mascelta, maruecos, meals, manana, other miscellaneous things

How has it been two months. HOW. Two months is an eternity. In two months you can finish writing a significant part of your next novel. A cat can get pregnant and have its litter. Sourdough starters can rise. Cities can fall. The leaning Tower of Pisa can lean a little more. The pitch can drop.

I can already tell that leaving is going to hurt. This is fairly a dream, though both much and relatively little time has passed.

Also, the letter M is loosely the theme of this post, though clearly other letters are permitted to make an appearance.

-Morocco: is a beautiful and melancholy country. When I think about it, the image that comes to mind is one long mountain range, high and craggy with deep green valleys. And blue, blue cities. Also men wandering around in djbellahs, and no women in the streets at night. For taste, msmen with jibneh (a kind of soft farmer's cheese), honey and golden raisins, followed by an exceptionally tangy and creamy carton of plain yogurt. Which was also blue (the carton, not the yogurt) (though I probably still would've eaten it if it was blue...Sprinklins, anyone?). Sounds...camels mooing/braying/snorting/growling/various combinations of these sounds. Cloppity-clop of donkey hooves on stone streets. Alternatively Ke$ha and mellow acoustic cover-filled playlists on the bus. The bee-boppin 50's sounds of Grease (watched not once, but two times. The end where they fly into the air is no less baffling the second time around). Feelings...smooth Atlantic-buffered shells and crumbled concrete walls on fingertips. A roundish kind of vastness inside, a desire to sense everything without thought, to absorb it all and turn it over in my mind later. A sponge-like sensation, a wanting to get some part of the country in my pores.

Alas, nothing in the smell department that I can remember.

-Mirador de San Nicholas: and other views from the Albayzin in Granada (although there was no Sevilla/Granada post, it was a good, good trip). Across the way is the Alhambra.

-Mesa/mmmmmmmm: tapas. The entire class had a revelation when we went out to dinner the other night as part of an obligatory after-hours activity. We got all grumpy at the fact that we were going to have to pay a whole 15 EURO for a dinner (we are brats) and then we started eating and it was magical. The papas bravas were these solid hunks of potato, fork-sized and rather heavy looking. Not so. Biting was like biting into some kind of potato cream puff, the crispy exterior shattering into a million shards of starchy goodness and giving way to this, this -- I don't even know how to describe it, it was like a potato cloud, and then it melted in your mouth and all that was left behind was the snap of the garlic in the aioli and tomato-salsa-thing that was drizzled on top. And then the little bites of greens with the goat cheese that woke up the back of your tongue with its tartness, and the GOOD tomatoes (it's winter! where did they get these! WHAT IS THEIR SECRET). And the charred flatbread with the mushrooms and the strange cheese that was sweet and pungent at the same time. And the miracle that was papas con jamon y huevos, with the heads of roasted garlic all mellow and mushy at the bottom. And the pitchers of sangria that just. Kept. Coming.

I have previously and stupidly stated that Spanish food is good, but "too much of the same" and "simplistic."  This is a lie. In failing to appreciate the beautiful food baby that the marriage of a few (it's a polygamous relationship, I guess) really, really quality ingredients can produce, I tricked myself into thinking Spanish cooking was unimaginative. Completely, utterly tonta.

^No apologies for the preponderance of food-related thoughts here.

-Mayte: is sometimes a strange cross between an adult and a nina. A veces she's 100% a mother hen, with all her "comelo"s and "toma un postre," because you must always eat more than you are currently eating. She can also be quite sassy, which makes me want to find a better word than insolente, or fresco, to describe her. It's kind of like the word that would describe the archetype of a big sister, if such a word existed (does it?). She gives good boy advice, does not like vegetables and especially not onions, always finds something wrong with her tortilla patata (even though they're always good), cackles when she laughs, is not religious, likes bananas the best of all fruits, loves children, does not consider herself a futbol fan but still screams "TOMA" at the TV when Barcelona makes a significant comeback against Milan.

-Making: conversations with strangers. Some people have an innate talent for this -- they attract the attention of desconocidos through a mysterious combination of pheromones and friendliness -- and others not. I am in the latter category, but I admire people who can just pick up with other people on the spot like it's no big thang. Recently an intrepid couchsurfing amiga opened my eyes to the benefits of uncrossing your arms, removing your scowl and trusting strangers (with conversation, with ideas, with one's company -- everything). And another has done the same through the fearless attitude she maintains towards the world. No one is too intimidating or too strange to talk to in her eyes, and she's met some friggin sweet Spaniards because of it.

-Mascleta: actually, I'm gonna wait on this one. Don't quite get them yet, though I'm definitely a fan.

-Magicjack: can be useful.

-Missing: people, wastefully long showers, vegetables, carbohydrates other than pan (oatmeal oatmeal oatmeal or some rigatoni would be amazing), short walks to class. Having an income, however small. Large cups of black coffee. Cooking. Knowing where stuff is. Withdrawing money from my bank account and having it be the actual amount that will show up withdrawn later instead of 1.4 times that amount. Singing in chorus. Speaking English and not feeling guilty.

-Madeline: instead of Maddie. New country, new identity. I can dig it.