Saturday, December 23, 2006

Good Moments

One of the best, yet simple, things I love to do is lounge around in Mama Inés Café, calle Hortaleza, while chatting with my friends, especially Takeshi, which helps me forget all the burdens and occasional loneliness in my heart and lifts my spirit up.

A couple of weeks ago, Takeshi, Shin (a hunk japanese teacher with very nice personality) and I met at Chueca, the nightlife centre of Madrid, to spend a gayly night together in some cafes around there. Shin always stood out because of his physical appearance :) While Takeshi and I would ocasionally shine if chances allowed. And since we shared various characteristics in common, sometimes I even wondered if the Europeans could really tell one from another.

From Diurno Café to a Chinese restaurant in Fuencarral, we ended the night in the sanctuary of all gay men in Madrid, Mama Inés. We talked and simultaneously enjoyed men-watching as usual. The topics ranged from interesting anecdotes in our daily life to the success of asian twinks over Spanish men.

That night a couple of sissy gay men, a madrileño and a parisien, decided to join us. They were so passionate about Asian cultures, especially Japanese one. So the conversation went on, all about Japan. Questions about Thailand were at times asked, so I wouldn't feel left out. Observing Takeshi's reaction, I realised it took him some efforts to continue the conversation since the topics, on his part, weren't of his interests.

We continued our endless analysis on Spanish guys and other trivia, like a gay episode of Sex and the City or a milder version of Queer as Folk, in that dark cosy café until midnight. I was specially in good mood, mixed with a bit of longing for the past.

The Xmas illuminations on the streets, the hapiness, smiles and warm feeling from people around me were conspicuously perceptible, which made me think of my gay friends in Bangkok, of the time we spent chatting restlessly at nights, of my conversations with my Filipino friend Evans in "Africa" and, more than anything, of my boyfriend Pat whom I hadn't seen for years. It was a mix of emotions; optimistic, positive, yet sadly nostalgic.

Maybe I had spent too much time away from Bangkok and my Pat. Madrid, good as it was, couldn't always hold all my solitude accumulated during the past two years. Maybe it was time to return to my roots, even temporarily.

Friday, December 22, 2006

Living with the Enemy

Though this blog was originally created to keep my friends update about interesting aspects of my life, I've avoided certain delicate issues, filling the content up with my emotinally-exaggerated opinions or mentioning someone in specific with negative statements. This long-haul attempt, nevertheless, has just came to an abrupt halt precisely today.

Since the first day I moved in to this apartment, the essence of loathing and hatred for my uneducated and unrespectful flatmate, the columbian Jorge, has been making their own space in the inner me. Enough for the respect that I have been giving by not mentioning the shameful behaviour of his. From this paragraph on, everything I write is going to be sheerly emotional.

My feeling towards this wrecthed colombian is the mixture of different negative attitudes which can be summed up into abomination, pity, scorn and contempt. The reason? Nothing in particular, only that everything he does bothers me. His attitude, his action, his lifestyle, his speech, his accent, his laugh and etc. He's a tangible and solid form of abstract disgust to me.

Jorge the Columbian; this name brings back the memory of a person who likes to throw scandalous fiestas without any notice beforehand, let alone respect, mind you. Making noises and laughing out merrily and stupidly while enjoying leisure time on weekend's nights (Uh, well, that's not his fault since everyone DOES enjoy doing so...I'm full of prejudices here). He's so passionate about bar-hopping (and bed-hopping, another biased comment from me) that going out at night is one of the greatest features. Definitely a typical party animal who adores rock music with an unrefined attitude towards life. No serious matters! Just plain mirth and joy!(See Spain = Fiesta and Life is a Roller Coaster)

He is capable of turning our flat into a hotel by hosting his many friends every month, again without telling me who's coming and going; even a hotel receptionist is a lot better informed than me.

He represents a walking shame who lacks social decencies and the basic rules of cohabitations. Setting aside the fact that he rarely cleans the public domain of the house, some unwashed and dirty crockery accumulates here and there once in a while as a fruit of his disgusting behaviour.

Despite his job and monthly wage, this rueful sot is pretty picky about how to save more money by reducing light and water bills. He once told me to use the "half-quantity" function of the washing machine so that we would pay less for the water. But damn him, how that function was supposed to clean ALL my clothes at once, provided that there were many of them, if not a few, in there. He tries to make a saving out of necessary basic things in daily life, as to spend that particular money on vodkas, beers, rums, martinis or whatsoever that will colour up his merry life.

There are much more disturbing trivialities about this person I can spend all day long ranting about ceaselessly. But for fear of transmitting my contagious negative energy to my beloved readers, I will end it all here. At least, you now have some ideas of what kind of human being I'm living with. And with that, I'm satisfied.

This article admittedly serves me as a therapeutical solution, i.e. to help me get on with this miserable man in real life. But since it is extremely biased, I have decided to exclude it from the tag archive. It should be buried deep down in this pile of many blogs I've written, as my real feeling towards him kept at the darkest depth of my hateful side. Well hidden but never forgotten.

Friday, December 08, 2006

How to Kill Talking Spaniards

Gag them, shut their mouth up and in no time, they will finally burst out and die down due to the needs to...TALK.

My experience has proved that, generally speaking, the spaniards tend to be less capable of restraining themselves from the verbal expression.

The closed mouth means a significant blockage of speech and expression of ideas which may cause a stressful state. At least, that is my theory.

Stopping a spaniard from talking can't be more challenging as my experience has proved.

Enjoying the exchange of information and expressing themselves verbally is an essential part of the spanish people's daily life. Unlike most Brits or Asians, Spanish people can't stand the silence. It kills them. In order to survive, they need to talk, talk, talk and talk everywhere, be it at work, in class, metro, buses, theatres, elevators or in queues.

In my Master class, when it came to the arrangement of make-up classes (or whatever), it always took more time than necessary to draw a conclusion. The americans are the most resolute in this situation; they tried to keep the discussion straight to the point, while the Spaniards kept launching their suggestions and ocassional unrelevant comments across the room. As a traditional Asian (plus my low level of Spanish back then), I maintained my oriental silence. This, for example, never happened in my Diploma class where we were all foreigners.

In general public services such as banks or hospitals, the already sluggish administration is undermined by the staff's lack of alertness and energy; their priority being that talk first, serve later.

In Caja Madrid Bank, a lady staff took some time leisurely gossiping with her colleague before bothering herself to serve me (while keeping talking, of course). The same happened at times in Santander Bank. In La Paz Hospital, my japanese friend Takeshi, while giving his personal information to an admin staff, tried to show her a copy of his social security application form in vain. The girl, enjoying the conversation with her colleagues while attending us simultaneously, didn't even take a look at the document and told us that it was useless. o_O?! Takeshi made three attempts before the brain-dead lady realised that it wasn't a medical record but a social security thing (extremely necessary to get a free service).

In metro, there's a big difference between one in Bangkok and in Madrid. Everytime you catch a metro, you'll always come out of it with a sort of stories, even though you never attempt any sort of eavesdropping; what has happened to Juan, who has flirted with Marta in the club, with whom Natalia had sex last night, why the couple on the second floor has broken up, until when Ignacio, Salvador and Maria stayed at the party last night, the son of Mr.Perez is gay, etc. Mostly in Bangkok, talking loudly in metro ranks on the top of the list of bad manners. There's no need for other people to know about your problem, and so it's your duty to keep it private.

The same happens in elevators. It's one of the most awkward situations for the talkative Spaniards. I reckon it must be VERY uncomfortable for them to be trapped in a vertically moving box with such limited space like this. An honour for those who manage to keep their mouth shut without saying a word before the metallic doors slide open. :)

All in all, the Hispanic Iberians are inclined to excessive talking partly because of their frank nature and cultural formation. It's in their joyful daily life and can't be got rid of. Although sometimes it can be quite bothersome and despite some negative consequences, it's a strong uniqueness that forms a part of Spanish charm waiting to be discovered by any incoming foreign guests.

Until next time, enjoy listening!

Saturday, December 02, 2006

An XS guy in an XL city

When it comes to fashion, I always wish I were 10-cm taller. In Bangkok, I didn't have much trouble finding clothes that perfectly fitted me. But here in Madrid, my fashion life gets tougher and going shopping isn't a great fun anymore.

"Shopping" in my vocabulary also includes going from rack to rack in hope of finding the appropriate XS size that will hopefully fit my body.

I know that the europeans have bigger stature than the asians. But I fail to understand why most shops are totally flooded with XL and XXL. And this fact automatically erases me from the ideal customer list.

As an XS guy, I should theoretically avoid buying off the rack. However, this is practically impossible, especially when living in an XL city like Madrid. Going to the tailor is off the list; too luxurious a choice. So, what's left to be done? Here are some tips that worked for me and you might be interested in :)

First - Keep up with any change each season. When the new collection comes out, go immediately and find your targets before the others do.

Second - If that doesn't work, especially in discount season, the preparation and survey must be made a lot earlier. Lingering on other issues is a complete waste of time in such critical moment and may makes the mission impossible; all of the XS will magically disappear from the racks ON THE FIRST DAY (And, ironically, that's when you realise that you aren't the ONLY XS in the city!!!)

Third - Since the small size is proportionately minimum in most shops, going to bigger stores or busier shops is also a solution. There are more choices and, therefore, more XS. Going to less frequented shops in some deserted areas doesn't always guarantee the availability.

Four - When the hope seems thin, just put the priority first on the size and then the design. This option, for someone who takes fashion so seriously, equals suicide. But as for the XS minority, do we have other choice?

Five - When one of your feet have already crossed the threshold of desperation, go to the Kid's section, there you will find something that miraculously fits you. Watch out for a Mickey Mouse patch on the back of the shirt. If it perfectly fits you but with Pokemon smiling on the sleeves, leave it right then and there. You'd better look shabby than ridiculous.

Six - If all of these tips fail to get you a good set of clothes, go home and wait till the next season. Don't try to buy any M or L with a thought that they might fit you because they won't! You'll end up looking at your wardrobe with regrets, wondering how those clothes have made their way in.

Additionally, when I buy a pair of jeans, I have to bear in mind that some extra money will fly off my purse for the fixing. They're ALWAYS few inches too long. I can't do anything but pay the money and curse myself for being too short (and too thin).

Physically pumping myself up is also a solution, a long-term one. But since I'm not energetic enough at the moment, the choice is ruled out.

Till I find a long-lasted solution, my XS fashion pilgrimage in this XL city will go on.

Friday, December 01, 2006

Periodontitis : Another Lesson Learned

I'll put this as easy as possible. When you get sick, just go to the hospital. Don't expect the weird symtom to vanish without any proper treatment.

Actually this is what we have all been told since we were kids. However, some of us (such as me) don't give a damn about it. On the contrary, all we (or me, in this case) do is wait, wait and wait until things get worse before going to the doctor (crying, moaning, begging or whatsoever).

When the first sign of Gingivitis appeared, I hardly paid attention to it, hoping that it would miraculously disappear soon. Despite of the constant (but wrong) dental hygiene that I usually did, the gum got redder than ever and bled easily when brushed. The gradual recession began to make a notably fast progress until I couldn't hardly brush my teeth anymore for fear that it might cause more damage to my gum. In a nutshell, it's a Gingivitis-turned-Periodontitis situation.

It took me almost a year to gather my courage to go to the dentist. It's just as well that I didn't wait any longer or I would have lost more gum or, in the worst case, my teeth.

I paid a fortune for the treatment; root scraping and smoothing (technically called Curettage). The treatment, though painless, was a real horror to me since I didn't have a good impression of going to the dentist at all. After a couple of treatment sessions, my gum magically turned to its normal condition. And here I am! Eating apples and nuts again!!! That was worth it. :)

Sometimes you are told and taught but never care to remember. Only being there in a certain situation would you learn to listen and follow. And such was my case.