italian I guess—although, I’m sure the Italians would scoff at this 1970s American dish or some horribly lame can of ‘Chef Boyardee,’ a chemical-laden packet of ‘Hamburger Helper,’ or my personal childhood fav: a tasty, comforting box of completely processed, bright yellow Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.) Mmmmmm-mmmm. My mom would always add some onions and an extra slice of plastic-wrapped canary yellow Kraft ‘cheese-food’ for that just-right, gourmet touch. But for many, actually, having their grandma’s cooking, was even more ethnic since the grandparents were often literally just ‘off the boat,’ from some far off land. So what is my point? What is American cooking? I guess I can consult the master chef’s in America: Chicago’s Charlie Trotter and Grant Achatz, NYC’s Mario Batale (before his Food Network fame) and Alfred Portale (Gotham Bar & Grill), and Thomas Keller of the French Laundry who all use a lot of seasonal locally grown and farmed ingredients in their internationally influenced masterpiece fish, meat, and poultry dishes. But I think it is indisputable that American cooking has been influenced by the millions and millions of immigrants that started it all and that now call America home. Buen Provecho!

I spent the last few weeks making my way down around Southern Spain into the Andalucía region—an area that is “Spain” intensified and is said to be the most ‘undiluted’ heart of the country. It is also the original home of tapas, brutal bull fighting, and passionate flamenco dancing. I started in charming Granada which is home to the magical and awe-inspiring former Muslim Palace of Alhambra. I spent a few lazy days soaking up the Mediterranean rays in the ‘tranquilo’ tiny white-washed Costa del Sol town of Nerja. And then spent a few more ‘days doing nothing’ in Cadiz just west of the ‘rock of Gibraltar’ and on the beaches of the Atlantic Ocean. I can’t believe I’ve already reached the shores of the Atlantic. I gazed across toward America blew a kiss and continued to…do nothing. So, keeping with this relaxed theme…I therefore did not write anything (well except this paragraph). So instead, you can also relax and ‘just look at the pictures.’

PS-I’m heading to London for Christmas and New Years. Does anyone know ANYONE I can meet there? Thanks.

So, I was really loving this whole ‘couch surfing’ experience. After I returned to Madrid after my week at “English Camp” I ended up staying at my new friend Alex’s place for a few days. He lived about thirty minutes out of downtown Madrid at the last metro stop. It was in a quieter residential neighborhood pretty far from the hustle of downtown and a bit ‘out of the way’, but it was great. I had my own room and I ended up even having the whole place to myself because Alex went away for the weekend with some friends and he trusted me and just left me the keys. Well, I thought he left me the keys. He left me a spare set that we tested on all doors to his apartment–there is the exterior building door, an interior common door and then finally his apartment door. The problem was the outside door key was not a good copy and therefore it was hard to open. So, being the gentleman he is, Alex switched the key with his master key so I wouldn’t have any problems—or so we thought.

The next day I spent out walking around Madrid didn’t return until about 11pm. This is when I realized, much to my dismay, that now I had two keys for the outside building door and NO key for his apartment door. You see, these keys look very similar…so similar in fact, that when Alex switched the keys (which was supposed to make my life easier) he accidentally gave me two of the same key. So now he had the same two keys for his apartment door and I had the same two keys for the external building door. After trying, in vain, to jam the key in his lock (isn’t it usually the guy trying to do this??), I tried to stay calm and figure out my options. My first option was to just try the key again one more time—maybe somehow I was simply a moron and forgot how to work a key? Nope. It was the wrong key. In this situation, I would have loved to be the moron. Alex was three hours south of here partying with his friends for Halloween. BUT, his parents lived a ten minute walk away…and luckily he had shown me their apartment just two days earlier. They must have a spare key. Did I pay attention when we went there—of course not—Alex was with me. But somehow I had to remember where it was and I knew their last name so hopefully I could ring their apartment and in my best Spanish explain to them through the intercom that I was not a mass murderer or vagabond looking for food…just ‘una amiga de sus hijo.’

So I set out toward their place. All the way there, I was trying to calm myself down and telling myself not to worry because they would be there, just sitting there missing their son and holding tightly onto his spare keys. I also practiced over and over how to explain my predicament in Spanish—I wasn’t too up on the ‘locked out’ vocabulary. But when I got to what I thought was their building, I discovered there were about four different entrances AND the buzzer only had apartment numbers–no names. I was doomed. Okay, stay calm Lisa. Don’t freak out yet. I was starting to panic. I looked through the glass doors to the mailboxes and could make out some last names, but only the people that wrote with markers…the rest were too far and too hard to see. And, yes, of course, there were several Rodriguezes. This is not good. I can’t ring all these people who probably speak no English. Okay, don’t panic. I knew they lived on a higher floor because when we were there, we had ridden the elevator. But that’s all I could remember. I decided to go around the building to two other entrances. We had driven out of their garage on this side entrance, but I could not remember for the life of me if the actual front door was over there. Then miraculously, somehow, while walking up the set of steps to the last entrance I recognized a big crack in the marble. I have no idea how this ‘fissure of hope’ registered in my brain the first time we were here, but it was like a long lost friend. I just somehow remembered looking down at it when we first were here and wondering if the step would be loose. Since I hurt my ankle the first time (remember from the running story??) I have been extra careful to watch my step everywhere. So, I knew this must be their entrance. Finally, there it was–a mailbox with their name and even Alejandro’s name on it. Okay, things are looking up. I practiced the Spanish phrases I would say to explain my sad case. I rang their buzzer. Then I rang it again. And again. Okay, things are looking down now. They are not home. And, probably like the rest of Spain, are away for the holiday weekend. Shit. I don’t have Alex’s number with me (yes, I left it inside his apartment that I was locked out of). And I don’t have a phone to call him on anyway. I don’t have anything except my purse and a gossip magazine I bought at a newsstand…I guess I can sit on the magazine or if it starts raining I can use it as a hat. His parents were the only link I had. Okay, ‘maybe they will be home soon’, I tried to tell myself. ‘After all, it’s only after 11pm and Spaniards stay out late.’ My head started to spin, thinking about where I would sleep. Should I just sit on the steps here? What the hell am I going to do?

I’m all alone in Madrid with no friends, no phone, and all my things are locked inside an apartment and the owner will not be home for four days. Basically, I would have to find a computer somewhere (I would have to ride the train back downtown…and find some late night internet café) where I could look up Alex’s phone number…then call him and hope he has a cell signal wherever he is and hope his phone is even turned on. But then what if he says that his parents have no key to his place…then would he have to cancel his trip and come here—or I’d have to get a hotel for 4 days with no belongings—just the clothes on my back. Now I was starting to get nauseous.

Suddenly, a family of three walked up the steps.

“Hola. Habla Ingles?” I asked desperately.
“Yes, I do,” replied the husband, my savior.

I asked him if he knew the Rodriguezs and, surely by some stroke of coincidental luck or perhaps divine intervention, not only did he know them, he was their next door neighbor. Oh, thank God. And he even had Alex’s cell number on his phone. My luck was changing. He called but got no answer. He then called Alex’s sister. Oh, yes, good idea! Maybe she has a key! It turns out that she was at a bar just a ten minute drive away. So, this amazing prince, Antonio, drove me over to find her. On the way there, we chatted and I thanked him profusely for his kindness. He asked what I was doing in Madrid and I mentioned wanting to find work here possibly teaching English. Well, turns out he wants a private tutor for his son. So now I have no keys, but maybe have found some work in a very convoluted job search method! He dropped me off at the bar and I met Alex’s sister, Esther (who speaks no English), her boyfriend, and their friends. She had already spoken to Alex on the phone and we all headed back over to his apartment because I thought she said a neighbor had a key. I tried to explain that I had two of the same key, but my Spanish vocabulary about keys and locks was strangely still not up to snuff. So, Alex thought I was just some silly girl who could not figure out the lock. So, we went back in vain, and tried the damn key again even though I knew it would not work. If it did—then I truly was a moron. But, we all tried it again and I tried to show them both keys and how they were identical. Finally, they understood the problem and gave me the bad news…that no one had any spares at all. Great.

She called Alex back on his cell phone and now, finally, everyone was on the same page. I was locked out. I had two keys for the OUTSIDE door and none for the INSIDE door. Oh…now we get it. But, then Alex told her that we could break into one of the doors. Alright, I like this plan. So now, Esther had to ring a random neighbor to let us into his apartment and then into an inner courtyard that was only accessible from each apartment. She broke into Alex’s apartment and lo and behold let us all in the front door. Home at last, thank god almighty, home at last (thanks MLK). I was reunited with my belongings and a place to sleep. Hallelujah. Now, we just had to figure out how I can stay here for the next few days with no key to the front door. I had a key to the upper lock, just not the lower…so everyone agreed with my plan to tape the door latch open on the bottom (so it would not lock when closed) and then I could just lock and unlock the top lock.

My nightmare evening actually turned into a fun adventure with new friends and I truly could not believe at first how unlucky I felt and then how incredibly lucky I felt, within an hour’s time, to have found their neighbor Antonio who then found Alex’s sister…who then was able to get me in. It almost seems too random to be true. But it happened. And me and my stuff are reunited (and it feels so good) and here to tell you so. And, believe me, the next day, I was scared to leave, but before I left, I tried my keys in every lock—twice—just to make sure I could get back in.