Milk

There are a few things that I have come to miss here: family, friends, and milk. Nothing has had more of a physical impact then the latter. Well sure, theres milk, but in all honesty, its not worthy of the name. Usually it tastes sour or powdery, and my family always keeps it warm. Ever since I was a child, milk has been the number one component of my diet. But I don´t live the gallon-a-day lifestyle alone, its a family affair. Few families in the world (I imagine) can boast more arguements over "who drank the last of the milk" then mine. While a lack of milk may not be a big deal in many households, in mine, its "grounds for divorce". Needless to say, when I came to Spain, the sudden void of good milk in my life was comparable to heroin withdraws.

But have no fear, I´ve found my methadone. Just the other day, my host mother bought this milk that didn´t taste too diffirent from good ´ol Wawa 2%. At my first sip, I was propelled into a boderline psychodelic euphoria. It just tasted so damn good. Now, we have used up all the Aunt Jemimas Pancake Mix that I brought, but I actually managed to find mix here. Its imported from America, so you know its good. With the delicious milk, I can finally make real pancakes.

And just in time for my birthday.

I really love the package; it screams AMERICA! The flag, lady liberty, and the greatest colors in the world. If you wouldn´t buy this the moment you saw it, you´re probably a facist.

Also note: this is not my big blog for the week, I have a few more in the making.

Blondie

It´s Fall now and all the Germans have returned (receeded) to their country. This leaves me as one of maybe fifty blondes on Mallorca. I am an on an island in two seas. The Mediterranean and Mediterraneans. Its not uncommon for me to go through an entire day without seeing a single blonde head of hair (except in the mirror). Everyone, and I mean everyone, has dark hair. Moreno. Out of those fifty or so blondes, I am most likely the only American. Thus my reputation has formed.

Complete strangers will come up to me in the streets of Palma (a moderate sized city) and begin explaining how they have heard all about me. Now, this is a little strange considering that they have never even seen me before, and that on a discription alone, could identify me. Rubio/ rizado/ Americano. Blonde/Curly/American. I have an amazing feeling of individualism almost bordering on narcisim.

Just the other day, I was talking to Elena, my almost host sister. (She is my host parents daughter, but is in Pittsburgh with AFS for the year) She informed me that friends of hers saw me going into a bar in an obscure part of town. Its true, I went to the bar she desribed, but the fact that people who I´ve never met were confident enough to asses my appearence and draw the conclusion that I was indeed Andreas, the American exchange student, is absolutely astounding.

In the U.S., we are so used to a mix of people. Not just simply black and white, but Italian, German, North African, Mexican, Cuban, Irish, Chinese, Danish, English, Korean, Indian, Sierra Leonian (?) Pakistani, French, Vietnamese, Turkish, Japanese, and Spanish (just to name a few). That is what it means to be American. Here, to be Spanish, you must have dark hair and dark eyes. Sure, their are exceptions, but they are rare. The feeling of "identity crisis" is so thick, you could cut it with an Inquisition era guillatine.

As for the past week: pretty good. I enjoyed going out last weekend with some friends in Palma. My Bio test was was pretty easy and I´m confident on my Castellano test as well; it was all old Mrs. Staley Romanticism. This weekend is my last as a minor as next Friday is my 18th birthday. So, naturally, I´m going to paint the whole town red while I still can avoid being tried as an adult. I havn´t made any plans yet for my special day, but I think my host brother and I may go to see the new James Bond after school. I´ll take it shakin, not stirred.

Remember Remember, the Fifth of November

This entry has nothing to do with Guy Fawkes.

Its finally over. Twenty-two months of campaigning, mud-slinging, and national divide has hit its climactic end. Barak Obama has defied racial barriers and political "rules" to become the forty-fourth president (elect) of the United States. I couldn´t be prouder of my country. Last night, we showed the world that we arn´t a nation of racists; we proved that democracy works; and most important of all, we made it clear that its time for a Change.

I didn´t go to school today because I stayed up all night sucking in Wolf Blitzer´s bullshit. My family was a little agrivated that I wouldn´t get up this morning, but they understood that it was very important to me as an American to witness this, and for that I am thankful. It was about 5 A.M here when CNN projected that Obama would win the election. I jumped out of my chair and proceed to dance around the living room in joy. Never in my whole life had I felt such national pride. Like many Americans, I have spent the last 4 (plus) years waiting for the end of Bush´s reign of terror; however, even with the economy in shambles and the war in Iraq grinding on, I never lost my patriotism (just my patience) for our great country.

The Spaniards are hipocritical when it comes to their opinions on America. Most of them see America as a country of belligerant biggots; and they never hestitate telling me this. They believe that the actions of Bush reflect the wishes of everyone in our country and that our ultimate goal is World domination. They point fingers and us and scream "intolerancia" or intolerance. If only there was a mirror big enough to see themselves in.

Spain is not one country, its several autonomous regions that, for the most part, dislike each other. To name a few, their are the Basques in the North who dream of independence; Andalucia in the Sounth and Aragon in the North, both of whom profited off of Franco; and of course my favorite, Catalunya. The divide can be felt when you cross from one region to the other, and I´m not just talking about the difirence in language or customs.

The past weekend I had to take the SAT in Zaragoza. That required me flying to Barcalona, and then taking a train to Girona. Both of these cities are deep in Catalunya and everyone speaks Catalan. In Girona, I stayed with Tommy and his host parents, Ana and Jordi, on their farm. His parents drove both of us the five hours to Zaragoza, which is in Aragon. You can actually feel the diference when you cross the border; almost comparable to leaving a country.

When we arrived, Jordi announed that everyone in Zaragoza was facist. Zaragoza was on Franco´s side in the Civil War and has maintained its conservitive values since Franco´s death. Everything there is family oriented and takes some sanctuary in God. After the SATS, we enjoyed lunch with Ana´s family. The food was spectacular, but the conversation was awful. Ana´s family, which live in Zaragoza, made remarks about how awful Catalan and Catalunya is. It was horrible to see how even a family can be divided by borders and politics.

And the racism dosent just stop there. Many are intolerant of Muslims and Africans. The phrase "Que moro" (how moorish) is used in everyday language to mean that something was cheap and Negros y Christianos is black beans and rice. The racial intolerance is absolutely astounding. So, Spain, next time you point a finger, remember there are three pointed back at you.

It is safe to say that America has done something that Spain could never do: we elected a black man as our president. This is a huge milestone in American History and surely will have huge summary in the next edition of the American Pagent. Now while their is no such thing as a silver bullet for our problems, their is Hope in Obama. I am truely glad to have witnessed this moment in history.