Capri -- more than pants

Ah, the island of Capri. Crowded with noisy tourists (many of whom sadly belonged to my tour group), zig-zagging streets lined with designer shops boasting merchandise I could never dream of affording. I walked away from my day in Capri about 50 euros poorer and bearing one of the most spectacular sunburns of my fair-skinned life. And I loved every minute of it.

In case you're wondering what brought up this moment of reminiscing, it was this article in the International Herald Tribune: http://www.iht.com/articles/2005/07/24/news/trcapri.php

On an unrelated note — the small town where I work is having Sidewalk Sales day. From my big window in the newspaper office on Main Street, I can see some of the comings and goings. It makes me a little sad. Since we're all overworked Americans and this is a weekday, it seems the only Sidewalk Sales customers are old people and housewives with little children. Probably just as well, because it's been my experience that such sales usually only offer overpriced antiques and stuff nobody really needs. Kind of like El Rastro in Madrid: http://www.travelinginspain.com/madrid/el_rastro.htm

Enough blogging. "If I don't crunch those numbers — doesn't really matter." Or something to that effect. (That's a Chandler Bing quote from "Friends," in case you're wondering.)

Una manzana a day keeps the doctor away

[Recently I wrote to the author of the link above, Sal DeTraglia, who publishes an excellent blog on life in Spain. I e-mailed him in response to his blog entry, "It was a pleasure to disserve you." Here is part of what I wrote... posted here for posterity, and because I'm in a nostalgic mood. Also check out www.expatica.com, which is by far the best English-language roundup of Spanish news that I've encountered online.]

I traveled to Cordoba toward the end of my 3-month visit, and during the last week, I became so ill that the friend I was staying with hauled me off to the emergency room. (It was later established that I had mononucleosis and strep throat.)
The gentleman at the desk asked for my nombre — "Angela" — then my appellidos — "[my Anglo, one-syllable last name]". He couldn't understand. "Just [last name]?" Once we established that I only had one appellido, my computer-generated name tag was handed to me, and it read "Angela [last name] X."
After a typically long wait, we were whisked into an examining room, where a nurse, nonchalantly and without warning, jabbed my arm to draw blood for a test. Then the harried doctor arrived. My Spanish is pretty good, but my throat was swollen, making it hard to speak. I tried to explain my symptoms to him. "Does she speak Spanish?" he asked my Spanish friend, ignoring me. My friend looked puzzled and replied that I did. Even so, he addressed all his questions and comments to her during the entire exam, except to grunt orders at me in Spanish. "Lie down." "Open your mouth."
My favorite part of the exam was when (like the nurse, with no forewarning) Dr. Rude pushed my blouse up to my breasts to check for any swollen organs. Um, nice to meet you, doctor!