Part 96 in the 97 part series on private education in spain: how we know sexism isn't dead in spain

So I haven't written in a while, but that's to be expected considering I am Fiona and not very apt to keep with anything. BUT! Today my prof at the Spanish university said something so priceless that I had to share.

Of course I arrive and find the door closed and room dark, but being the absurdly responsible person I am, I decided to wait five minutes before assuming class was canceled and leaving. After about 7 minutes (my watch is dead) the prof comes and I am still the only person there. He was pretty excited/ticked off (excited because I don't talk during class and if I'm the only person there, then he can actually give his lecture) and (ticked off because the entire class hadn't come). Anyway, he decides to just tell me the whole lecture on the roots of nazism, even though I'm not going to be here for the final exam, so it's a complete waste of time.

Finally, after about a half hour of him telling me things and me nodding obediently, five or six spanish students come in, all boys. Apparently there was a lecture by a poet that the class had been attending (most of them skipped out, in ordinary spanish fashion, rather than coming to history, but a few of them did make it). When they explained where they had been, and that their literature prof had made them stay, my prof says (author's translation):

"With Fiona's pardon, the problem with literature is the women who don't know how to keep things organized. If that were a politics lecture, the men would have kept things moving along on time."

I, of course, responded, "Hey! I study government!"

Later, when two more spaniards trickled in, the prof broke from the lecture just long enough to say that sometimes when they assassinate poets, it's the right choice (referring to the nazism we're studying, obviously).

Can you tell this is my favorite class? It is.

Conclusion: It's not my fault, women just can't stay organized.

Part 18½ in the 97 part series on private education in spain: why the american revolution was actually alright

Some of you may (or probably not, because no one actually reads this but me) remember when, in Part 1 in the 97 part series on private education in spain, I explained that my prof spent most of the first class telling us why the American revolution was unimportant, useless, and that America was really not relevant until the first world war. So today, while discussing England's role in WWI, he segues and looking right at me says, "Actually, you guys did well in revolting against the British. They are pretty stupid." Well, he said that in Spanish, and that's my best translation. It was less awkwardly phrased in Spanish.

Non sequitur: This prof always talks to us in tú and vosotros (informal you, singular and plural respectively) but we always have to talk to him in usted (formal you). I miss the good ol US of A where you can call your professors by their first names. Also, I hate usted. I've almost forgotten how to use it because I never talk to elders or non-peers. Urgh. Grammar! *shakes fist*

Conclusion: apparently we did well what with the little, irrelevant revolution we had a few years back...yay us!

where my head's at

So I have been working hard to find the so-called "scene" here in Madrid, and believe you me, it is hard to find the good music when you don't have the Stranger or KEXP or thousands of free CDs to push you in the right direction. Based on some sneaky sleuthing, however, I did buy two cds this weekend, which are both amazing. One is basically flamenco rock, no further explanation necessary, and the other is something like if Hot Chip and Fujiya & Miyagi both impregnated a troop of Spanish aliens, who's offspring then grew up to be eccentric musicians. Enjoy. And it's totally worth watching, even if you don't speak spanish, because there is a smattering of English in it, rad hair, and the words "revolucion sexual" which are pretty self-explanatory.

Cheers!

Mala leche

Spain is so sketchy. Specifically spanish men. I always forget about it, but then occasionally I remember. Take today. I go for a walk in Retiro and no fewer than four men tried to pick me up, one of whom was like 65. Blurg. I'm not blond or super cute, so leave me alone! I just wanted to read my book about russian czarism.

Conclusion: the safest thing is to not leave the house.

How the Spanish Eat

So today we apparently had potatoes fried in more potatoes for lunch. There may have been some eggs in there, but I frankly couldn't tell. Oh, and on the side we had fried spinach. I think my Senora wants me to have a heart attack. There is no other explanation.

Conclusion: heart disease? (the spanish work for heart attack is enfarta (you can all just laugh about that later privately))

Part 17 in the 97 part series on private education in spain: and then we studied africa

In my class at the Spanish University we are now (quite suddenly) studying European imperialism in Africa (which was quite a leap from the pre-WWI Russia where we were before Christmas (not only have we moved spatially but temporally as well)). So yesterday, when only about 8 of 25 kids came to class, the prof announced we were going to have a geography exam on Africa. The first response of the class was, "What, Africa? With all the weird names?" And then of course because no one came yesterday, today we had to go over the exact same absurdity again.

Then the poof prof spent the whole class period just trying to tell us which modern countries pertained to which imperial powers in some sort of logical, geographical order, but mostly failed to do so because someone interrupted him every thirty seconds.

Finally, he tried to explain to us why Ethiopia and Liberia were the only states that stayed free during the imperial period. The kids were simply not listening, so to spice things up, he goes, "Oye, americana, explicanos lo que paso con Liberia." Which roughly translates to "Hey, american, explain what happened with Liberia." Which I did, (thank you Loland!), however it tickles me that he finds it acceptable to call me out as "American." What can I say? Spain is different.

Conclusion: How does anyone learn anything here?

Marchar!

Ugh. So I hadn't stayed out until late since December, and I always forget how lame it is to wake up at like 1 the next day and get that little look and tsk tsk tsk from Imelda (my Senora). Not to mention, Blas (my dog) barks when you open the door, so the whole world knows what time you came back and has to wake up when you do.

That said, I had a great time out with a bunch of the new kids from the spring semester. I had gone out with Laura and Molly (ostensibly to the appletini bar, but they apparently don't make them any more, which is sad) to meet up with one of Molly's friends from high school who was staying in Madrid. Tragically, the hotel people wouldn't let us into their hotel to hang out so we ended up bumping into another kid from the program in McDonalds (don't judge: they're the cleanest free bathrooms that are open until late) and went out to another bar to hang with a bunch of kids. It actually closed really early and, in all my infinite wisdom, I decided I didn't need a Bujo (night bus) to get back to Manuel Becerra (where I live), even though like six of them pass through there. I had walked the same distance three times already that day, but logic always fails me late at night. So of course what takes 20 minutes sober in chucks, takes nearly an hour intoxicated and in heels. Such is life. I have blisters.

Today is Sunday. Time for homework!