Dos besos

Today is a fiesta day of some sort, so I don't have classes and I'm taking the opportunity to update my blog. I think I've mentioned the custom of two kisses in an earlier post, but just to rehash -- it's really rude to not kiss someone once on each cheek when you first meet them.

Anyway, I did go out on Saturday night as I had planned, and we hit up four or five different bars or clubs, did some tequila shots, drank some Lemon Fanta and vodka and danced (some better than others. Hint: I fall in the "others" category).

At one bar, one of the guys from our group told a Spanish guy he should dance with me. His side of the conversation went something like:

1. "Hola, qué tal?" (Hey, how are you?)
2. "Cómo te llamas?" (What's your name?)
3. "Tienes novio?" (Do you have a boyfriend?)
and 4. "Puedo darte un beso?" (May I kiss you?)

Uhh, no. No, you may not kiss me. That was my initial reaction. It also didn't help that in Spain personal space is not as great a concern as it is in America, and he was lingering about 2 inches away from my face during the course of this conversation. Of course, after I left the bar, I realized he had meant the greeting kisses. Oops. Will remember next time not to be so rude.

My friends and I stayed out until 5 a.m. so we could get chocolate (hot chocolate, very thick) and churros (a fried pastry). Mmmm.

Sunday, I think it goes without saying, I slept in. Woke up just in time for paella, a traditional Spanish dish. My mom in my homestay here makes it with shrimp, mussels and chicken. It also has rice, olives, peppers and some sort of unidentifiable delicious sauce. Later, I found a DVD case for Dirty Dancing in my room, so asked our mom about watching it at dinner (la tele -- TV -- is always on during meals). After my inability to call it anything other than "Dirty Dancing" (hey, that's what the Spanish DVD case said) and my housemate's failed attempt at describing it as "El Bailando Sucio" I retreived the DVD case from my room. She looked for the DVD but said one of her daughters must have it. But, don't worry, because we could watch another American movie about dancing. Horror images of Richard Gere in "Shall We Dance" or Julia Stiles in "Save the Last Dance" rushed through my head. Surely I would not be able to stomach them in another language. But when our mom popped in a VHS tape, I figured it would have been older. It was Footloose. Watching a dubbed version of Kevin Bacon asking, "Podrías decirme cuál es tu problema?" was significantly more entertaining than even the English version.

Monday, real classes started. This is, as opposed to the fake intensive Spanish classes we'd been taking for the previous two weeks. I had political systems of Spain and Portugal to start, and a Spanish grammar class. Typically, I would have also had an economics class, but it doesn't start until Feb. 5. Searched for a laundromat for about an hour with a friend, but were largely unsuccesful. (We found the laundromats, but they were both closed.)

Tuesday, more real classes. A history class about the Franco regime. Finally was able to make it to the laundromat while it was open. Haven't done laundry in two weeks, so it's going to set me back 14 euro. Oh well. I get to pick it up tomorrow. Yesterday was also my first and only class with other Spanish-speaking students -- a third-level political science course about the institutions and laws in the European Union. Sounds fun, right? Apparently the time had been moved back by an hour, unbeknownst to me. But I did get to have the first conversation with a Spanish guy that a) lasted more than 3 minutes, b) did not occur in a bar after 2 a.m. and c) did not contain the question, "tienes novio?" We talked about school and the like for 15 or 20 minutes and before I went to leave the classroom for an hour, he cautiously gave me dos besos to make sure I wasn't going to freak out about it. Because, he said, American girls do sometimes. Go figure.