Vamos a La Playa, A Mi Me Gusta Barça

My first excursion outside of Madrid was to Barcelona because I have the good fortune of having family there at the moment and I needed a familiar face so badly I would have settled for a photo of a familiar face. Or maybe a 3D printed copy now that 3D Printers are a thing. But I didn’t have to settle, because I had the real thing- my cousin Bob is living and working in Barcelona with 14 other entrepreneurs and he graciously hosted my friend, Lauren, who is studying in Granada, and myself. Blood is thicker than water, as they say, and speaking of this, the water in Barcelona is mierda so you gotta buy it bottled everywhere you go.

Go big or go home, as they say. (In person they look more absurd)

Also you may have noticed from the sign on the Supermercado that they use Catalán in Barcelona more-so than Spanish, which confused me greatly and probably set me back about 3 days in progress. We mostly spoke English and it was amazing knowing so many words again- I was using synonyms and really elaborate adjectives just because I could- but I’m trying to speak only Spanish again now that I’m back in Madrid.

Bob is truly a gem, especially given the fact that he moved into his place a mere 3 days before we arrived, and most people don’t love having visitors when they’re mid-move and have a lot of work to do, but he was as excited to host as I was to be there! Amigos, primos, friends for life.


If you don’t have time to read all of this, some talking points: my time in Barcelona was jam-packed with food, tourism, getting lost, more food, asking for directions, a club, a beach, eying everyone suspiciously for fear of pick-pocketers, great weather, great running, and the greatest people.

Lauren and I ran the Chicago Marathon together this fall (with Evan, of course) and we have run all sorts of cool places with our cross-country team in high school (most notably Iowa, Peoria, and Portland) but there’s something so magnificent about the opportunity to run with your teammate and best pal in an entirely different continent. Four years ago, we became close because of the deep talks that long runs inevitably generate and it was only natural, this was our method of choice to fill each other in on our first impressions of Madrid and Granada. Our “quick run” turned into a two hour ordeal, but not necessarily because we’re super fit or anything; we just got a little turned around on the way back.

If you want my opinion, and you may not but here it is, my favorite place in Barcelona is definitely Park Güell. It’s one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen. Gaudi, ya done good, kid.

It’s supposed to be a public park and he’s probably rolling around in his grave knowing they now charge 8 euros to get to see the coolest stuff, but it was worth it, even if I could have gotten 5 coffees for the same price. I fully intend to borrow some of his ideas in my future home décor because crazy patterns and colorful mosaics and almost other-worldly shapes and designs speak to me.

I feel like the park just brings out the best in everyone. All the tourists are more than willing to offer to take photos for one another and there’s a real camaraderie in knowing that this is probably going to be a photo they cherish forever, show everyone back home like it or not, and maybe even make their profile picture (guilty). Also Park Güell makes everyone look good, because it was designed in the age before filters.

Whenever you’re in Barcelona you HAVE to at least drop by La Sagrada Familia, Gaudi’s unfinished masterpiece. It is well worth the trip and paying for the tour (buy online and skip the line if you’re not about that life, like us).

It is still under construction, as you can see in the photo, and one of the men on our tour had been on a tour 15 years prior and got to see all the changes. That’s why it’s not a one-and-done sort of destination.

I like the idea of an “unfinished masterpiece” like La Sagrada Familia; it’s even a cool way to describe oneself. Just accepting that there’s always more work to be done but reveling in the progress you’ve already made and the high hopes you have for the future. What’s the rush, you know?

I learned in our tour that Gaudi died knowing he wouldn’t finish it and he left a lot of creative freedom to future generations, but still with plans and guidelines for his final vision. It’s the most eclectic and impressive building I’ve ever seen. Bob and I sent so many pictures to our grandparents and Great-Auntie Fran because that’s what family is for and you should always celebrate when your elders know how to operate iPhones and the like. The stained glass windows on the inside change the look of the whole interior as the light shifts and the sculptures on the outside are so beautiful that they could probably put the fear of God in a very outspoken atheist.

Barcelona also has lots and lots of beaches, and thank goodness because they were super crowded. Like a lot of beaches in Europe, it’s totally normal for women to go topless here, which whenever someone mentions I always hear as “tapas” probably because that’s where my priorities lie.

Lauren and I were able to end our beach day walking along the water, singing and somehow perfectly harmonizing to our delight and probably to the dismay of all other passerbys. Objectively, our best number was probably In Too Deep, a classic amongst our pals and definitely one we’ve rehearsed before.

We would’ve stayed at the beach hours longer but the European Cup soccer game was that night in Germany and Barcelona was playing so we met Bob and his coworkers in a bar to watch the excitement and become fair-weather fans because the situation called for it. We were late, what else is new, and every single goal or close play or bad call, the whole street on every street we walked down erupted into cheers or screams. It made for a very adrenaline-filled walk because anyone who was anyone was watching and everyone was invested and soon, I was, too.

We won (see how quickly Barcelona became my team). I’m mostly joking about that; my little brother, Nick, is significantly more invested in this sort of thing, but Barcelona really did win and I thought I was hearing gun shots but they were just people lighting off flares in the streets. The celebration afterwards was crazy and lasted until the wee hours of the morning. I know this because I am the worst and booked an 8 AM flight, which required me (and Bob- bless his sweet, protective older cousin, soul) to wake up at 4:30 to catch a bus back to the airport. We got to see the aftermath, which is often the funniest part, and it definitely livened up the walk to the station.

They say that the joy is in the journey, not the destination and in terms of Barcelona I can say that does not apply at all. My airport experiences were pretty gnarly, though the way there was so easy I wasn’t even asked to show a boarding pass before my gate- they either mistook me for a pilot or have alarmingly lax security. My flight times on both Friday and Sunday were sickeningly early to save money and resulted in one irritable traveler, but the amazing destination and people I shared it with, made it all worth it.

Estoy en ~la lista~

Last weekend, I had the distinct pleasure of representing the good old US of A, along with my roommate, as a delegate of sorts, if you will, at a 150-person, super exclusive fiesta about 40 minutes from Madrid hosted by an affluent friend of my host brother. Mind you, I didn't ever participate in Model UN or even take the course when it was available to me sophomore year of high school (I took Comparative Religions instead because I wanted to open my mind and also because there were so many field trips), but I think after hearing how well I mingled, you may be willing to overlook my lack of qualifications.

Victor, my host brother, told my roommate, Caroline, and I about the party a week beforehand after we asked him yet again to hang out. I definitely said something really articulate along the lines of "Me gustan las fiestas" in response, but that's just the social butterfly in me, ready to stretch my wings and fly.

Como siempre (like always), I had my fair share of follow-up questions, namely what should we wear, especially given my USC background, where a party without a theme occurs at about the same frequency as lunar eclipses. In an effort to calm us, Victor explained this mansion party would just be a "typical American party". I immediately gave myself an internal pat on the back for my pre-planned Fourth of July outfit until he continued, "just wear a swimsuit."

I didn't think much about the upcoming social event of the century, aside from when Victor knocked on my door and asked for 15 euros from each of us (everyone on the list had paid), because our program had a weeklong excursion to Andalucía,

which I have a lot of positive things to say about in both English AND Spanish (cuz I'm improving), but for now, debes esperar (wait).

When we got back from Andalucía, I was tired and not feeling well at all, but I knew I couldn't miss this cultural experience. Plus, I'd already paid for it and my spirit animal is a stingy old bat so not about to let that go to waste. 

We found Victor and asked him when we should be ready to leave ("before 9 PM"), what to bring ("un bocadillo del jamón, toothbrush, and a towel"), and then I told him I'm a vegetarian ("vale, un bocadillo de tofú"), and then we asked why a toothbrush ("so you can brush your teeth before you sleep"), and then I started sweating anxiously and asked when we'd be back ("I don't know, do you have an appointment tomorrow?"), and then I tried to think of a reason to be back at a reasonable hour, like 6 AM, and then I thought, “Who have I become that 6 AM is a reasonable hour to return home?” and then I thought, “Dios Mío, I'm totally madrileña” and then Caroline and I went to our rooms to nap before the party. She succeeded at this goal but I lay awake trying to pump myself up for the night ahead.

But my interior monologue got in the way and I couldn't help but thinking responsible things and I figured it would be good to have a nice chat, mom to mom, with Carmen, my host mom. This is not the first time I have come to her with my fears. My first weekend, before the clubs, I told her I was afraid and she proceeded to explain to me that our neighborhood is safe at all hours, to come back whenever I wanted, and it was silly to be afraid. This was not what I had expected and certainly not the "Why don't you stay in instead and play a board game with me?" I had hoped for.

I should've known this Typical American Party conversation would go similarly: I asked her if she knew Victor's friend hosting and she didn't because she hadn't asked him but said all his friends are very nice. And then I told her I'm afraid and she laughed and asked why. And then I told her that I was sick and not sure I could go because I ate some raw vegetables in Andalucia and my stomach was not loving them, and she told me that wasn't possible because the water and food is safe there, just it tastes better in Madrid.

Carmen is the definition of a cool mom and with her encouragement, on behalf of my country, I knew I must go to the fiesta.

Victor came by to check our progress and I asked him what sort of pajamas I should bring and he laughed, probably nervously about the toll I may take on his social status, and insisted that we not bring pajamas to this shindig because that is weird.

We loaded up the car with Marta, her boyfriend, Caroline, and I, with Victor as driver. I sat in the back, though in retrospect, I think I tried to call shotgun and then fumbled on the translation and explanation.

Like the unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt, I knew I could handle anything that came my way if I just took it in ten second increments. Luckily, I did not need to use this coping mechanism during the one hour or so drive because the radio played a confusing mix of show-tunes and rap, almost all in English, and I was trying to figure out if this was normal or some sort of omen.

Victor ate a container of Ben & Jerry’s while driving without a spoon and it was fascinating to watch and how I intend to prepare for every future party.

The party was in a gated community but Victor knew the guard and assured us, when we got to the car-filled street, that we were definitely on the 150 person guest list. “150 amigos nuevos!” I said, once more setting unrealistic goals for myself (I thought I’d be fluent by now. Maybe even queen).

Victor told us to leave our phones in the car, which was a good idea in that I didn’t lose my phone, but a terrible idea in that I have only memories of the gala and you can’t post memories on snapchat...yet. (I’d like to formally declare patent pending on that idea if that’s how that works). When we got to the house, the man working the entrance asked us for our names and Victor introduced himself and then Caroline and I, except he introduced us as “Americana Uno y Americana Dos”. And I was the latter, which was kind of a double slap in the face because I’ve lived with him longer. So, Victor doesn’t know our names and we’ve coexisted and conversed for 4 weeks now and if he asked me for a kidney before this, I definitely would have said yes because siblings tend to be the best matches and that’s how close I thought we were.

In lieu of parties we are more accustomed to, with kegs and the like, this one had big tubs (basically garbage cans) full of sangria with huge half slices of apples floating in them. I tried to serve myself a glass and just got apple chunks so someone had to help me. 

Luckily we wore clothes over our swimsuits because we very well might have been the only people ready to swim besides Victor and his gimnasio pals all of whom definitely lift, bro and are more than willing to flaunt it.

We felt a little better about the name thing when Victor also didn’t know the name of his best friend’s girlfriend of 10 months, Lorena. She, Caroline, and I became a trio and she quickly became our favorite person there. 

I think she’s the most loving person I’ve ever encountered. She told us about how in love she is with Javi and gave great advice and also looked out for me a lot, (because there was just copious amounts of grilled meat being served) and got me some cheese slices. I later returned to the sangria tub with the intention of eating the apples when hunger reared its familiar head once more.

We danced, and we sang, and had a really, really good time. Apart from losing Victor within the first hour, I wasn’t even worried once. We later found out he had gone to sleep in the car, which worked out well for us, given that he was alert and ready to drive when people started heading home.

All in all, I am very pleased with how the night went, especially given my hesitation initially. My one regret is that I never found the dog that lives in the mansion and I know for a fact there was one because it had a dog house/mansion of its own, very well-made. I could have lived there quite comfortably.

We were able to practice our Spanish a lot, especially because everyone thought it was so cool that we were Americana 1 and Americana 2.  What with the D.J.’s loud tunes and my exhausted state, I couldn’t hear everything people were saying to me so I opted for a “No entiendo pero estoy de acuerdo”/“I don’t understand but I agree” approach which got great responses. 

Spanish Grace sure is agreeable and low-maintenance, huh?

Somebody Call 911 - Shawty Lost Her License on the Dance Floor

You may be thinking to yourself, "Grace, what? How did you get carded in Madrid? Isn't the drinking age there 18? I've always thought you have such a maturity about you well beyond your years!"

All of this is true. But, yes, I did get carded here. I think it's probably because I didn't really pack for the clubbing scene that is very popular. I tried to pack light so all of my clothes are pretty versatile. Instead of day to night outfits, I opted for more of a Catedral to Discoteca transition (literally have worn clothes to Mass one weekend and a club the next, always paired with my sensible walking shoes) and I guess this just shows I erred too closely to the side of Sunday best.

For whatever reason, I was carded in Madrid at a lovely little venue called Moondance. And then I subsequently lost said card, my license, around 4:30 AM according to the police report.

This is a man clapping and dancing on a table. Though this was not in the police report, I believe what happened is I clapped along and dropped my license in all the commotion.

You might be thinking, 4:30 AM, what were you waking up for morning track practice? No, I've accidentally become fun here, but let me assure you, it was NOT by choice.

You see, before I arrived in Madrid, one of my favorite hobbies was going to bed early. I don’t know if I’m alone in this, but I get such a rush going to sleep when other people are still living their lives awake and alert. I feel the same way about being the first one awake in the morning; it’s like having a Flash Pass at 6 Flags and you basically get to cut the line to start the day. This lifestyle does not work in Madrid as I coined with the phrase in my first post, “Early to bed, early to rise, is the only way to go to Madrid and not socialize.”

Something else you might not know about me is I have no sense of direction in the literal sense. I have several strong senses of direction in terms of future plans which is why people ask me “Have you chosen a major yet?” in lieu of “What are you doing after graduation?". 

My mom, on the other hand, can figure out cardinal directions by thinking about where we are in relation to the Mississippi River, which is very Iowa of her, although not as useful now that GPS is a thing. I did not inherit this and never really know where I am or where I'm going, but before I got here, other people always had that under control and I was sort of dead weight to travel with who might be able to contribute an anecdote here and there. 

In Madrid, the Metro closes at 1:30, which is when people (not even the crazies just your average Josés) are just starting their nights. It doesn't reopen until 6 AM,  so after 1:30, I find myself at a crossroads- do I try to find my way home or do I dance until morning/Metro comes? And like at all crossroads, I have a tough time choosing because of that lack of direction I mentioned. 

This particular evening was the second night in a row that I opted for the waiting until 6 AM route, which I do not recommend if you want to live to a ripe old age and not be irritable. It was a lot of fun because we were with Madrileños the whole time, showing us the scene, and I have no regrets except of course for losing the license.

The next day, upon realizing my loss, I tore apart my room looking for it, but I packed so few positions and soon realized it for sure was not amongst them. I FB messaged the MoonDance club page, e-mailed their sponsor, and then asked my host brother, Victór what to do in my super cute teary-voice. 

I know it's not that big of a deal to lose your license, it's not a passport, but in my case it was a LOT easier to get my passport than it was to get my license and I'm very proud of possessing that little piece of plastic. The backing-around-a-corner part of the driving test nearly did me in, but someone at the DMV deemed me capable of operating a motor vehicle, and best believe that fact alone adds a lot of sentimental value to it.

I went to the comisería, which means police station, and told them my troubles, all in Spanish. They were sweeter than sangria in their helpfulness and directed me to the interview rooms downstairs.

On the way, I spotted this great Mujeres en La Policia poster and it gave me strength. 

But it was a kind policeman who filled out my actual report, which I have kept as a ~free~ souvenir. I plan to scrapbook with it in a very Pinteresty way if I ever have copious amounts of free time. Some highlights of the interview include me trying to explain, when he asked for my contact info and phone number, that I don't have very many texts but I would prefer he use WhatsApp. Also I like the a las 4:00 horas part.

This long, perhaps upsetting, story has a happy ending. I received an e-mail from the corporation that owns Moondance and they find it and I was able to retrieve it the very next day. All of this went very smoothly until I was locked in the building where I picked it up for a few minutes unable to figure out how to open the door and too proud to ask for help. I followed someone out of the building like the shady character I am shortly after and have maintained all my possessions ever since!

London Calling

Time to break out my 'Ello Govnah playlist, which I've been constructing for upwards of 13 months now and narrowed to 54 songs, because I'm about to leave for the airport to Londrés, which translates very nicely to London.

What's on the agenda for London? Well, I have a whole Google Doc schedule in which I am basically the sole contributor (though not by choice) in the works if you'd like to be added to it, but primarily, I intend to spend most of my time at Platform 9 3/4 and offering to baby-sit Charlotte and George, so Will and Kate can just relax for a little bit.

It's important to me that you know I do not frequent AThriftyMom.com, the source of this great graphic, but I did closely follow the Prince George Wearing Crocs story because it's important to be informed.

It is difficult being that glamorous, though in the words of Lorde, "we'll never be royals" so I can't confirm or deny this from personal experience.

I did, however, have the opportunity to up my social status a little when ordering my bus ticket from the airport, all of which seem to be inconveniently and absurdly far from everything on my Google Doc. The bus website asked me to select my title from a drop-down menu and I could've settled for reality and opted for "Miss" or "Ms.", but like Scott Disick, I wanted something more for myself. I hope there aren't any legal consequences or documents I will need to show to my bus driver to verify this title but as of now please refer to me as Lady Grace in all formal correspondence. 

In just a few short hours I will be reunited with my good pal, Budde, who claims he reads my blogs so this will be the true test, and together we will see all his favorite sites in London, where he is currently "studying" abroad. He's going to hate that I put quotes around that because he actually has a massive final project and a pretty substantial workload but he himself dubbed his album The Fleek Tour and I feel it is my duty to mock him a little.

First on the agenda is a a hip-hop karaoke bar where he told me we will "listen to the regulars". Rest assured, at first opportunity, we will be harmonizing and bringing tears to the eyes of all present, if things go my way, which they probably won't. I am cautiously optimistic that I will actually be able to find him and then my hostel and then navigate the Tube, but if not, I know they speak English in London and it just so happens that I do as, well.  Plus, I always keep a list of British words in my phone to use at whim so I think I'll assimilate quite nicely. 

My original plan, which I ran by Budde last night, was to pretend I only speak Spanish in my hostel so I can practice. Budde says that's annoying, but I think it's commitment. 

Bloody hell! I'm going to be late. Bullocks! (See how naturally this comes to me?) 

I haven't got a scooby  (a real expression, learned from a Brit last August and immediately wrote it down) how to use a bidet (and I just had to google how to spell that) but I'm willing to try! 

~~~~~~~~

UPDATE: Now on said bus as Lady Grace and I was able to get on an earlier one because, and I quote, "Oh, you're a lady, are you?" Please reread that in a British accent for full effect.

Things are really looking up, folks, considering I just got off the flight from hell. It was so turbulent that I refuse to fly again unless I'm wearing a sports bra. And one of the flight attendants kept insisting I check my bag and tried to persuade me by saying "Es gratis. Es gratis." as if I was the type of gal to just say yes to any free offer (I am). 

I had to explain that I can't check it because I gotta catch a bus right after and I have my plane snacks in here and then I handed her the boarding pass for the flight home from London and she was getting really antsy and short with me and when we both switched to English I realized why we just weren't clicking- she was French. I'm not saying that French people are kind of rude because I would never say that- because it's common knowledge. No, but really, all jokes aside, the vast majority of French people that I've bumped into do not love me and aren't afraid to express it. Maybe I should watch where I'm going. Actually being serious this time though, I think the real reason is they kind of sense that a French accent was my go-to prank calling voice in my golden age of prank calls (2012-2013 cuz late bloomer). 

Here's what I've noticed about London so far- I am attracted to everyone solely because of their accents and also I think there's something really attractive about being able to understand every word they're saying. I have a horrible habit of imitating unintentionally other people's accents and I did that already but while trying to speak Spanish and it was really something to behold. And thirdly, everything here is bloody expensive. I just exchanged $150 for pocket change, I kid you not. It's very possible I got scammed, but I don't need to buy food here- the Harry Potter ambience and Queen's English will sustain me.

Absence Makes The Heart Grow Fonder (Of Your Father)

They say “absence makes the heart grow fonder”, but I believe a nice additive to this is “especially when you miss your father” because it kind of rhymes if you pronounce things a certain way  and also it’s very timely given that today is Father’s Day. 

I’m a little sad that I cannot celebrate this day with my Dad given that I am thousands of miles away and the flight home for the weekend was deemed impractical by those who fund me, ironically ½ of whom I was just trying to celebrate.  It didn’t help that yesterday, inexplicably, the bars/clubs we visited to celebrate my friend’s birthday were chockfull of father figures, just swaying and snapping their fingers and doing all sorts of Dad things. 

Watching dads try to dance always takes me back to a simpler time, although not that much simpler because it required a good bit of planning, my quinceañera, pictured here. It is very purposefully not a video because neither of us can dance but it’s not my fault because I inherited this flaw.

I wanted to approach each and everyone of these rad dads and try to teach them to ask “How ya doin’?” in the same, selective-listening-but-well-meaning way my own Dad does dozens of time each day, but I knew it wouldn’t be the same and also I’m a little wary of Fathers who love Fiestas. 

I’d like to quote a song, as chicas my age have been known to do, that I listen to a lot while I run here in Madrid, You and I, the Gaga version: 

“There’s only three men I’m gonna love my whole life, it’s my daddy, and Nebraska, and Jesus Christ.”

This is a great example of two truths and a lie because I could not be more indifferent about Nebraska, but short story long, I am really fond of my Dad and also my Grandpas and since I can’t cherish them in person this year and they won’t hear me even if I shout it from the rooftops given the ocean in between us, the next best option is to share it with the Internet, especially since Dad is the one who taught me not to be gullible or foolish (the foundation on which I built this blog/my life) and also because Papa can skillfully maneuver his iPad now -don’t believe what you might have heard about old dogs and new tricks.

If you haven’t met my father, Tony, I’d like to ask you a whole lot of follow-up questions about how you spend your days.

You will have a chance to right this wrong if you attend the highly-anticipated, but not at all exclusive, annual 4th of July Parade in Lisle this year. He’s a Village of Lisle Trustee, which means you can also catch him live on TV if you watch village meeting broadcasts, but I really recommend the parade because Lizzie and Brittany are going as my proxies this year and the Dad, Lizzie, Brit trio promises to prove that three is in fact, a magic number. 

My dad is a creature of habit and while these habits sometimes irk me, I cannot deny that I am really missing them at the moment. Tony is definitely a hugger and I usually am kind of cold in my reciprocation or lack thereof, but now that I’ve been greeting Spanish strangers with two cheek kisses upon first meeting (something I will never get used to and have been asked to redo because I am so unnatural and tense), I could really use just a normal, American hug from my dad.

I miss how he laughs at his own jokes and then eventually we join in and I miss how he provides the best "game food" for my brothers and I.

I miss his reactions to the absurder things in life, like selfie sticks, which are more prevalent here in Europe than water or bathrooms, but I’ll save that rant for another time when my Dad can add his two-cents. 

He always makes sure the restaurants he chooses have some sort of vegetarian food I can eat and he does not hesitate to share his opinions when I pick a place that specializes in this all-natural type of cuisine. “It’s interesting.” - Tony at Urth Café, where all the food is Instagrammable

I think the best way to summarize my Dad, for those who haven’t had the pleasure of meeting him or the blessing of living with the guy for 18+ years, is in his most used expressions. “How ya’ doin’?” I already mentioned, but it’s iconic. “Wanna go see a movie?” and usually I don’t but best believe that’s one of the first things on my To-Do list when I’m back.  “Who takes care of you?”- which is his favorite question whenever he brings me guacamole or a salad from Casey’s and I often treat it as rhetorical but the fact of the matter is we both know I’d have perished long ago without him.

And most importantly, “I’m proud of you.” To the other parents who might be reading this, which wouldn’t surprise me because I’m well-received by parents much more so than by my own contemporaries, the best thing you can do for your kids, besides feeding and clothing them and giving them ice cream and letting them go abroad, is telling them you’re proud of them.

Dad’s been telling my brothers and I he’s proud of us ever since I can remember and over the years, what with my lengthy awkward stage and laundry list of weaknesses, there have been a number of times when he really shouldn’t have been, in my case, at least.

 Oh, young Grace. That face is truly one that only a father could love. 

And on this Father’s Day, I’d like to go into full DJ GCarb$ mode and turn these tables, to express how proud I am of him. For working so hard but knowing what’s more important in the grand scheme of things, for looking out for everyone but never expecting recognition or anything in return, and for being so generous with his time and talents.

Also, he’s a pretty good story-teller, though as I’ve grown older and wiser, I have begun to doubt the truth value of some of his taller tales about his childhood (I do believe that Aunt Pat chased the bullies away with a shalaylee, though).


So Happy Father’s Day to the man who openly admitted and even proudly introduced me as his daughter in good times and in bad, to the man who helped me keep my pocket knife by sweet-talking to the courthouse security guard on Take Your Kid to Work Day, to the man who feels the need to paint the mailbox every time we have a party, and most importantly to the man who taught me that everything can be funny, if you just laugh, even if it's your own joke and the crowd may not be loving it.

I’ll conclude with one of his best one-liners, after I caught sight of myself in a mirror and confronted him angrily for genetically predisposing me to a life with an imperfect complexion.

“I didn’t give you your acne, but I may have given you heart disease.”

ADDITIONALLY,
Since Grandparent’s Day is sort of  treated like a second-tier holiday, probably just under Groundhog’s Day, I’d also like to honor my grandFATHERS right here, right now.

Papa will turn 84 in July and has never not beat me in Squash, except when he plays by “Grace Rules” and lets me re-serve several times. He is an active member, borderline local celebrity, at the YMCA by his house and the only indicator of his plethora of years is in his wisdom. 

 I know how to ski because of Papa’s guidance and patient boat driving and I try to be super eco-friendly because Papa was “green” before that was even a thing. He even washes and reuses plastic sandwich bags and I’ve seen him with my own two eyes take the used chopsticks from the restaurant and use them for kindling at a subsequent bonfire.

Papa can talk to anyone and does talk to everyone and whenever we’re out and about together, I know we’re going to meet a few new friends. 

The first 5K I ever ran was with Papa and he and Grandma, between the dozen or so grandkids and great-grandkids, have probably been to more games of all sorts of sports than most season ticket-holders.  

Like a fine wine or Madonna or a coin collection, Papa gets better with age and that’s especially impressive because he’s always been great. Whenever Bailey, my poorly-trained but good-natured dog, wakes Papa up from a nap, he is never mad, because that’s not his style, and he wasn’t really sleeping he was just, “resting his eyes.”

So happy (grand)father’s day to the man who is so hospitable and laidback that he biannually prepares  a separate dish of vegetarian, gluten-free stuffing for his granddaughter with low-maintenance aspirations, without thinking twice.

And though I’m not sure if there are blogs in Heaven,  (I sincerely hope there are because I’m sure I’ll have plenty to say throughout eternity) I can’t forget Grandpa Carballo, a man who made us proud of our roots, who was bullied by Fidel Castro in elementary school and lived to tell and retell the story of the stolen lunch money, who was a harmonica aficionado and could play the sweetest tunes you ever did hear without his hands AND without his teeth, if you were exceptionally lucky, and who gave us all the amazing gift that keeps on giving- our loud and loving family.  

So, Happy Father’s Day to all, wherever you may be, especially to mah main 3 patriarchs of the fam. I’ll never be down for this patriarchal society, (in fact I have a whole other blog about that), but when it comes to men, you fellas are top of the line.