The Move
Hello Boys and Girls, it’s Sam and Chris online and posting once again. Just now it’s me, Sam (Gringo 1) speaking. I know Chris has been at work to keep you all updated during our internet connection dry spell, and I am following his lead. I haven’t read any of his posts though, so please forgive me for any repetitive content. The day on which I write is Sunday the 11th.
Last night was our first night of independence, though the occasion felt far from celebratory. We told Jose that we wanted to exchange apartments with the three riders who lived formerly in the apartment in which we currently inhabit, allowing them to take our places in Jose’s own apartment. The main reason was to insure that come May, when two more American riders arrive for the summer, we could all live together. If we were to split up as planned, I think the program would have felt less cohesive and more disorganized or patched together; already some of us are riding for different teams. Another key reason for moving was to escape the ever watchful eye of our director, to be able to do our own thing without the constant (though lighthearted) jokes at our expense. Now a weight has been lifted from our shoulders because there is not the periphery feeling that we are long-term guests in our Jefe’s home, but that we’re in charge of ourselves.
The trade off’s are numerous. First, the change only reinforces the stereotypes indulged in by Jose and company; namely, that American’s are closed-off and cold, uninterested in exerting an effort to intermix with the spanish-speakers. Second, this place is a dump. The dumpiness is not quaint or appealing in any way whatsoever. For example, the Cat in the Hat comes to mind. Upon arrival we realized that cleaning is simply not possible because any rag or cleaning implement is likely to be equally, if not more, dirty than the surface on which it slides. The real discovery was the secondary ‘fridge to be’. We were told not to close it so that it can ‘air out’. Inside the insulated walls of this marvel of bacterial growth is an odor so putrid that it achieves and surpasses its role as icon of the lifestyle of this apartment’s former occupants.
From the patio in which this fine appliance is planted, we move to the kitchen through a doorway which demands a twisting motion for unhindered passage. Once inside, let us examine the filthy greasy grime that encrusts every surface, less those areas where accumulated dust has prevented adhesion. The sponges linger in a tupperware containing mildewed dish soap, and appear to be living organisms of their own: we wash what silverware we must with our hands. With ammonia and toilet paper Chris and I clean, designating a small quarantine space within the greater biohazard sphere of things, taking care to keep clear of the pot full of cooked and molding lentils. Chris asks me where to put something and I said somewhere clean. We realized the humor in this request: you know things are bad when “put it somewhere clean” is a statement of great specificity. Chris tells me he knows it’s bad when the safest spot for cleaned silverware is in his pant pocket.
Once past the kitchen we move to the bedrooms where an inflatable female greets the eye. We find her stored above the free standing closet in Chris’s room, complete with ports of entry in three locations. Chris tells me a priority is removal of the doll, which he undertakes with great care to avoid contracting a freak strain of herpes. In my bedroom I find the sheets to be curiously greasy and or moist, at the very least damp, from what we can only imagine. The treasures we dug up included a portable digital speaker system which at this time is our only source of ambient music, two old school mavic wheel bags, a 1980’s exte ondo polyfoam wind vest, one package of microwaveable popcorn, the remnants of a 40 oz. peach whiskey bottle, and some dried herring mixed with deli sliced ham in an uncovered bowl in the refrigerator. The greatest thing of all was finding a box of sawar incense that my dear Lucy had sent me when I was here two years ago. It hadn’t moved from where I left it. Thanks mom!
Breath. So. Tomorrow we have designated as cleaning day. We’re going to sport some thick rubber gloves, buy some new sponges and wiping cloths, break open the ammonia and let it fly. I have also been appointed by Chris as director of interior designing. We’ll see how the cleaning goes tomorrow- Chris just finished a 5 1/2 hour team ride and he is beat. I was really proud to hear that he had finished among the top handful of guys on the team. I know it’s also good because he needed something to lift his spirits after having really come to terms with the loneliness of being in this place (the flat, perhaps Spain as a whole) and it’s state of filthiness. I’m sure you can hear all about it from him.
You may now pause to ask yourself, “Chris and Sam, so faraway on two wheels, is it really worth it to have moved into the new dump?” The heart of the answer to such a question has to do with what I mentioned earlier about living as guests in contrast to living on our own. Let me provide a few anecdotes from our first hours at Jose’s apartment to contextualize the sentiment. The first dinner we cook for ourselves. Jose is out and about, doing whatever it is that he does, Chris and I are boiling a kilo of pasta and putting together a tomato sauce concoction which we look forward to eating together in front of the television where we can enjoy Superman II dubbed in Spanish. Chris is excited to prepare his pan con tomate, which he does as the pasta approaches al dente. The meal comes together, it is a fricking 15 minute masterpiece. The coffee table already has a cloth over it so we set the table and begin to bring in the food. Chris is famished and as a result is tanky. He is ready to go into vacuum mode over his bowl. The bread with tomato, the burgos cheese and olive oil, the pasta in the 6 gallon pot, “it’s all there, ok babe? ok babe?” (D. King) Hmmm, that heavy pot must be rather warm, yes? Indeed. Shall we get something for that? Nah, in a moment. This pasta is so good! No, but in a moment, just a second. Both of us start slightly when Jose storms in through the front door (if he isn’t busy enough to merit a hyperactive pace, he makes himself busy). I think about all the things that we could have possibly done wrong to incur the usual puto gringo scolding. With a clear conscience I let out an inaudible breath of relief. Jose speed walks into the living room on talking on the phone. As he comes to a stop, directly in front of the low table on which we eat, his vantage point for what is about to occur deserves theatrical VIP status. Like clockwork, a loud ‘CRACK!’ bounces up at me from my feet. In a split second I realize that the cloth over the coffee table was hiding not a wood surface but a glass one. The single heavy piece had slit directly down its center with two hairline cracks fissuring out from where the 6 gallon burning hot pot had sat. This unpleasant sight is only revealed to us after jose grabs the pot with one hand, lifting it up in one fell swoop to shoulder height, which launches its glass top into a graceful arch over his head and down to the linoleum floor where it shatters into a thousand shards, leaving nothing but its metallic skeletal rim intact. There is a second of peaceful silence before we are chewed out, before Jose asks us how any University is willing to accept us as students. Later, from our compassionate ally (Jose’s part-time girlfriend) Jose receives an e-mail which suggests that it is not our fault, that he can’t expect much better from two guys whose president is totally inept and idiotic. Great.
The next incident followed within 24 hours. The pan con tomate that chefy prepares was so mouthwatering that we decided to bring it back to the menu for night two. As we were going about our kitchen business, my good old training pal Largo rang our buzzer. We were so engaged by the dual stimulation of a visiting friend (and all the linguistic acrobatics involved) and the somewhat less fantastic pasta from the night before that it was several minutes before Chris went into the kitchen to get the toasted bread and began shouting expletives interspersed with warnings of ‘fire! fire!’
In a panic I ran into the kitchen where I saw flames jumping out of the mouth of the oblong yellow toaster. Upon a closer, frantic inspection I saw the charred remains of the doomed pan of pan con tomate. Chris had began to laugh and continued shouting ‘fuego! fuego!’, which he found quite amusing. All I could think about was stopping our little bonfire and preventing an addition to Jose’s list of reasons to insure your house for when the Gringos come. I picked up (can you sense the heroism? I mean, picture Alfie in Annie Hall dealing with the Lobsters) the toaster and held it upside down into the sink where the whole wheat coals fizzled out.
Largo, by this time, had come to observe our hysterics, and then shut the kitchen door. Chris had opened both terrace doors in an attempt to clear the thick haze of smoke. With two towels from the bathroom we waved the air, which did nothing. We realized that we needed an airflow, so we threw open the door and ran down the hall into the two bedrooms to open the windows there, only to discover that Largo, still laughing at us, had opened the apartment door to the second floor. The smokey hot air danced slowly towards the bedrooms, to our horror, and out into the apartment building main hallway. This same air was especially fond of the bathroom right across the way from the kitchen, which is where it accumulated into the greatest concentration. After about three minutes more of towel waving had occurred, Largo decided it would be a good time to get going. His departure bared to me the glaring irony of the situation; Largo has spent the last two years in vocational training to be a full-time fireman.
Eventually Jose did arrive, and yes his entire apartment smelled like campfire, but he went easy on us, I mean, come on, George Bush and all. So although our new home is not immune to the risks of furniture damage or small campfires in the kitchen, at least we will be the only ones to witness our blunders. It’s come time to say goodnight for the time being. Chris and I just completed my virgin viewing of TOP GUN. To give you an idea of his obsession with the movie, Fly Into The Danger Zone is on his training playlist. Yeah Chris, take it to the danger zone.
Last night was our first night of independence, though the occasion felt far from celebratory. We told Jose that we wanted to exchange apartments with the three riders who lived formerly in the apartment in which we currently inhabit, allowing them to take our places in Jose’s own apartment. The main reason was to insure that come May, when two more American riders arrive for the summer, we could all live together. If we were to split up as planned, I think the program would have felt less cohesive and more disorganized or patched together; already some of us are riding for different teams. Another key reason for moving was to escape the ever watchful eye of our director, to be able to do our own thing without the constant (though lighthearted) jokes at our expense. Now a weight has been lifted from our shoulders because there is not the periphery feeling that we are long-term guests in our Jefe’s home, but that we’re in charge of ourselves.
The trade off’s are numerous. First, the change only reinforces the stereotypes indulged in by Jose and company; namely, that American’s are closed-off and cold, uninterested in exerting an effort to intermix with the spanish-speakers. Second, this place is a dump. The dumpiness is not quaint or appealing in any way whatsoever. For example, the Cat in the Hat comes to mind. Upon arrival we realized that cleaning is simply not possible because any rag or cleaning implement is likely to be equally, if not more, dirty than the surface on which it slides. The real discovery was the secondary ‘fridge to be’. We were told not to close it so that it can ‘air out’. Inside the insulated walls of this marvel of bacterial growth is an odor so putrid that it achieves and surpasses its role as icon of the lifestyle of this apartment’s former occupants.
From the patio in which this fine appliance is planted, we move to the kitchen through a doorway which demands a twisting motion for unhindered passage. Once inside, let us examine the filthy greasy grime that encrusts every surface, less those areas where accumulated dust has prevented adhesion. The sponges linger in a tupperware containing mildewed dish soap, and appear to be living organisms of their own: we wash what silverware we must with our hands. With ammonia and toilet paper Chris and I clean, designating a small quarantine space within the greater biohazard sphere of things, taking care to keep clear of the pot full of cooked and molding lentils. Chris asks me where to put something and I said somewhere clean. We realized the humor in this request: you know things are bad when “put it somewhere clean” is a statement of great specificity. Chris tells me he knows it’s bad when the safest spot for cleaned silverware is in his pant pocket.
Once past the kitchen we move to the bedrooms where an inflatable female greets the eye. We find her stored above the free standing closet in Chris’s room, complete with ports of entry in three locations. Chris tells me a priority is removal of the doll, which he undertakes with great care to avoid contracting a freak strain of herpes. In my bedroom I find the sheets to be curiously greasy and or moist, at the very least damp, from what we can only imagine. The treasures we dug up included a portable digital speaker system which at this time is our only source of ambient music, two old school mavic wheel bags, a 1980’s exte ondo polyfoam wind vest, one package of microwaveable popcorn, the remnants of a 40 oz. peach whiskey bottle, and some dried herring mixed with deli sliced ham in an uncovered bowl in the refrigerator. The greatest thing of all was finding a box of sawar incense that my dear Lucy had sent me when I was here two years ago. It hadn’t moved from where I left it. Thanks mom!
Breath. So. Tomorrow we have designated as cleaning day. We’re going to sport some thick rubber gloves, buy some new sponges and wiping cloths, break open the ammonia and let it fly. I have also been appointed by Chris as director of interior designing. We’ll see how the cleaning goes tomorrow- Chris just finished a 5 1/2 hour team ride and he is beat. I was really proud to hear that he had finished among the top handful of guys on the team. I know it’s also good because he needed something to lift his spirits after having really come to terms with the loneliness of being in this place (the flat, perhaps Spain as a whole) and it’s state of filthiness. I’m sure you can hear all about it from him.
You may now pause to ask yourself, “Chris and Sam, so faraway on two wheels, is it really worth it to have moved into the new dump?” The heart of the answer to such a question has to do with what I mentioned earlier about living as guests in contrast to living on our own. Let me provide a few anecdotes from our first hours at Jose’s apartment to contextualize the sentiment. The first dinner we cook for ourselves. Jose is out and about, doing whatever it is that he does, Chris and I are boiling a kilo of pasta and putting together a tomato sauce concoction which we look forward to eating together in front of the television where we can enjoy Superman II dubbed in Spanish. Chris is excited to prepare his pan con tomate, which he does as the pasta approaches al dente. The meal comes together, it is a fricking 15 minute masterpiece. The coffee table already has a cloth over it so we set the table and begin to bring in the food. Chris is famished and as a result is tanky. He is ready to go into vacuum mode over his bowl. The bread with tomato, the burgos cheese and olive oil, the pasta in the 6 gallon pot, “it’s all there, ok babe? ok babe?” (D. King) Hmmm, that heavy pot must be rather warm, yes? Indeed. Shall we get something for that? Nah, in a moment. This pasta is so good! No, but in a moment, just a second. Both of us start slightly when Jose storms in through the front door (if he isn’t busy enough to merit a hyperactive pace, he makes himself busy). I think about all the things that we could have possibly done wrong to incur the usual puto gringo scolding. With a clear conscience I let out an inaudible breath of relief. Jose speed walks into the living room on talking on the phone. As he comes to a stop, directly in front of the low table on which we eat, his vantage point for what is about to occur deserves theatrical VIP status. Like clockwork, a loud ‘CRACK!’ bounces up at me from my feet. In a split second I realize that the cloth over the coffee table was hiding not a wood surface but a glass one. The single heavy piece had slit directly down its center with two hairline cracks fissuring out from where the 6 gallon burning hot pot had sat. This unpleasant sight is only revealed to us after jose grabs the pot with one hand, lifting it up in one fell swoop to shoulder height, which launches its glass top into a graceful arch over his head and down to the linoleum floor where it shatters into a thousand shards, leaving nothing but its metallic skeletal rim intact. There is a second of peaceful silence before we are chewed out, before Jose asks us how any University is willing to accept us as students. Later, from our compassionate ally (Jose’s part-time girlfriend) Jose receives an e-mail which suggests that it is not our fault, that he can’t expect much better from two guys whose president is totally inept and idiotic. Great.
The next incident followed within 24 hours. The pan con tomate that chefy prepares was so mouthwatering that we decided to bring it back to the menu for night two. As we were going about our kitchen business, my good old training pal Largo rang our buzzer. We were so engaged by the dual stimulation of a visiting friend (and all the linguistic acrobatics involved) and the somewhat less fantastic pasta from the night before that it was several minutes before Chris went into the kitchen to get the toasted bread and began shouting expletives interspersed with warnings of ‘fire! fire!’
In a panic I ran into the kitchen where I saw flames jumping out of the mouth of the oblong yellow toaster. Upon a closer, frantic inspection I saw the charred remains of the doomed pan of pan con tomate. Chris had began to laugh and continued shouting ‘fuego! fuego!’, which he found quite amusing. All I could think about was stopping our little bonfire and preventing an addition to Jose’s list of reasons to insure your house for when the Gringos come. I picked up (can you sense the heroism? I mean, picture Alfie in Annie Hall dealing with the Lobsters) the toaster and held it upside down into the sink where the whole wheat coals fizzled out.
Largo, by this time, had come to observe our hysterics, and then shut the kitchen door. Chris had opened both terrace doors in an attempt to clear the thick haze of smoke. With two towels from the bathroom we waved the air, which did nothing. We realized that we needed an airflow, so we threw open the door and ran down the hall into the two bedrooms to open the windows there, only to discover that Largo, still laughing at us, had opened the apartment door to the second floor. The smokey hot air danced slowly towards the bedrooms, to our horror, and out into the apartment building main hallway. This same air was especially fond of the bathroom right across the way from the kitchen, which is where it accumulated into the greatest concentration. After about three minutes more of towel waving had occurred, Largo decided it would be a good time to get going. His departure bared to me the glaring irony of the situation; Largo has spent the last two years in vocational training to be a full-time fireman.
Eventually Jose did arrive, and yes his entire apartment smelled like campfire, but he went easy on us, I mean, come on, George Bush and all. So although our new home is not immune to the risks of furniture damage or small campfires in the kitchen, at least we will be the only ones to witness our blunders. It’s come time to say goodnight for the time being. Chris and I just completed my virgin viewing of TOP GUN. To give you an idea of his obsession with the movie, Fly Into The Danger Zone is on his training playlist. Yeah Chris, take it to the danger zone.
posted by Unknown at 11:07 PM
1 Comments:
Obsession???I didnt realize that he had not gotten sick of that movie yet. The only movie that got more worn out than that was yellow submarine which the video store finally gave us when they bought a new copy so that they could actually have one in stock. Ok so well lets just say that was before he even learned what algebra was.
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