Hold the mustard s'il vous plaît

On our overnight bus from Barcelona into France, Catalina and I made a list of all the words we know in French:
Sacre (sacred), bleu (blue), s'il vous plaît (please), chapeau (hat), crepe (crepe), un-deux-trois (123), singe (monkey), Perrier (Perrier).

Looks like we’ll only be able to politely order one, two, or three crepes filled with sacred blue monkeys wearing hats. We might gain weight.

Le singe bleu: "See what I'll do to you next time you try to put me in a crepe? And no hats either. I told you I'm not a hat monkey. They make my ears look big."

Can't someone just start a war over there or something?

Remember when I said I hated the Vietnamese government and talked shit about them (here)? Well, they’re back to their old games, they are. Those bastards.

Thich Nhat Hanh is a Vietnamese monk. And he’s not part of the government, so I like him. Even MLK Jr. liked him and nominated him for a Nobel Peace Prize. Visiting his monastery is what got me interested in meditation and sparked my interest in taking this very trip.

But the Vietnamese government has hated him since the 60s. During the Vietnam war, he called for peace. This was speaking out against the government, so they kicked him out of the country. For good. For calling for peace! Then, years later, the Vietnamese decided they needed foreign investors and wanted off the US’s blacklist regarding religious freedom. Yes, even though they have museums dedicated to blaming the US for every Vietnamese malady in current civilization, the government wanted to be friends again.

So.... Forty years after kicking him out, they invited Thich Nhat Hanh back to his homeland. He came, established Bat Nha monastery in the mountains, and began to give peace a chance. People flocked to him and his interpretation of what Buddhism should be (slightly less superstitious than the Buddhism the government likes). Soon he had 400 monks and nuns living there. He encourages people to stop when they hear a bell ring, take a breath, be thankful that they’re alive, and go find a flower. Of course he’s gonna have followers. The man lulls your brain into a peaceful trance at just the sight of his gentle eyes:



“Uh oh,” said the Socialist Vietnamese government. “Young people have power, and most of Thich Nhat Hanh’s 400 monks are young and well-educated.” I can just imagine some 3-foot Vietnamese version of Glen Beck saying, “We can’t let those capitalists capitalize. They’re terrorists. They’re not even born in Vietnam. We better get ‘em.”

Now, after Vietnam has been taken off the US religion blacklist, become a member of the WTO and attracted more foreign investment, they can send a group to destroy Thich Nhat Hanh’s Bat Nha monastery.

And that’s what they did on Sept 27th. They busted in and tore Bat Nha to the ground.

A mob 150 deep grabbed the meditating monks and forced them outside “like animals.” They kicked in doors, threw supplies and books into the rain, and tore up all monastic property. What did the monks do? They continued meditating. The nuns locked themselves into their hamlets, but the mob persisted, forcing them out with weapons. Most of the monastics are from 15-25 with nowhere to go.

The Thich Nhat Hanh camp says:

Our goal is not to condemn the instigators of violence. Experience teaches us that judging and demonizing are counter-productive. All human beings experience suffering and seek a way to attain well-being: some through power, others through spiritual pursuits. Without judging or imposing our point of view, we can legitimately affirm our need to live in peace and harmony and seek deeper understanding.

For goodness sake, the man is a beacon of peace. I heard this story and wanted to go kick some dictatorial ass. I could too. I was taller than every man in that there country. What he’s asking is that we all stay informed at helpbatnha.org and spread the word. Also, since the U.S. has decided to remove Vietnam from the list of Countries of Particular Concern (CPC) regarding religious freedom, we need everyone to urge the U.S. to change that status! Please email Hillary Clinton directly; a sample letter is here.

I will now go await a truck of small Vietnamese men who will surely be waiting for me with rice sacks the moment I hit ‘publish.’ Nice knowing you.

I don't know. What do you want to do?

For the past eight months, I have been asking and answering the most important questions: Where do you want to have dinner? What do you want to do today? What country do you want to see next?
I sometimes felt like a lunatic, sitting on a lone hotel bed talking to myself:

“Ok, do we have enough money to see south India?”
“I don’t think so. Plus I’d rather go to Kerala when we have much more time.”
“I know! But who knows when we’ll be back. We should definitely go.”
“Oh, you’re such a free spirit.”
“No, you are.”

Ah, those were the days. Now, upon crossing into the West, I’ve found myself in the arms of several friends. Shit. I mean, I want to see my friends. I have yearned for some time now to be in the presence of someone who already knows me and why I’m me, someone who doesn’t need to ask from where I come, how old I am, and how many siblings I have (and then, like everyone does, say ‘Oh, you’re an only child. You must be spoiled. Ha ha ha.’).

BUT... This is the abrupt end to my independence. Now I will have to be asking questions and waiting for someone else to answer. And when those answers are not the same answers I would give, I might have to.... compromise! Yikes. No No No!

Compromise!? Why? How? It’s all hogwash, I say. But these aren’t travelers who will recede to faraway lands and occasionally say hello to me on Facebook. These are people I’ll be seeing for the rest of my life. So here I go, armed with phrases like 'I’m open to suggestions,' 'It’s your turn to choose a restaurant.' and of course, 'I could go either way.'

Alas, the days of letting the wind carry me wherever I please have ended. I guess I could possibly work to prolong them, but now I will have to ask out loud, “Is it ok if the wind carries us to wherever we please today? Did the wind just carry you to a place that pleases you or shall we use our feet instead of the wind to get us out of here?”

Sigh.
It’ll be okay. As long as my friends mostly want to do what I say.

Roberto wanted to go bowling. I wanted to drink wine in a cave. Here, we are in a cave. Compromising at slow start.

Melissa wanted to go to the Prado and sketch Goya's works. I wanted to go shopping. We compromised by shopping.

Um, my compromising was not going well here. I tied Catalina to a leash so she would go Javier Bardem hunting with me. And I made her wear a diaper so she wouldn't slow us down.

Here the compromising is getting better. I came to this park because she wanted to. But when it was boring, I pushed her over the ledge. Sorry 'bout that Catalina. How's your cast?

Yo hablo spanglish. So que.

Despues de años y años de practice and after many many novios argentinos, me he dado cuenta de que my spanish will never be perfect. Voy a siempre hablar Spanglish. Y that’s okay.

So, here’s a story in my preferred language:

En 1936 hubo una guerra civil en Spain. My grandfather y su familia were forced to leave el país secretly in the middle of the noche. Mi bisabuela llevó unas joyas en su boca para venderlas mas tarde. La familia walked desde Barcelona hasta Italia! Pues, eso dice mi abuela.

They stayed in a resort converted for refugees. Allá mi abuelo, con 16 años, descubrió su talento and passion for playing cards, especially poker. Jugó muchisimo! Y ganó muchisimo! Contra hombres mucho older than he. He didn’t say a word to his parents about his winnings.

One day they told him he would be better off in NYC donde le esperaba un amigo de su padre. And so, con solo el traje que llevaba puesto, mi abuelo boarded a ship bound for America. Antes de marcharse, he gave a sus padres todo el dinero que habia ganado! Of course my great grandmother cried. Que dulce!

Mi abuelo llegó a los EEUU, learned English, joined the army, and married una Boricua. Nació mi padre. Y then my aunt. This new family moved back to Spain for a while, but decidieron que Chicago era mejor para ellos. Muchos años despues, I was born. Y aqui estamos.

Cada vez que estoy en Barcelona, I like to imagine my grandfather in the streets as a boy. Before the war, su familia tuvo una tienda de typewriters en la calle Jose Antonio. Franco changed the names of many streets, but I found un taxista bien bien viejo y he remembered la calle from before the war. Me llevó a la tienda! Now it is a boutique hotel. But I stood in front studying the sidewalk, wondering how many times my grandfather had waited in that exact spot.

Esta vez en Barcelona, I looked for small cafés y restaurantes establecidos antes de 1936. I found two! En los dos pedi churros y chocolate. I was sure my grandfather had probably ordered the same. Y me los comi parada en la barra because that’s how my grandfather would have done it. Es deliciosa la comida española pero es una delicia mexclar la historia con la imaginación.

Dear olives, bow ties, and ham drawings: I love you!

Madrid is alive. With people. With culture. With men who have sexy accents. With retired couples who hold hands and take walks at night. With loitering teenagers. With street musicians. With people and more people enjoying dinners on patios throughout the city.

It’s metropolitan, and everyone walks with purpose through the maze of the city, around behemoth government buildings and through the cozy cobblestone streets. But that's not all that I love about it. There's also: the smell, the fresh bread, the people, the accent, the olives, the plazas, the way everyone talks with such emotion, the fact that you order a wine and they automatically give you a tapa, the possibility to see Javier Bardem around every corner, the sangria, the tradition, the bow ties worn by waiters at traditional cafes, the churros and chocolate, the theaters, the beautiful beautiful coffee, the park, the men playing futbol in the park, la musica, the cheery voice on the metro that tells you what stop is next...

but especially the people. I was sitting alone in a plaza smiling, of course, because I was observing the magnificence around me. A hunched old man walked passed me, turned towards me on his cane and said, "Que cara tan bonita tienes! Tienes cara de muñeca." (What a pretty face you have-- it's the face of a doll.) The fact that we were both enjoying the other's presence almost brought me to tears. Ah, Madrid. Estoy enamorada.

How could you not love a city where they draw cute little hams to advertise their meat section:


Or where old people sing their hearts out and play accordions!:


Or where random drag queens congregate:


Or where they sell horchata with big farts (adding -on to a word in spanish means 'big'):


Or where you can get a free fake mustache with the purchase of any two wigs: