Photo: Saturday picnic in Retiro

In case you needed any further explanation why I haven’t been updating this blog, observe: it’s been over 80 in Madrid this week! If that isn’t cause for buying a new sundress and picnicking in Retiro, then I have no idea what is.

I have also been busy visiting Andalucia, learning how to cook the Luisa method and preparing for the end of the semester, when I 1) have a lot of annoying tests and projects and 2) hit up Paris and Primavera before flying home.

Since Google weather predicts rain all week, I may elaborate on all this … at some point. Soon!

Life vs. blog

It's hard to keep a blog AND look this cool, y'all.

Readers, readers, readers. I owe you my apologies. Every time I promise to settle down and be a reliable blogger, I just flood y’all with a pile of Luisa quotes and disappear for a few more days.

The problem for me right now, LOATH as I am to admit it, is that I’m kind of nearing the final stretch. On May 13, my time in Madrid comes to an end — I’ll be in Europe until the 31st (I did not come all this way just to narrowly miss Primavera Sound), but I’ve only got about three weeks left.

This means that I am currently far more interested in travelling/spending time outdoors/going for copas/seeing concerts/etc. than I am in updating this blog.

Does this mean La Expatriada is done? Claro que no, my friends, claro que no. In fact, I intend to relaunch this with a tricky new Spain-related focus when I return to los EE.UU.

Until then, however, I have other things to worry about — like really enjoying and taking advantage of my last few weeks in Spain. So if you don’t hear much from me over the next few weeks, just remember I have an even better, totally-worth-the-wait project on tap for June.

I’ll still try to update once or twice a week, but the WoTDs and all that are on hold until I get home.

Luisa dice … break the mold.

“There’s nothing wrong with it! Just wipe the green part off. That’s how food gets in the fridge.”

– Luisa, on an extremely moldy can of whipped cream. For the record, I did not eat it.

Word of the Day: Putada

This is indeed a word I've chosen to apply to our nation's capital.

WORD OF THE DAY: PUTADA (noun)

Means: A bitch, a pain in the ass, a f*ck-up
In a sentence: “Escribir este ensayo es de verdad una putada.” (Writing this essay is truly a bitch.)

Let’s be honest: everyone’s favorite Words of the Day are the swearwords. I wish this particular palabrota hadn’t come up in relation to my summer living situation, but así es la vida, eh?

I found out on Monday that, as of June 7, I’ll be living and interning in Washington, D.C. — a city that I currently have very little love for. The announcement was something of a surprise (read: it was a profound and aggravating shock) and I’ve been pretty bummed about it for the past three days.

“Es una mierda (shitty),” I told a friend.

“No, es una putada,” he replied — explaining that this fantastic word is basically una mierda on steroids.

All things considered, that’s suitable, I guess!

Luisa dice … add some canela.

“Did you know cinnamon is an aphrodisiac? No, seriously. If you don’t feel like making love, you just put some in your coffee and … well. That’s that.”

– Luisa, offering Meredith some cinnamon. I couldn’t make this stuff up.

Photo: Children watching sheep in the Rif Mountains, Morocco

Photo: A lamp shop in Chefchaouen, Morocco

Culture Shock!: Morocco

Watch out, y'all -- Morocco is a crazy place!

I’m afraid I couldn’t contain this Culture Shock! to just one aspect of my Morocco trip — if you’ve ever been anywhere within a 50-mile radius of North Africa, you’ll understand there are FAR too many contenders for that singular award.

Let’s try a top five, shall we? And y’all can let me know if I’m forgetting anything.

1. Everybody is so damn … nice.

No offense to Spaniards, who still molan mucho, but I’ve never felt so welcomed anywhere as I did in Morocco. For the first two nights I stayed with a Moroccan woman named Aoufiya, who insisted we eat mountains of couscous, take afternoon naps (… in her bed) and gave us her address at the end of the stay — with strict instructions that we were to call her and stay with her if we ever came back to Rabat. Outside of the homestay, old ladies and little kids stopped us on the street to say hello, welcome or whatever other English words they knew.

2. It would take years to learn these table manners.

… unless, of course, you already possess the singular gift of eating couscous with your bare hands. Moroccans traditionally eat out of a communal bowl and without utensils, even when the food is really tricky — say couscous or shredded rghaif. If this wasn’t difficult enough, it’s also considered unclean to use your left hand. Righties of the world may shrug that off, but I was in a state of near-panic when I saw the “no left hand” commandment in our guidebook.

Photo: Children in the Rif Mountains, Morocco

Photo: Oranges on the terrace, Rabat