These boots are made for walking

Midtown office workers and UN Filipino staff foreheads remind me it’s Ash Wednesday once again. And I have an announcement to say. Nothing Easter related. Luckily I am not in one of the melancholic moods conducive to rants about spring back home, the smells of Semana Santa in Andalusia and so on. Nope, I am in a happier more lighthearted place. And so is my announcement:

Starting today I am wearing two shoes again. That means one in each foot. Simultaneously. A small step to my left leg and a huge step for yours truly. Fabulous.

Since my seclusion started in late December, the never ending recovery has been punctuated by pedestrian events (absolutely intended pun) that only a cripple can appreciate in their full awesomeness as they progressively bring me back to a semi human state: the first time I mustered the courage to put on pants (the end of the pajamas era); my first real shower (the end of the big stink); the first time I took a walk and sat in the timid but oh so delicious January sun (thanks Pamen); my first day back at work (shut up if you don’t have anything nice to say); and today… the first time both of my feet wear the same thing. They are like two unfortunate twins in a Victorian novel reuniting after a long separation. Awwww. Hollywood and I love a happy ending to any story. Even if for now and until Dr. Rosen says otherwise this one is going to have to keep an impatient but more hopeful than ever TO BE CONTINUED…

Viva las Vegas

I try to act green. A little. When it’s not too difficult. Nor to expensive. Nor too weird. But here I am, probably in the most excessive anti-ecological city on Earth, with humongous whimsically shaped hotels, beautiful fountains in the middle of the desert and millions of neon lights illuminating the hordes of smoking gamblers, buffet eating tourists, bachelor(ette) party going twentysomethings and working girls… My hotel room is awesome, by the way. My handicapped friendly bathroom (the size of my bedroom back in the city) has the mongo shower and the low-rise bathtub. So this morning, given the fact that I can’t engage in juicier more interesting sins in Sin City, I opted for a little anti-ecologic misdeed: taking a bubble bath.

For some reason foam baths remind me of a Farah Fawcett soap ad that used to air in Spain back in the seventies. As you can imagine my bald, hairy, out of shape, crutch toting self has very little to do with any the Charlie’s angels, including homely Sabrina, never mid bomb shell Jill. But comparisons aside, I decided to do something I’d never do at home and go for the foamy dip.

So here’s the conclusion: in terms of fun, wellbeing or pleasure, to me taking a bath is roughly equivalent to pulling my nose hair out and barely better than doing my physical therapy exercises: a pain in the ass (a little like another overrated ‘wellness’ activity: getting a not happy ending type of massage, boring and/or painful).

You start by filling up the tub, dumping the hotel provided salt and soap and waiting. Of course you forget about it and provoke a little flood you try to soak with your hotel towels (another green no-no). By the time it seems ready, the water is scalding hot, your testing hand seems to have heat-enduring superpowers that the rest of your body lacks. You man it up and jump in anyways. ‘This is how lobsters must feel’ is the first thought that crosses your mind when you finally lie in the damn thing. Sweat appears on your forehead, you start adding cold water, provoke a second flood and hit your head against a wall a couple of times, all while doing Cirque du Soleil worthy contortions with your legs trying in vain to keep most of your body under the water.

And then it happens: those 10 seconds when the temperature is right, there are some dollops of foam sailing around your chest hair and you kind of say to yourself, ok, this is why you go through all that preparation. Problem is, it is 10 seconds. OK, a minute maybe. After that the thing starts feeling cold. Back to tampering with the water tap, adding, draining, testing… And at that point you realize you are swimming in your own dirty water. Yuck. With your dangerously stiff only working leg you get up as fast as you can, open the tap this time in the nozzle mode and take a beautiful shower to get rid of all that nasty bath water… It feels so damn good to act green.

New shoes

Yeah, I know, one word: lazy. I can’t keep ignoring anymore my three-people audience’s clamor (you know who you are) so here I am again in this mean old blog.

This is going to be a more focused entry. Enough of my random ramblings. Isn’t this supposed to be a journal anyway? So. Many things have happened since my last post. Nasty world events. I won’t dwell on the horrible Haiti stuff. It’s awful on so many levels. It makes my dramas embarrassingly trivial. Poor poor people.

So let’s get to the triviality. My cast is gone. That’s major. Of course I am still screwed, but boy, does it feel nice to sleep without the heavy futhermucker on. Not that I am going to dance bhangra anytime soon. I’ve gone from the fiberglass monster to an oh so fashionable Robocop-Star-Wars-imperial-trooper-futuristic-drag-queen-platform orthopedic air boot.


Today I had my first physical therapy session. Kim will be dealing with me and my hapless foot. She seems sweet, patient and, unlike most doctors, interested in hearing how I actually feel… an almost forgotten sensation. One peculiar instruction she gave me though: I am to put on my injured ankle 20% of my weight, not more, not less. I just pretended to have a clue of what she meant. And confirmed once again that locals sometimes have a funny logic that I’ll never full grasp no matter how long I stay here. I’ll tread lightly. And pray that it’ll work.



Last but not least, not just major, but rather MAY-JAH, as Victoria would say: I am going to be an interpreter! It’s taken more than a year, an iPod full of speeches and the help and support of very very patient friends and coworkers. I did it. And I am happy and proud and dizzy. It was a remarkably long shot. But hey, I think I am a lucky person. Very lucky indeed. Except when I slip on icy surfaces. Oh well. At least I have professional help to learn to walk again on platforms. Take that Lady Gaga.

Wake Up, Little Susie

Today I overslept. Advil PM and all, I was awake before nine o’clock. No alarm. On Sunday. Lately 7:30 seems to be my usual waking hour.

I know, I am turning into my father. Every day it’s been like this since my new crutch enhanced life began. I don’t think I’ve voluntarily and consistently gotten up that early ever in my life. Am I finally becoming a respectable person? Since I was a kid I’ve been subject to insult and humiliation from friends and family alike for my inexcusable and horrible sin.

I really don’t know why early risers get such a great reputation. And conversely why individuals like myself, at least my old two-legged self, are reduced to the level of sloths, parasites, bankers and other useless life forms. It’s just an alternative lifestyle, people! We don’t choose to be like that, we are born this way! Plus what’s so great about mornings? Everybody looks miserable. Smiles start at noon, we all know that.

I've always thought that mornings should be forbidden. That’s one of the things I loved about living in Marbella. You couldn’t even dream of making any kind of appointment before 10:30. That’s civilized. My kind of civilization anyways. Compare that to waking up at 6 AM, being surrounded by unhappy people rushing to their boring jobs, people giving their fellow subway riders the evil eye, morning people.

But what am I saying? For the last 22 days I’ve been up without alarm clocks, coercion or threat. Yes, I have. I think I should call my dad. It took 38 years and a badly broken ankle, but I finally did something he can be proud of.

Smells Like Teen Spirit

Today I got screwed once again by bureaucracy. After Tuesday’s rescheduling, my interview was re-rescheduled again this morning. That’s nothing new, really; nor was it new my frustration at the whole situation. However after the initial and inevitable anger outburst, I realized that it was yet another instance of a recent trend: life throwing at me shit that I can do absolutely nothing about. Probably the trend was always there and I never paid attention to it, I don’t know. Also, I am aware that as disrupting and annoying as this whole thing is, nothing of what is happening is really fuck-you-over-forever serious, that I have to admit. Nevertheless all of it is unnecessary, random, fruitless, frustrating… and the worst is that ultimately I am pretty much helpless in the face of it.

It all started with my fall and nasty injury, of course. The beginning of my little big ordeal. But many other small misfortunes followed through: almost failed hunt for a doctor who was not on vacation, cleaning lady getting pneumonia when I need her the most, many friends going on vacation for Christmas, mistaking the date of my doctor’s appointment… all the way to today’s ridiculous incident.

So is life trying to teach me something? I hope not, I am a terrible pupil. More than mystical I am kind of superstitious. Or, putting it in nicer words, I still have in me a little magical thinking left -thanks grandma: indeed by writing this I’m somehow trying to conjure away this stupid chain of events.

But as much as I have never gotten the mystical, stoic or whatever “wise” approaches to life (sorry for patience and resignation, I’m a proud whiner) I must say that this afternoon I kind of embraced the whole thing. Breathed in, breathed out. Twenty phone calls later I had redone the logistics and it was fine. And I truly felt better, I wasn’t angry. I know, I’m surprised too. Am I getting enlightened? That would be scary. The only nirvana I know of is the overvalued grunge band. But working, it did. Om mani padme hum.

Yummy, Yummy, Yummy, I got love in my tummy

Last Sunday Paul and Mike brought me a Spanish omelette with chorizo. A baguette, some Iberian lomo and chorizo sausage, a little Emmental cheese which wasn’t Manchego but still did the trick and a bottle of Rioja that I barely tried (I don’t want t turn into Paula Abdul with the vicodin, thank you very much) completed a most delicious Spanish lunch.

Of course the great company didn’t hurt at all, but that handful of flavors alone was able to put me in one of my best moods of the last mainly joyless weeks. Comfort food. That’s what Americans call these magic foodstuffs able to take you two decades back and five thousand miles away in the blink of an eye. Comida como Dios manda, as we would say in distant eternal Spain.

Secret Agent Man

It’s official: I have no life. When successfully taking a shower becomes the main event of my weekend, it’s pretty clear that I need to do something, namely getting a brand new ankle and my ass out of this couch (paging the 3 Wise Men, you are still on time). In the meantime, I don’t think they’ll be writing a movie script about my thrilling story anytime soon.

Or maybe they will. If it’s a French movie. Or if the director is Danish. But then there will be a lot of hand held camera shots. No way, that makes me dizzy. Much better with the French. I can already see the ad in The Village Voice: “Ma cheville et moi: une histoire d’hiver”. For the first 45 minutes my character, played by Sergi López with a full beard, will be lying in bed looking at the ceiling, there will be a lot of gratuitous nudity and occasional masturbation and in the end somebody will be looking at the gray sea with an ominous soundtrack. FIN.

It will go on to win a special mention in Cannes, Manohla or one of her minions will argue that “the rich colors and deep sonorities somehow illuminate an unusually austere emotional terrain” and it will end up playing in front of a 15-strong crowd at the Quad. My life imitates art.

Auld Lang Syne

My summer holidays. That was the boring subject of the writing assignment we’d get on September upon going back to school. And with it, the inevitable writer’s block. Well, that’s how I am feeling today. Ironically, because New Year’s Eve provides with plenty of subjects, memories and minutiae for my wandering mind. Let’s see what I can come up with.

As you, faithful reader, should know by now, in this momentous occasion of the end of the first decade of the 21st century I am bedridden and home alone (don’t feel so sorry though, I have a small but very gracious army of chocolate supplying, coffee making, small talk talking friends a phone call away, thank God). Anyway, this very peculiar situation I’m going through provides me with the perfect occasion to reminisce of New Year’s Eves of yore.

I could write about the 1980’s TVE specials, Martes y Trece’s Encarna and the empanadillas sketch and Sabrina's wardrobe malfunction, instant pop culture hits before youtube and its viral videos.

Or my first awkward New Year Eve's parties, boys with ill fitting suits and ties, girls in shiny shoulder padded numbers with big bows and bigger hair… Just me and my fashion impaired friends would give gofugyourself.com material for a year’s worth of bitchy posts. And no, luckily there are no pictures.

Or the realization, once in Marbella, that, apart from the inevitable and heavenly jabugo ham and Sanlúcar shrimps, one could have Korean bbq pork or chicken yakitori as part of the dinner’s menu (sacrilege!).

Or the Geneva year, with the Swiss un-joie de vivre, a bad flu and Dan’s ever-awesome food.

Or, most appropriately, my first holiday in NYC exactly 10 years ago. When the world was supposed to come down in flames because of the Y2K bug (what a great marketing strategy by the IT people); nobody had heard about Al Qaida; Eliansito and Marisleysis (God bless Cuban name creators) were all over the networks; an almost dead Apple computers had just launched these awesome turquoise eggs called iMacs; and the big hit online was Napster…

Who would have thought that in 10 years I’d be watching again the Times Square broadcast from my apartment in Midtown Manhattan. High on vicodin instead of Australian shiraz. With a broken leg instead of a party outfit. And with no hair left on my head but going wild in all the wrong places.

Oh well, too many things to write about and this damn block that just won’t leave me alone. So I think I’ll just let it be, close my eyes and party in my head with Dan, John and Chris like it’s 2000 and I am walking down Christopher Street for the very first time…

Give me a reason to love you

The magazine care package that thoughtful as ever Tony brought me to fill my endless hours had a bit of everything. Of course the fist thing I jumped on was Globe magazine. I mean, when a cover includes pictures of Tiger Woods, shirtless Obama and Sarah Palin, headlines like “Scandals and Shockers” and captions such as “sex secrets, suicide dramas, dirty divorces, medical ordeals” (sic), all punctuated with more exclamation marks than my average Facebook status message thread, you know that the Economist can (and will) wait. After just glossing over OK magazine (sorry, Hello! person here) as well as the special end of the year Time issue, I started reading the New York magazine.

Its main article is called Reasons to Love New York, and as it is usually the case in this type of lists, it’s a mixture of more or less whimsical stories that make this city the object of our love and, while at it, the alleged capital of planet Earth. I definitely agree with this last conclusion (if only because I live here and therefore it’s the capital of the world I care for, i.e. mine-my excuses to traditional contenders like Paris, Tokyo and London and up and coming metropolises such as Shanghai, Sao Paulo and Minsk). However, the reasons of love they give, for the most part I frankly don’t care so much for. Maybe I’m too uninformed, unhip or un-local, but Jets Coach’s antics do nothing for me nor does the lesbian bar scene in Williamsburg. So anyways, why do I like New York?

It’s a tough question to answer simply. There are many little things I like, small, almost trivial details here and there that make this place appealing to me, but not one big huge reason I can point out. At first sight NYC is not particularly pretty. Not in the European way at least. It’s not terribly clean, with sidewalks invaded every other day by mountains of trash teeming with creatures you prefer not to think of. Public services are not exactly Tokyo level. The subway, well it’s functional, huge, 24/7, I know... but also eminently nasty and ugly. And so on and so forth.

However, from a safe distance, just like an impressionist painting or an elegant lady slightly past her peak time, New York is simply magnificent. Back in 2000, when I was first being driven into the city, I saw in awe Manhattan skyline cutting the horizon. By the time we reached downtown I knew I loved the place, even though back then I had no clue I would end up living in the middle of it.

New Yorkers are not a bad bunch either. Beyond all the clichés and common places (which they themselves love and promote by the way, you know the ‘only in New York’ thing that they live for) I find them a pretty funny, helpful and even pleasant crowd, considering the little hell that urban living can mean sometimes. Of course you have the nasties too, but if it wasn’t for them we wouldn’t have overheardinnewyork.com and that would be unforgivable.

Damn. I think in this post I bit more I can chew. My list has to be be enormous. And the four-paragraph limit for my posts I imposed myself is clearly broken. So I will just say that I like many many other things about this town, e.g. the chute in my building (pure awesomeness); brunch in the East Village; same day shipping for online stuff; General Tso chicken from the Chinese place downstairs; policemen and firemen teams in my street during the General Assembly; walking cross town from Tompkins Square to Christopher street piers on a Sunday afternoon; white haired elderly ladies with red lipstick and big berets; café frappé with plenty of eye candy in Astoria’s Athens Cafe; a new Apple store every other month; and of course, the Statue of Liberty (come on, Rosario, it’s very beautiful). I just don’t care so much about A-Rod Having Babe Ruth in His Sights. I guess I’ll never be a New Yorker.

The fool on the hill

So things keep getting better. For my people, the equivalent of April Fool’s Day is December 28th, Holy Innocents Day or Día de los Santos Inocentes. Today is the day to prank people because you are supposed to get away with it.

Well, who would have thought, today my fucking luck fooled me again all right. I was so anxious to be seen by the doctor that I didn’t realize my appointment was for tomorrow. Of course I only learnt this at the doctor’s office. If I had any sense of humor left I would laugh about it. I just feel stupid and tired. Happy Innocents Day.

Good Day Sunshine

The sun came out at last. I hope it’s a good omen for my visit to the doctor tomorrow. Since my fateful fall, the weather has been mainly crappy and deep inside of me I don’t mind that at all. My world has been so dramatically altered for the worse that somehow I resent the universe for not stopping for the coming weeks just like my life will. Talk about sucking at being Zen and stuff. But anyway, truth be told, even limited as I am to the patch of uptown Manhattan sky I can see from my living room, blue and bright really does something to your soul, to the point that my leg almost feels a little better.

Being born in southern Spain, I used to take good weather for granted. I don’t mean to sound chauvinistic, but Mediterranean weather really rocks. It seems to be the exception in a world full of really shitty climates. I don’t care what Mike says: homo sapiens is a tropical animal, and the Belorussian Riviera (whatever that is) will not be in my beach travel plans anytime soon.

Of course during the summer it gets hot back home, but you have the beach and none of that nasty humidity that wraps New York in a thick sweaty layer during the hottest weeks of the year. Nights are especially delightful. I remember the childhood family dinners al fresco in Chiclana or more recently the dama de noche scented Marbella nights after one of Dan’s amazing meals.

Also of course in winter it will get chilly. My father used to say “But it’s never cold in Cádiz!” -his favorite quote when he caught me with the electric heater pumped up to the max in my room. Well, trust me on this one: it can get pretty damn frigid. But still, many times you will be able to enjoy a beer and a tapa de ensaladilla in a terraza under the December sun with as little as a shirt on. And unlike in scorching August, those sunbeams feel so right on your skin…

I don’t know why this post turned out so meteorological and nostalgic at the same time. It must be that today I saw the sunshine on my window. Or that according to my original plans today I was supposed to have an outdoors barbecue with high school friends several thousand of miles away. All I can say is that today I saw the sun and felt a tiny bit happy. Now that’s something to blog about.

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PS: This may sound a bit desperate, but writing is quite lonely so if anybody is reading me and wants to leave a comment, that would make my blogging day.

I Wanna Be Sedated

Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans (John Lennon). That’s how my older wiser brother explained my accident. Spending all this time locked in my apartment in pain and discomfort clearly wasn’t among my plans.

The worst is at night. Waking up tired and in pain and not being able to even change position. Closing your eyes and wishing real bad to be asleep again, to fall back to drug induced weird dreams. Hating the darkness and hoping for a relief that won't seem to arrive.

Of course feeling helpless, vulnerable and incapable of performing the most basic tasks doesn’t help. When dragging yourself to the bathroom is an ordeal and taking a glass of water from the kitchen to the table a physical impossibility, cursing becomes a very very frequent activity.

There are obviously much worse things in life that can happen to you. Among them, going through this nightmare without my friends. I knew they were great, that’s why they are my friends in the first place. I didn’t know they are extraordinary. Thank you.

Jingle Bell Rock

Ok, so here's the thing: I do like Christmas. I believe it's a damn good idea.

Don't think that I am being naive or, even worse, cynical. I get the haters. It's commercial and stressful. The weather is cold, even in Cádiz. No one likes to pretend that the cheap cologne your aunt gives you is the best present ever, etc. etc.

However you also get to hang out with people you love. Or share most of your gene pool with. You can eat without guilt ridiculous amounts of very delicious food, specifically amarguillos de Medina (when my Amish Market finally discovers those, it's gonna be its definite graduation to coolest food store this side of the Guadalete). And, what the heck, cheap cologne or not, at the end of the season you get presents.

I mean how much of a bitter anorexic bore do you have to be to not like all or some of that? None of my readers, I am sure. All three of them (myself included).

The serious drawback of Navidad is that no matter how hard you try you can never reproduce that perfect Christmas of 1981. When, even though you knew there was something clearly non kosher (pun intended) in the Three Wise Men presents on January 6th, you still kind of believed in them and left them milk, cookies, and hay for the camels. When grandma cooked turkey with almonds and cyclopean mountains of pestiños. When mom bought the turrón de fruta that no one else liked just for you. When mom was there.

But no matter what I still refuse to join the ranks of of the jaded santaphobes. I still think it's the most wonderful time of the year. Sort of. Some years. So now, on to my 2009 Nochebuena dinner spread...

Evidently some green motherfucker stole my left ankle and my Christmas. Feliz Navidad everybody.

57 Channels (and nothin' on)

On the mend for several weeks... what to do? Finally taking on Don Quixote as I have been planning since 1988? meditating? taking Philosophy of Law online courses?

Nah, I’ll probably just watch some television.

I won’t pretend otherwise, I like TV. A lot. From the mid-seventies Japanese cartoons, wildly popular among the Spanish kids of that time (Mazinger Z, Heidi, Maja the bee…), until today’s Glee and Modern family, my life has been punctuated by a long succession of prime time quiz shows, comedy series and geeky nature documentaries.

My preferences are a little neurotic though. On the one hand I love science documentaries. Things like Life after people or Walking with Cavemen (presented by Alec Baldwin, woof!) I simply can’t get enough of. I love to order Chinese food and watch the two or three-hour specials without interruption. Hadn’t it been for those stupid logarithms and integrals in high school maybe I would have chosen the scientific baccalaureate and would have ended up discovering gigantic sauropod fossils in the Argentinean Pampa or scrutinizing the night sky from Mauna Kea...

But. There’s also the dark VH1-Bravoish side of me. The one that enjoys extremely guilty pleasures such as Rock of Love, Project Runway, Charm School, Top Chef and, of course, the latest of masterpiece of trash tv, Jersey Shore. I am sure that treatises are being written in universities around this country about all that crap, trying to explain why, oh why, we found so irresistibly fascinating the semi scripted romantic affairs of STD ridden big haired ladies or the last minute sewn chiffon ensemble conceived by some screaming queen from Ohio. I really have no explanation. Maybe it’s just that we love to see shameless people doing really stupid things to feel better about our not so remarkable selves. I don’t know. In any case it’s already Wednesday so only one more day till I get my fix of Mike the Situation and Snooki’s adventures in glamorous Seaside Heights, New Jersey. Thank God.

I'm bringing sexy back

So.

This is it. For the next few weeks this is gonna be my vantage point to the World. Fascinating, huh.

As usual I am late. Blogs stopped being cool circa 2004. But Rosario, not only does she make for a great daytime nurse but can also give some pretty good advice, so here we are. Ready to take by storm the blogosphere (that word sounds so silly already, talk about quick turnover of buzzwords).

As of right now I have no idea what I am gonna be blogging about. Will this be the new huffington post? Dlisted for geeks? A moving tale of self discovery and overcoming the hurdles of life, aka Jersey Shore? We shall see.

In the meantime you can have a look at my sexy legs and the awesome black cast (I could have had a purple one too, but I opted for Manhattan bitch black with a Chanelesque white fringe, so fashion forward) If only my real calves were as big as that cast...

Anyway Rosario and Massi are cursing my Cuisinart in Italian, I think it's time for dinner. Buon appetito!

What a difference a day makes

Three days, one hour and 4 minutes ago I was walking towards the East Village to have delicious Serrano ham eggs Benedict with a group of good friends. Apart from a couple of Duane Reade medicines and cornhusks (wtf, I know, one of Dan’s “indispensable” cooking utensils) my Christmas gift shopping was done. In two days' time I was flying home to Spain for the holidays. The first snowstorm of the season began hitting Manhattan right after I exited Astor Place subway station surrounded by the usual Saturday crowds in St. Mark’s place.

Three days, one hour and 3 minutes ago I was lying on the cold icy street, my leg broken and my prospects for the next few months irreparably disrupted. This is the chronicle of my new life out on a limb.