When I was an elementary student and a lone asian face in middle of nowhere texas, the other kids had a little saying. They would pull the corners of their eyes and move them in time to a sing-song of "Chinese, Japanese, Korean." For Chinese they would push their fingers up creating a downward slant with their eyes; for Japanese they would pull the corners of their eyes down creating an upwards slant; and for Korean they would pull the corners back up to normal creating a horizontal slit with their eyes.
I was never really offended by this routine. I was too young to know what racism was and I was more confused why Korean eyes were somehow a half-way point between Chinese and Japanese. Since then, I've yet to experience the feeling of being the lone Asian...until now. That's a bit of a lie. But I'll explain.
There's an expression here in Spain: "Trabajar como un chino." Work like a Chinese person. Virtually all of the Asians here in Madrid are Chinese and fairly recent immigrants who live in the "seedy" neighborhood of Lavapies--which borders my street. They live here with all the other immigrants from Latin America, Africa, and the Middle East. And as far as I've seen, and confirmed by Spaniards that I've met, they keep to themselves. The middle-aged couples run wholesale stores, convenient stores, or restaurants that serve bar-style Spanish food. Someone told me that there are laws that keep businesses from staying open all day, but if there weren't, the Chinese surely wouldn't stop working. These Chinese immigrants are Spaniards. They are Madrilenos. Just not the ones I had come to know via my Lonely Planet.
On one night out, a stocky girl in semi-goth waddled over to me and asked in a thickly accented English,"Where are you from?" I told her in Spanish, "I'm from Texas!!!!!" (I was a little tipsy). I knew exactly what she wanted to know, but I wasn't going to give it to her that easily. She asked again (this time in Spanish) "No, no, where are your parents from?" "They're from Los Angeles," I replied. She kept on asking me where "I was from" and finally I conceded and told her Korea because quite frankly I had lost interest in the conversation on first waddle. "Oh ok! Korean. We think you look very Tokyo. My friends and I bet that you were from Tokyo." I hope the winners of the bet got a good deal.
I should have been flattered. I love Tokyo. I've never been, but I'll admit a sense of pride when people in Korea tell me I dress like a Japanese. But it wasn't flattering. I've been called chino on the streets in the most endearing of tones--"chinito!!!"--as if I were a Japanese school girl. And I've also been muttered to as a chino or given sideways glances as if I were the SARS. I'm often the only Asian person in an entire club or bar, and by the way I've been treated at times, I could see why the Chinese here don't make more efforts to assimilate.
Ah, I just used the word assimilate. I promise I won't delve too far into issues yellow. But here in Spain, it's all downward and upward slanted eyes; the only exposure they have of koreans is a potential nuclear threat. There's no room for a Korean that's not an immigrant Chinese or a high-rolling Japanese tourist. But every time I walk by a small bar/grill on the way home and see the chinese owners behind the counter with the Spanish customers, I can't help but think of my mom back at home in her own deli with all her customers. I definitely feel a connection with this community, further evidenced by fleeting moments of eye-contact with other Chinese on the streets, and at the same time I feel the need to dissociate myself from this group that's so looked down upon by the hard-partying madrilenos. The story of my life: wanting to belong, but having to reject. After all wouldn't you rather be, as the Spaniards would put it, a funky Tokyo than a seedy Chinese?
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Friday, April 20, 2007
Stomping Grounds
The summer before I started college I was determined to be able to run a mile without stopping. During my breaks from work, I would go to the nearby park and push myself to finish a mile. Just one little mile under the oppressive heat of the midday Texas sun.
I remember struggling to finish that one lap around the park and thinking to myself, "how did this happen?" I used to be quite the star athlete back in the day--don't laugh. I'm serious. I was a force to be reckoned with on the kickball and wallball circuit back in elementary school. I won several sprints at the Aledo Intermediate School Field Day AND...if that weren't enough, I won the Barnyard Race with my partner in crime (combination of potato sack race, wheelbarrow race, and balance-a-potato-on-a-spoon race). So yes, I will toot my own horn and say that I was on the fast track to high school jock-dom. And here I found myself, the lone runner, in a grass field park, showered in my own sweat, trying to finish...a mile.
Suffice it to say that I can run a mile now. More than a mile if you want. I'm no cross-country star or marathoner but I've taken quite a liking to running. I don't know what about it I like so much; perhaps the fact that you're constantly moving, trying to get somewhere. Something about it feels very much "at home." I don't know why. Falling into rhythm, listening to my ipod, sweating in the sun. It's all very comforting. Even when I look at my anorexic (as the tabloids would say of Nicole or Lindsay) wrists and arms and think "i could really use some more upper body work," it's still comforting.
Since my amateur days pre-college I've been able to feel this comfort, this feeling of being "at home" all over the world. There's nothing better than putting yourself into a routine, whether it be for a mere 30 minutes or over the course of an entire year. A list of my past stomping grounds: Austin, TX; Amherst, MA; Boston, MA; Manhattan, NY; San Francisco, CA; Seoul, Korea...
And now Madrid, Spain. Some pictures of where I've spent time pumping endorphins.
I remember struggling to finish that one lap around the park and thinking to myself, "how did this happen?" I used to be quite the star athlete back in the day--don't laugh. I'm serious. I was a force to be reckoned with on the kickball and wallball circuit back in elementary school. I won several sprints at the Aledo Intermediate School Field Day AND...if that weren't enough, I won the Barnyard Race with my partner in crime (combination of potato sack race, wheelbarrow race, and balance-a-potato-on-a-spoon race). So yes, I will toot my own horn and say that I was on the fast track to high school jock-dom. And here I found myself, the lone runner, in a grass field park, showered in my own sweat, trying to finish...a mile.
Suffice it to say that I can run a mile now. More than a mile if you want. I'm no cross-country star or marathoner but I've taken quite a liking to running. I don't know what about it I like so much; perhaps the fact that you're constantly moving, trying to get somewhere. Something about it feels very much "at home." I don't know why. Falling into rhythm, listening to my ipod, sweating in the sun. It's all very comforting. Even when I look at my anorexic (as the tabloids would say of Nicole or Lindsay) wrists and arms and think "i could really use some more upper body work," it's still comforting.
Since my amateur days pre-college I've been able to feel this comfort, this feeling of being "at home" all over the world. There's nothing better than putting yourself into a routine, whether it be for a mere 30 minutes or over the course of an entire year. A list of my past stomping grounds: Austin, TX; Amherst, MA; Boston, MA; Manhattan, NY; San Francisco, CA; Seoul, Korea...
And now Madrid, Spain. Some pictures of where I've spent time pumping endorphins.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Who's in Your Lonely Planet?
On the cover of my Lonely Planet Madrid is a picture of a young man and woman kissing passionately in the rain contrasted with a photo of a hallway of some old, traditional building, symmetrical columns leading to some unknown destination. Madrid: the perfect mix of contemporary passion and all things traditionally Spanish. I knew this well before I set foot in Madrid, even before I got on board my flight to Spain. Nights before my adventure to Spain, Lonely Planet had already assured me that my 7 weeks would be the best 7 weeks of my life.
People: "The young, laid-back and sassy Madrid of the 21st century is a radically different world to that of the parents and grandparents...Liberated from the shackles that bound their parents, those who grew up in the post-Franco years did so believing that theirs was a world without limits."
Ok, so I'm not quite convinced that every madrileno lives life with a carpe diem attitude, but now I'm curious. If Lonely Planet came make madrilenos sound this good, let's see what it has to say about some other people.
Korea: "Koreans are a people obsessed with nature, and with mountains in particular. Where you travel, you'll see Koreans out in the open air, clad in the latest adventure fashions, pushing ever onward and upward."
I hate climbing mountains.
Barcelona: "...it's always on the biting edge of architecture, food, fashion, style, music and good times...The people, with their exuberance, their creative spirit, their persistent egalitarianism, will fascinate you."
I respectfully disagree. Too many dreadlocks.
Dallas: "Dallas is the most mythical city in Texas, with a past and present rich in all the stuff of which American legends are made."
Only if Tex-mex is considered a legend.
North Korea: North Korea is one of the world's most bizzare countries...a slew of quirky Kim-centric sights are the reasons to visit."
???
I'm not really sure why the series is called "Lonely Planet." According to the Lonely Planet series, everyone everywhere is pretty alright, even in "quirky" North Korea. So what more is there to these guides than a little bit of reassurance for those pre-travel jitters?
Not to say that my Lonely Planet Madrid hasn't been completely useless. But despite the wealth of insider tips, it's failed to explain to me that yes, you will feel lonely regardless of how extensively we gush about the sights and frights. I'm not going to go too much into this, lest this become another complaint box a la summer 2006, but truth be told this past week has been quite lonely. Not just alone; lonely. The one thing that my Lonely Planet didn't really prepare me for. Anyone could have told me this and my mom did question my desires to come here for 7 weeks but somehow I was already lost in my fantasies of livin' la vida loca with these "laid-back and sassy" Madrilenos.
But all is not in vain. Getting to spend enough time to get to the point of "lonely" has taught me that flying solo into all parts of this lonely planet isn't so much fun. I don't if I'm just getting older, bored, antsy to speak english, or hormonal; life is better with a familiar face, if not to make out with in the rain, then to just have by your side.
Pictures of my street and apartment:
People: "The young, laid-back and sassy Madrid of the 21st century is a radically different world to that of the parents and grandparents...Liberated from the shackles that bound their parents, those who grew up in the post-Franco years did so believing that theirs was a world without limits."
Ok, so I'm not quite convinced that every madrileno lives life with a carpe diem attitude, but now I'm curious. If Lonely Planet came make madrilenos sound this good, let's see what it has to say about some other people.
Korea: "Koreans are a people obsessed with nature, and with mountains in particular. Where you travel, you'll see Koreans out in the open air, clad in the latest adventure fashions, pushing ever onward and upward."
I hate climbing mountains.
Barcelona: "...it's always on the biting edge of architecture, food, fashion, style, music and good times...The people, with their exuberance, their creative spirit, their persistent egalitarianism, will fascinate you."
I respectfully disagree. Too many dreadlocks.
Dallas: "Dallas is the most mythical city in Texas, with a past and present rich in all the stuff of which American legends are made."
Only if Tex-mex is considered a legend.
North Korea: North Korea is one of the world's most bizzare countries...a slew of quirky Kim-centric sights are the reasons to visit."
???
I'm not really sure why the series is called "Lonely Planet." According to the Lonely Planet series, everyone everywhere is pretty alright, even in "quirky" North Korea. So what more is there to these guides than a little bit of reassurance for those pre-travel jitters?
Not to say that my Lonely Planet Madrid hasn't been completely useless. But despite the wealth of insider tips, it's failed to explain to me that yes, you will feel lonely regardless of how extensively we gush about the sights and frights. I'm not going to go too much into this, lest this become another complaint box a la summer 2006, but truth be told this past week has been quite lonely. Not just alone; lonely. The one thing that my Lonely Planet didn't really prepare me for. Anyone could have told me this and my mom did question my desires to come here for 7 weeks but somehow I was already lost in my fantasies of livin' la vida loca with these "laid-back and sassy" Madrilenos.
But all is not in vain. Getting to spend enough time to get to the point of "lonely" has taught me that flying solo into all parts of this lonely planet isn't so much fun. I don't if I'm just getting older, bored, antsy to speak english, or hormonal; life is better with a familiar face, if not to make out with in the rain, then to just have by your side.
Pictures of my street and apartment:
Friday, April 06, 2007
A Large Popcorn with EXTRA Butter, Please
I was walking around Barcelona in Parc de la Ciutadella trying to think of something to describe my experience and then I came up with it: movie theater popcorn. This may have been a result of a foul smell and my sudden craving for popcorn. With artificial butter. So hear me out.
Going to the movies has become an EXPERIENCE. Sitting in uncomfortable seats, crying babies in rated-R films, cell phones ringing, and to track back a little further, standing awkwardly in the parking lot post-movie for the parentals. What would American adolescence be without the movie theater? And who hasn't had their share of a collective bucket of popcorn greased, and greased, and greased, and then shaken for equal saturation, and then greased one more. I remember when our local theater put out the do-it-yourself butter machines where you could push a button and saturate to your gastronomic desires.
I've never REALLY been of fan of this popcorny. My mom would never let me touch that shit whenever we went to the movies. In fact, we never got to partake in any of the concessions; only snacks from home that we had to smuggle in like contraband. So how could I not, after years and years of health food snobbery, scoff at those who stand in line for edible styrofoam and butter that could just as well be massage oil?
I think that's how it was in Barcelona. I felt like the non-Spaniards that had all come to live in Barcelona, attracted by the warmer mediterranean weather and the no-worries attitude, were taking part in something foul and excessive. Barcelona is renowned for it's nightlife, but it's the tourists that bring the vigor, not the locals. In fact, the many British, Dutch, German ex-pats I met were just...TOO laid-back for my tastes. These would be those poor souls who don't think twice about the buttered popcorn and finger lick without any guilt. Sure going away to the beach and a land of siestas is nice for a vacation, but to use it as a permanent haven from the work and grind in my own country? No thanks. I'll get on that treadmill and count the miles and calories, i.e. go back to America and worry about what I'm going to do with the rest of my life. A life without worries? I'm sorry...I live by the maxim of worrying about life.
I remember the first time I got movie theater popcorn sans parental supervision. I found it extremely difficult to spread the butter evenly and quite overpriced. But that's what you do when you go to a movie theater right? It's time to escape. But not for me. Too much escaping to a land of overt paradise and you just might throw up. Literally. In a bar. In front of your friends (I still really can't let that one go).
I don't really need Barcelona to get any better for me. In fact, I don't really even want it to get better. But at least now I can say I've tried it. It's part of the whole Europe "experience" right?
Some great flatmates who were biding their time in Barcelona before moving on with their lives:
A German, a belgian, a swede, an italian, a dutch, and a fellow american.
Going to the movies has become an EXPERIENCE. Sitting in uncomfortable seats, crying babies in rated-R films, cell phones ringing, and to track back a little further, standing awkwardly in the parking lot post-movie for the parentals. What would American adolescence be without the movie theater? And who hasn't had their share of a collective bucket of popcorn greased, and greased, and greased, and then shaken for equal saturation, and then greased one more. I remember when our local theater put out the do-it-yourself butter machines where you could push a button and saturate to your gastronomic desires.
I've never REALLY been of fan of this popcorny. My mom would never let me touch that shit whenever we went to the movies. In fact, we never got to partake in any of the concessions; only snacks from home that we had to smuggle in like contraband. So how could I not, after years and years of health food snobbery, scoff at those who stand in line for edible styrofoam and butter that could just as well be massage oil?
I think that's how it was in Barcelona. I felt like the non-Spaniards that had all come to live in Barcelona, attracted by the warmer mediterranean weather and the no-worries attitude, were taking part in something foul and excessive. Barcelona is renowned for it's nightlife, but it's the tourists that bring the vigor, not the locals. In fact, the many British, Dutch, German ex-pats I met were just...TOO laid-back for my tastes. These would be those poor souls who don't think twice about the buttered popcorn and finger lick without any guilt. Sure going away to the beach and a land of siestas is nice for a vacation, but to use it as a permanent haven from the work and grind in my own country? No thanks. I'll get on that treadmill and count the miles and calories, i.e. go back to America and worry about what I'm going to do with the rest of my life. A life without worries? I'm sorry...I live by the maxim of worrying about life.
I remember the first time I got movie theater popcorn sans parental supervision. I found it extremely difficult to spread the butter evenly and quite overpriced. But that's what you do when you go to a movie theater right? It's time to escape. But not for me. Too much escaping to a land of overt paradise and you just might throw up. Literally. In a bar. In front of your friends (I still really can't let that one go).
I don't really need Barcelona to get any better for me. In fact, I don't really even want it to get better. But at least now I can say I've tried it. It's part of the whole Europe "experience" right?
Some great flatmates who were biding their time in Barcelona before moving on with their lives:
A German, a belgian, a swede, an italian, a dutch, and a fellow american.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
Welcome to Barcelona-land
A while ago I proclaimed my love for Barcelona, in fact the locale for my "heart," and a haven for me to "swim" in paella and "drown my solitude in cafe con leche." I'm in Madrid now. My memories of Barcelona consist of having dipped my foot into too-salty paella and drowning my solitude in absolute embarrassment (ok, so I threw up for the FIRST time, IN a bar but only a LITTLE bit, and hey cut me a break; it's barcelona).
It's funny how we create these obsessions with random locations. I just had a talk with a friend of a friend here in Madrid and he has a crazy desire to see things in China. He's British and lives on a farm and is obsessed with China. I on the other hand have no desire whatsoever to set foot in that country. I would rather cradle koalas and box kangaroos in Sydney, Australia.
I think my obsession with Barcelona began before I saw "The Spanish Apartment." I knew they spoke Catalan, but I still loved it. Having battled Catalan, stumbled in Spanish, guarded my belongings from "gypsies" and dabbled in a little bit of nightlife, Barcelona's a-ok. Obsessed? No longer. My feelings for barcelona are, I would say, similar to my feelings for movie theater popcorn. It's there. It's nice. It's comfortable. Beautiful in its outlandish artificial butter and while I enjoy it, I love to scorn those who love it more.
That's the thing about barcelona. It wasn't the city itself that bothered me too much; it was the people, rarely natives. It seemed like everyone and their mother, father, extended family had made the journey to Barcelona. Not only that, hordes of student groups, EVERYWHERE. Italian teenagers with too much gel in their hair, French teenagers with too much gel in their hair, British men with not enough gel or soap...It's as if everyone had bought his ticket to this fantasy land, and I was just another person strapped in for the pretty scenery and thrill rides. Don't get me wrong; Barcelona is beautiful. The weather was a little chillier than usual, but the architecture, the beach...(the park on the other hand smelled AWFUL).
A few pictures of the movie-theater-popcorn magnificence that is Barcelona. An extension of my weak analogy to come soon...
It's funny how we create these obsessions with random locations. I just had a talk with a friend of a friend here in Madrid and he has a crazy desire to see things in China. He's British and lives on a farm and is obsessed with China. I on the other hand have no desire whatsoever to set foot in that country. I would rather cradle koalas and box kangaroos in Sydney, Australia.
I think my obsession with Barcelona began before I saw "The Spanish Apartment." I knew they spoke Catalan, but I still loved it. Having battled Catalan, stumbled in Spanish, guarded my belongings from "gypsies" and dabbled in a little bit of nightlife, Barcelona's a-ok. Obsessed? No longer. My feelings for barcelona are, I would say, similar to my feelings for movie theater popcorn. It's there. It's nice. It's comfortable. Beautiful in its outlandish artificial butter and while I enjoy it, I love to scorn those who love it more.
That's the thing about barcelona. It wasn't the city itself that bothered me too much; it was the people, rarely natives. It seemed like everyone and their mother, father, extended family had made the journey to Barcelona. Not only that, hordes of student groups, EVERYWHERE. Italian teenagers with too much gel in their hair, French teenagers with too much gel in their hair, British men with not enough gel or soap...It's as if everyone had bought his ticket to this fantasy land, and I was just another person strapped in for the pretty scenery and thrill rides. Don't get me wrong; Barcelona is beautiful. The weather was a little chillier than usual, but the architecture, the beach...(the park on the other hand smelled AWFUL).
A few pictures of the movie-theater-popcorn magnificence that is Barcelona. An extension of my weak analogy to come soon...
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