the Vazquez family

We arrived in Madrid around 7:30 in the morning with the foolproof plan of "find Chelo Vazquez," a woman who neither of us had ever met in real life and who doesn't speak English. We looked around the bus station, wondering if she would be inside or outside; we stared at a lot of strangers wondering if they were Chelo; but then she arrived, and she was entirely unmistakeable. Chelo, her husband (Felix), and her son (Pablo) are completely amazing.

Therefore, we've been staying in a suburb outside of Madrid called Majadahonda. They are great hosts and guides; our first morning, Chelo and Pablo took us for churros and chocolate, an incredible Spanish breakfast, and gave us a quick drive around the city to orient us (only moderately successful), and then took us walking around several of the sights, palacios (palaces), catedrales (cathedrals), and plazas of Madrid. Pablo took us into Madrid one evening and another day, Toledo another day, and he and Chelo together took us to El Escorial and Segovia yet another day. Chelo takes more pictures of these places than I do. I'll write about Madrid a bit later, but this post is dedicated to the Vazquez family, so tourism can wait!

The language barrier is an interesting situation. Pablo speaks English, and Felix speaks some Italian, but at dinner, for example, there's a whole lot of Spanish flying around. I can understand a lot of it--when they speak to me, because when they're speaking to each other it's another language entirely--but I don't know how to say very much. However, they're the nicest and friendliest people, and my stupidity doesn't seem to bother them. On the third or fourth night, actually, they told me that my Spanish was already better than when I arrived. Of course, it's always easier to talk after a few glasses of wine (more confidence, less thinking too much), and Felix always keeps our glasses full. Their Spanish accent sounds very different than all the Latin-American Spanish I'm used to hearing, though. Their pronunciation is different, and I'm actually trying to modify my Spanish a bit, because when I move to Italy, it seems more prudent to speak the local pronunciation. So, as an example, they don't pronounce the "c" and the "v" in cerveza like "s"; rather, they pronounce it more like the "th" sound in "thin," so it sounds like "thervetha" instead. It's very difficult to explain in writing, but in speech it's a very clear distinction. They also pronounce their j's, ge's, and gi's with a lot more throat. So basically, ejercicio is absolutely impossible to pronounce. But I'm getting better. A little bit.

Chelo is like the sweetest woman on earth. It doesn't even matter that we don't speak the same language. She gave Carrie and I gifts on our second day here (a shirt for me!), she makes us serious lunches (two or three dishes, plus dessert) every day, she sends us platters with horchata and snacks in the afternoon, and she laughs all the time--she likes explaining things in Spanish. We danced in her car on the way to Segovia after we all agreed that we liked a particular song that we always hear on the radio, and I asked her in Spanish what the song was called. She didn't know, but the next day she handed me a post-it note with the name and artist written on it. She searched online at work through popular summer songs to find out for me.

Felix is awesome, as well. He's really friendly. He summons me to show me things like his grill and a robot that cleans their pool. He taught me a trick with wine corks, and, as I already mentioned, he never leaves my glass empty. He gave us España souvenir bracelets and some currency for our arrival in Morocco. At dinner last night, he ordered all kinds of food, kept my glass full of tinto de verano (a bubbly red-wine drink), and then ordered a platter with five different liqueurs for Carrie and I to taste. Then he asked which was our favorite (pacharán--sloe gin), and then he ordered three glasses of it. And then two more rounds of shots for the three of us. In fact, emptying my glass in front of him is a bit dangerous, because he always tells waiters to bring me more of whatever I'm drinking, or does it himself if we're eating at home. I feel accepted into his Spanish drinking culture. Really, I don't think I had much of a choice to begin with, but I'm very happy about it--the acceptance, that is, not the drinking!

They have been amazing and generous hosts, and I wish I knew how to pay them back. If any of them read this blog... ¡No hay suficientes gracias en todo el mundo! ¡Hacéis demasiado! ¡Muchas muchas muchas gracias!