I love...

...my class. (There are just twelve of them and they are so sweet and obedient and lovely...really. I know it is the first day, but sometimes you just know. It is going to be a good year.)

...carpooling to school. (I don't miss hauling my bike up and down the S-Bahn stairs every day. Though I do miss riding into school in the mornings...sort of.)

...sushi. (It is just yummy.)

...my life. (I get to live in Europe, I have a job that I love, and now, someone really amazingly fantastic to share it with. And he makes me coffee in the morning. Yay!)

My New Roommate

He doesn't like it when I call him that. He thinks of himself as more than a roommate. Which, of course, he is. Much more.

I had a friend once who told me that when she moved in with her fiance, that it was like having a giant slumber party that never stopped. And actually, it is sort of like that. First of all, it is super fun. SUPER FUN! And I am not just talking about the fact that I now have someone to share the laundry and dusting duties with. The weird thing is...that somehow, everyday chores like doing the wash and picking up stray hair from the floor (and believe me, there is a lot of that going on in our flat...apparently cucumber is the solution, but I have yet to put it to the test) has become more...fun. Seriously. And suddenly I am much more aware of keeping a nice home and picking up after myself...

And I bake bread.

The kind my mom used to make for breakfast...with pumpkin, or blackberries, or even mango chunks. The mango bread was a little hairy looking but still tasted pretty good. It wasn't hairy because of me, of course...the mango was a bit pulpy.

Today I made vanilla-blueberry-walnut bread. We were both very excited about this. In what is becoming a more frequent practice of being goofily romantic and sappy, I put a blueberry heart in the center of the loaf.

We think this is why the bread rose a bit too much at this center point, and actually looked a bit like it had grown a tumor. But we were still gazing dreamily at each other as we cut a slice of our bread and prepared to take a bite.

We bit.

We looked at each other.

Somewhat undreamily, however...I had forgotten to add the sugar.

The bread tasted like straight flour with a few blueberries thrown in for color. To his credit, he said: 'Mmmmmm...' as he smiled at me. I know the bread tasted gross. But I appreciated the effort.

We decided to dump obscene amounts of honey on the bread to solve the sweetness issue.

Honey makes everything taste yummy...

Just like love.

Hee.

Did you know that lemons grow on trees?

Okay, I knew that too. You´re not smarter than me. But...two days ago I had my first cooking lesson from my boyfriend´s (who returns tomorrow, yippee!) mama and sister. Well, the sister was more of a helper too, and I think she was telling me that she doesn´t cook a lot either, but I could have totally misinterpreted the whole thing...I´m still operating at a toddler-level of speaking here, but I am trying not to be too hard on myself being that I have been speaking Catalan for a grand total of five days now. They get what I am trying to say, mostly. I think. Anyway, back to the cooking lesson...

The first thing we started to make was this yummy Catalan cake that I don´t know the name of. When I asked, both Mama and Sister pulled at their skin while saying the name, but somehow I don´t think this dessert is called Skin-cake. That would be gross. Mama handed me a fork and a few eggs, and I imitated the sister by separating the whites from the yolks and then starting to whip the whites with the fork. The sister kept telling me that her mother was very traditional and didn´t like to use machines to cook, and I found myself wondering why you really would need a machine to mix up egg whites...until I realized that Mama intended us to whip those whites into stiff and shiny peaks, something I had not ever achieved without the use of electricity and my friends Black and Decker. But I whipped those whites, and whipped those whites, and whipped those whites, and right when my arm was about to fall off, I realized that they were starting to actually froth up! So I kept going...Mama took over for a bit, but then she let me cross the finish line myself, and I proudly showed her my egg whites like I´d just gotten an A on a finger painting.

Once the cake-that-will-not-be-named was completed and popped into the oven, we started to make the most famous (and most likely to inspire serious stomach cramps in those unfortunate enough to be lactose-intolerant, like myself) Crema Catala. Mama needed a lemon, and sent the sister and me to fetch it. From a tree. In the backyard. So unfamiliar and bizarre to my midwestern horticultural upbringing. On the way back to the house, we passed a few plants that looked familiar to me, but I couldn´t believe that they actually grew bananas in their backyard too. So I asked. The reply from the sister: ¨Si, plantans.¨ She said this in a non-chalant way as if growing tropical produce in your own backyard was totally commonplace...I so would have preferred bananas growing in our garden instead of rutabega. Lucky people.

We made the Crema Catala, and then I learned to make Catalan Rice, which is similar to Paella, but is way better in my opinion because it is saucier and is also without sausage and chicken. Just lots of shrimps and baby lobsters complete with heads and tails, mussels, and hunks of octopus. It was seriously one of the the best meals I have ever eaten. And to think I grew up with meatloaf and Mac n´Cheese. I mean, I like those things...well, liked them...but my national cuisine really pales in comparison to how they eat here in Catalunya.

And Mama insists that I come over every day for either lunch or dinner. I don´t eat much during the rest of the day...because she piles food on my plate like I just finished a triathlon or something.

I think this means she must like me, at least I hope so.

I don´t think she´s trying to fatten me up so her son won´t recognize me when he returns tomorrow...and then I won´t haul him back to Berlin with me in a week.

Though I´d understand it if she did. He´s a pretty good guy to have around.

Tonight, I had my last dinner solo with the parents. We ate about 7 different things that were all equally tasty, and then watched Mr. Bean after dinner. Mr. Bean seems to transcend all language barriers, and Mama, Papa, and I laughed and laughed as Mr. Bean protected his cupcake from a wasp and undertook his own dental surgery.

In a way, I feel fortunate to have had these days with the parents, getting to know them on my own without a translator present. We´ve had some laughs, most of which I have not totally understood, and I think they really know how much I care about their son. This is the explanation I can think of as to why they are willing to put up with a near-stranger visiting daily with dictionary in hand, speaking their language like one of the Rugrats. I feel sort of bonded to them now, maybe more than I would have been had the past week not happened.

Mama and Papa totally rock.

And they like Mr. Bean.

And they like me, too, I think. :) They smiled when I peeled my peach tonight.

Hola! Jo soc felic!

That means: ´Hello! I am happy!,´ in the new language I am attempting to learn, Catalan. I know, I know, I forgot to put a accenty thing over the o in soc and a curlycue on the bottom of my c in felic, but I am unfamiliar with this keyboard. And I am trying to move quickly, as I am using my parella´s parents´computer!

Right now I am hanging out in Barcelona for a few days while said ´parella´ is off in Menorca. Why am I at the house of my boyfriend´s parents when he is not? Well...because the weather in Paris sucked, he asked if I wanted to just come a week earlier to his house and hang out in the sun instead of being in gray and rainy Paris. And after thinking about three seconds, I agreed that this was a good plan. Plus, I´m not really in the house of the parents...I am in his apartment downstairs, which is quite lovely and used to belong to his grandparents. In the mornings I can go for a run, take a lovely cold shower, and sit outside in the warm sun practicing my Catalan...which is no easy language to learn, let me tell you! But helping me along in this quest are his lovely parents, who sit and patiently listen to my garbled toddler speak, and kindly help and correct when needed. And trust me, it is needed a lot. Despite the fact that we have no common language, the parents and I are getting along swimmingly...at least I think we are...they did give me a rather odd look as I ate the skin on my peach instead of peeling it today at lunch.

Molt fibres!, I said proudly.

They smiled kindly. Then they went back to peeling their peaches elegantly while I continued to munch down on my own fuzzy peach.

They must really love their son a lot to put up with the likes of me, I suppose. But I imagine that I am a major source of entertainment during our conversations. Lord knows what I have said or told them.

I tried to tell them that my mother also eats the fuzzy skin of the peach, and also the skin of potatoes. They regarded me with quizzical looks.

I probably indicated that my mother is some sort of backwoods hillbilly...but at least I didn´t try to tell them all about her bizarre reading headlamp that makes her look like a scary bug.

Somehow I think something would have gotten lost in the translation.

Rick and Lee and Mom and Me

No, I have not dropped off the face of the Earth in some heady romantic cloud and completely forgotten that perhaps three of you are anxiously waiting the next installment of my oh-so-bizarre life...

I have been on a road trip.

With my mother.

For 10 days. (I'm being dramatic here, Mom.)

But we were not alone. Joining us were two vital components to a successful mother-daughter venture. Rick and Lee.

No, Mom and I did not pick up two men on the side of the road who were displaying washboard abs and cowboy hats à la Brad Pitt in Thelma and Louise. The Rick I speak of is more commonly known as Rick Steves, the travel guru who makes Europe accessible for those on a tight schedule who want to pack in as much as possible in their few days on the continent. My mother clutched to this book like it was the last box of Shredded Wheat available post-apocalypse. But I have to admit, Rick had some good pointers...not the least of which included hints on finding Internet in nearly every po-dunk French hamlet we passed through. I think this was my mother's least favorite part of the book.

Lee was the name of the voice prompter we finally settled on for our GPS system. These things are AMAZING, and vital if you and your mother (or other travel companion) don't want to end up in a stranglehold over the map, insulting each others' navigational skills as you do 130 down the French highway.

We settled on the voice of Lee, an Australian bloke with possibly the worst French accent and straight-up phonetic pronunciation EVER, after trying out several of the other personalities along the way. We began with Karen, the American woman, but after she rather bitchily told me she was "Recalculatiiiing" after I made a wrong turn, I requested a switch to Daniel, the refined English chap. But when I made a few errors and heard Daniel telling me in a somewhat snippy and slightly bored voice that he was "Re-cahl-cu-lah-ting," we moved on to Lee. Though Lee also often had to readjust his directions based on my inability to pay attention, when he recalculated the map, he told me he was doing so with almost a slight chuckle. I had a little crush on him, I think.

Occasionally, I did have my moments of irritation with Lee, as he often insisted on sending us completely ass-backwards ways through these one lane French country roads. While these always afforded us a beautiful view of French life in the rural areas, Lee's love for the "shortcut" also almost sent us hurtling head first into a few giant green tractors.

When I told people I was taking a road trip with my mom around France, I received mixed reactions. Some people said: "Wow, how cool! You guys will have an amazing experience together!" Others said: "That sounds great, but I don't think I could do that with my mother." And still more said: "You're nuts. I hope you take some Valium along..."

I wasn't really sure what to expect...my mom and I have a really good relationship, in my opinion. On the phone, we can talk and talk and talk...sitting by the lake, we can talk and talk and talk...in the car, we can talk and talk and talk...but of course, we are mother and daughter...so we did have a couple of bumpy patches along the way. But nothing too serious. I think since we know we only get to see each other a few times a year now that I live overseas, we both make a great effort not to irritate each other.

But irritation between mother and daughter is only natural...especially if the mother insists on wearing a "reading headlamp" to bed that makes her look like a gigantic praying mantis.

Of course, I know I have my idiosyncrasies that irritate her as well. But being my mother she refused to tell me what they were...

She didn't want to hurt my feelings, she said.

She is a good mom like that.

'Cause I'm pretty sure my obsession with reading every menu we passed by before selecting a restaurant bugged the hell out of her.

That or the fact that I belched out loud in the car a couple of times.

She REALLY hates that.

(We had many adventures in the past two weeks, the most exciting of which occurred just moments after Mom and I arrived in my dodgy neighborhood and stopped to get some cash out of the ATM. Though Mom was being very careful and leaning in towards the machine, a man came out of nowhere and grabbed the 300€ out of her hand. I was a bit pissed at this less than kind intro to Paris for my mommy, so I ran like a bat out of Hell wearing my flip-flops and caught up with the perp as my mother was screaming "STOP, THIEF!!!" I yelled at him in a bizarre mixture of French and English, to which he replied: "Aw, man..." and HANDED ME BACK THE MONEY. I counted it, and he'd taken 20€ but I wasn't going to argue with the guy. He was sort of scary and big. At least I thought so. Maybe it was dumb to go after him, and it is definitely not something I would do in the States...but it was 300€, and this guy was starting off my mom's special holiday with me in a less than perfect manner. And my mom deserves the best, trust me. Love you, Mom.)