Lo que he aprendido en mi curso “Trámites online con la Administración”

Me acuerdo de cuando entré por primera vez en el curso como si fuese hace 12 días.  Tenía tantísimas ganas de profundizar en mis conocimientos del mundo complicado de los trámites con la Administración Pública.  Además, conociendo el profesor de un curso anterior venía con ilusión.  La desilusión vino, como a veces pasa, cuando nos explicó que el curso iba a consistir en la alfabetización informática de los alumnos.

Como solemos decir en inglés WTF?

Muchas veces en esta vida, tu vives una realidad que puede distar mucho de la realidad que viven los demás.  Cuando pase eso, puede llegar a doler.  Este blog lo escribo a insistencia del profesor del día anterior a su fin.  Si quisiera dar una imagen de planificar el curso, podría haber dicho el primer día que íbamos a hacer eso.  Cuando tenemos tan poco aviso, da la sensación de que las cosas se hacen a última hora y mal para justificar el curso.

Hemos empezado con el uso de la nube (Google Drive) y cómo compartir archivos a través de ella.  También a utilizar un programa Kanbanchi para organizar y controlar el trabajo individual de los integrantes de un grupo de trabajo.

Esta información viene más por los intereses del profesor–tech freak–que porque tuviera que ver con la administración.  Pero un buen día entramos en la página de la Comunidad de Madrid para bucear y encontré una página para poder adoptar una mascota.  “Jesús, cómo me va a ayudar en el trabajo”, pensé.

No puedo incluir en las cosas que he aprendido la presentación que hice yo sobre el SEPE y la Seguridad Social, pero lo menciono porque sí.

Hoy mismo dice el profe “todos vais a aprobar porque he visto que todos sabéis manejaros al poco nivel que exige el nivel de este curso y hemos sobrepasado la información que se suponía que se iba a dar” (!).  Cáspita, proclamo.  Pero no contento con que pasemos toda una clase haciendo esto en vez de aprender algo, dice “los que publican en el blog van a tener una puntuación mayor que los que no”.  Vamos a ver.  Si este curso no ha servido a nivel profesional, qué más da si tengo una super puntuación?

 Todo esto me cabrea más porque a nivel personal considero que el profesor es una persona genial con una habilidad asombrosa de ayudar a la gente capacitándoles para orientar sus vidas y no quiero que la última nota sea de discorde.  Es como terminar un banquete en una velada preciosa con un sorbo de leche en mal estado.

 

 

 

Spain: it’s in Europe

This is Europe. It’s on the other side of an ocean thingy.  Spain is the soft pink country in the lower left.
Either the requirements for becoming a map maker have fallen sharply, or Norway has fallen into the sea, as it is shown here in blue for some reason.

This is a MEXICAN hat. Mexico is a country to the south of the U.S. just past Texas and California. (There’s probably a wall there, or will be soon.) Some souvenir shops sell these in Madrid to test unsuspecting tourists. Don’t be fooled!

This is a dish called “Callos”. You see that honeycomb shaped body part in the middle? Yes, those are intestines, or “tripe” as the Scottish whimsically refer to them. Do you know what goes through intestines? That’s why I have never tried this dish.

I’ve lived in Madrid for quite some time now, and after several days’ worth of cold medicine, have decided to begin a series for those of you interested in hearing my twisted take on this place, the locals, and you touristy people who I occasionally observe.

I thought the title might help people who accidentally got here from other, less smarty-pants sites. Spain is neither part of Mexico, South America, nor the Caribbean, it is, in fact, in Europe. (See map.)

As a family member who visited me once put it “We were in the archaeological museum and I would see something really old. Then I would see something else, and it was even OLDER.” I think I was adopted. Yes, the most noteworthy thing one can say at the odd cocktail party when the subject comes up, “Europe is really old”.

Because the concept of age is different here.

There is a place called Nuevos Ministerios where the Ministry of Urban Development and Public Works is located. It’s called “new” because it was finished in 1942. When you’re talking about a country that was part of the Roman Empire and whose public school system up until recently (if they don’t still) made/makes students learn the names of the Visigoth Kings–all of whom sound like Tolkien characters– 1942 is brand, spanking new.

Nuevos Ministerios: shiny and new in 1942

But I digress.

The first thing you will notice about Spain depends partially on which city you have landed in. (Assuming you didn’t swim over, or tunnel in Daffy Duck style.) It is a country about the size of Texas with areas that speak ANOTHER LANGUAGE. I’m not talking about Spanish, although the more alert tourist will pick up on that.  In several provinces they also have a regional language which your high school Spanish class will not help you with. Did you ever speak pig latin to throw off other people? It’s like a more evolved game of pig latin.

The first thing you should do when you go to Spain is to find a bar. You cannot swing a dead cat without hitting one. Now that you have found a bar, order a beer. If you feel it’s too early for a beer, order a coffee with brandy called a “carajillo”. If you don’t want to drink alcohol get out of the country now.  Really, I mean why did you come?

Although it will NEVER look this pretty, and you may consider ordering lighter fluid instead of Magno

If you want to be taken seriously by the locals, you should avoid smiling when you order your drink. Actually, just avoid smiling all together. And I mean order. “Ponme un carajillo” This is basically “Bring me my drink”. Oddly, this is not rude. If you can say it with the carton of black tobacco a day rasp that the true 50 year old construction worker in the dirty blue jumpsuit can produce, they will reward you with a slot machine addiction.  But this is only after decades of rigorous training.

A word of advice, don’t even try the slot machines.  I have never figured out how to use them and have decided it’s all for the best. They have a combination of an arm on the side and several buttons on the front which only the most hardened gambling addict knows how to navigate and honestly, you are only going to annoy those who DO for some mysterious reason know how to use them, so cut it out.

NOT your friend

For you younger travelers–and by younger I mean junior citizens–just because you are in a foreign country does not give you the right to have INCREDIBLY LOUD CONVERSATIONS in public transportation. a) because it instantly makes you obnoxious b) there are actually LOTS of people who speak English or at least understand it and c) I will immediately despise you.  I know that incurring my wrath will be enough for most, because if I have to like hear like another like conversation like with like people who like can’t make it like all the way through like a sentence, I’m going to have to like hurt someone.  I’m sure you understand.

For you older travelers, you are no longer in the States. The whole idea of leaving the U.S. was to no longer be in it and experience OTHER places. So please don’t come to me with “where can I find Iron supplements”* in a supermarket, because they sell them in the Pharmacy. And please don’t roll your eyes like you are dreadfully inconvenienced by this.  Adapt.  Be open-minded.  And if you want to buy wine, for the love of God, please buy it in a bottle, not a brick*.  I know you didn’t bring a bottle opener because they would already have arrested you in the airport before you even got on the plane and sent you to Guantánamo, but if you really must have wine, go to a restaurant where they will open it for you.  After all, these are your golden years and you should enjoy them. (*Actual, real-life conversation.)

If you believe English is the only language you should have to speak, don’t be impatient. Don’t wear the constipated look that every irritable businessman seems to wear in any given Starbucks.  You shouldn’t even be in a Starbucks in the first place*.  Go to a cafetería with lots of waxed paper napkins on the floor (sign of a truly popular locale) and order a café con leche for crying out loud. It’s about a buck and much tastier. Every coffee shop in town will serve you espresso as nature intended.  (*Unless you’re feeding your super-skinny vanilla latte addiction, then I understand…aaaaaand I’m a total hypocrite, I know.)

 

Does your coffee come with crap drawn on top?  Then you’re not in a real cafetería

If your Spanish is up to it, when ordering a beer, ask for either a caña if you want a tube glass or a jarra if you’d like a stein-shaped glass. Tipping is also easier. If your coffee was 1,20€, leave the nice man ten cents and be on your way. The word for tip “propina” is said to have come from “for wine” so you’re only giving the guy a small tip, none of that 15% crap. This becomes an important difference when the consumption is larger, but a good rule is somewhere between 7 and 10%, and that’s only if you REALLY thought the service was good. It’s not uncommon to see people stiff the wait staff completely, though I believe this to be very bad karma.

Hope you enjoyed this and comment away. I will be writing more, whether you like it or not.

Fairytales, Rom-coms and Marketing The Currency of Faith

Here’s the wind up.

Once upon a time there was a dream.  Or maybe, In the Beginning, there was a product.  Maybe we’ll even work in a Meet Cute between the public and our sponsor.  But first, we need numbers.  Lots and lots of numbers so you know this is a serious article written by a serious person, preferably with glasses.  So let’s get that shit out of the way so we can make our point and you can move on with that satisfied feeling of accomplishment.  Wait, that’s me because I finished the article, but maybe you too if you found it useful, so:

We take in information with our five senses at an approximate rate of 11,000,000 bits of data every second.  That’s MILLIONS of bits every single second.  Even if we crunch that number to the easily digestible 1.3 MB, the average person can only actually process around 40 or 50 bits per second at best.  Even if you’re not that fabulous at math you can see that we swim in a lake of information, but drink a mere glass at a time.

So that glass is a hot commodity.  Current accepted numbers for exposure to brands is in the thousands a day, advertisements all by their lonesome make up several hundred, we are only aware of a quarter of those and are only engaged in some way by around a dozen.  Twelve.  Of the thousands a day, we actually feel something about only twelve of them.

Whether that’s eggs or apostles, mental Real Estate is at a prime.

So let’s get busy fitting Prong 1 into Slot A, shall we?

Here’s the pitch.

Think of your stomach.  Most of our stomachs like to be thought of (gurgle), and ad campaigns associating food with all kinds of appealing things like pleasure or love or sex help the stomach get that well-deserved attention.  It helps chocolate manufacturers stay in the black and has given the developed world one of the worst obesity problems in history.

As my college history teacher used to say, “So what?”

So here we arrive at the divergence.  People in general have needs, desires, and impulses.  Obviously.  Or we wouldn’t be so freaking susceptible to the same ads tying the product to the drive.  As soon as you identify the impulse, the vultures begin to circle the carcass.  How do we take advantage of that directionless energy?

Whole forests have been denuded in an effort to map out ways to get people to do what you want them to do.  Marketing, inspiring, selling…  Wait, did you say inspiring?  I think I just found a segue into the question of faith.  Let’s hop on that train and see where it goes, shall we?

Faith can be complete trust in someone or something.  It can also be belief based on conviction rather than proof.  Heady stuff, that.  Regardless of whether your faith is of a personal or a religious nature, the point is: it is powerful.  Sometimes we need to be reminded that power is at the root of the word powerful.  Add the potential (read: directionless) energy of a person’s wants, desires and needs with the exponential factor that is belief and you have an untapped oil field just waiting to be exploited.   As such, belief and the power of the mind become a commodity.  They become currency.

Salesmen sometimes don’t realize they’re slimy.  They don’t always know they repel on an instinctive level.  Remember swimming in a lake of information?  Imagine it more as a waterfall coming down on you.  It’s Newton’s 3rd law of motion: For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.  Put another way, you try to sell, I try to avoid you.  Our brain finds ways to block or resist what we can’t handle and don’t want.

But let’s move from physics to chemistry: sometimes we actually want what you’re selling.  What then?

Here is the crack of the bat.

So our fiction is a result of that need, sometimes a desperate need, to believe, to ‘buy in’ to products as well as ideas.  X-Files should immediately spring to mind, if it hasn’t already.  “I want to believe”.  We all do.  And the less callous of us manage it with all our hearts.  Those with a few more scars still want to drink the Kool-Aid.  It is our nature.  Hope is the nuclear energy in all of us waiting to be tapped or exploited.  History repeats itself first as tragedy then as farce.  So we are slow to believe, slow to put a hand in the fire yet again.  Experience cements the definition of insanity within us as doing the same thing over and over hoping for a different outcome.

So we invent the different outcome for ourselves: I know better than to go any deeper than a shallow gloss over religion or sports, but fairytales and rom-coms?  (You wondered when I’d be getting to those, didn’t you?)  They all live happily every after, of course, everyone knows that.  Ask any child and they will tell you with conviction.  It is both a means of fulfilling a desire as well as channeling all that directionless energy.

So what would a world look like if everyone believed…in themselves?

There it is.  The detonation that flattens civilizations, razing them for something shiny and new and lasting to be built on top.  “I don’t believe in Beatles, I just believe in me”.  And then he got shot.  But everyone wants to quote him and associate their ideas or products with him and people like him.  Ask yourself why that is.

Spain: didn’t your mother ever teach you about staring?

In spite of the overwhelming success of the first installment Spain: it’s in Europe, and even though I no longer have the advantage of long-term cold medicine use, I have rashly decided to continue to taunt you with stories I occasionally wish were complete fabrications.

Before going to a foreign country, it’s often wise to investigate local foods, culture and traditions so you’ll know what you’re missing when you go eat in the McDonald’s and hang out with other Americans.  To assist you at least in the food department, you should know that almost all Spaniards are just wild about ham.  And not just any ham: cured, acorn-fed ham.

Museo del Jamón: Ham Museum for those of you playing along at home. Those cured ham legs are all real and they’re all for sale.  (Note the little, white, plastic cuppy things to keep customers from being dripped on….quite considerate, really.)

Don’t do it, you have so much to live for!

In order to cut a cured ham properly, you need one of these babies: the ham vice.  (Okay, it’s not really called that, but I wish it were, if that counts for anything.)  As the photo accurately shows, you cut TOWARDS you. I don’t know if the Japanese got harakiri / seppuku from the Spaniards, although it should be looked into.

One of my greatest pleasures when showing foreigners around Madrid, is taking them to the Museo del Jamón.  I personally adore cured ham, and just the shock value of all those pig legs hanging from the walls and ceiling truly makes for a nice chuckle for me. (Insert judgement here.)  Still, there are those whose adventurous spirits go only so far as ordering beer at McDonald’s, which is also a treat even if it does involve actually going into a Micky D’s.

Eating may also come as a shock to you if you order fish or shellfish in a restaurant and find your meal staring back at you.  The official reason for leaving the head on is for you to see how fresh the critter is (or was).  The unofficial reason is to make foreigners squeamish.  And it’s pretty effective.  And you can argue all you want about the whole freshness, thing, you don’t see them leaving the head on the cow for the same purpose, now do you?  I didn’t think so.  So it’s all about the squeamish bit, eh?

If you should be lucky enough to be invited into a Spaniard’s home, you’d better pray they don’t serve langostinos which are prawns.

This is not to say that prawns aren’t tasty, and it by no means implies that Spaniards are lovely hosts.  Shellfish in general and especially on the coast is particularly good, I just mean that you may not be getting much of a fighting chance at actually eating it. The Spanish have a very ingenious method of supporting Darwinian theory at the dinner table: the prawns are served in one big dish in the middle–with participants taking their prey directly from the dish, not dividing them up first–and only the fastest will end up well-fed.  As the prawns are served in full battle dress (shell + head) you must learn to decapitate, shuck and eat these little guys in record time.  There are those who are partial to sucking on the head, but I’m also convinced that this has less to do with the flavor and more to do with the shock value. Remember, you are going up against seasoned veterans, and any tactic is valid.  Good luck!

It’s almost like they’re looking at you…

As for other cultural differences, the most difficult things to adjust to in this country for those of an Anglo-Saxon upbringing are questions of space and sound.  Personal space is not exactly a concept which translates. Neither is staring, cake mixes, nor quiet conversations in a bar. As a matter of fact, I highly recommend Spain as therapy for anyone who wants a more forceful personality. Don’t think of it as a lack of space, think of it as an excess of togetherness…with strangers.  This means that people will bump into you, stand too close when talking to you, and occupy the stall next to yours in an otherwise empty restroom, all to keep you from feeling lonely.  Quite thoughtful, really.

This is the only time you are guaranteed not to get bumped or stared at: when you’re alone

When it comes to unnerving tourists, older Spaniards are absolute Olympic Staring Champions.  It’s not their fault.  As a matter of fact, it should be noted that there is no single verb “to stare” in Spanish, they have to slap extra words on the verb to look–mirar–and make it “mirar fijamente” which is “to look steadily” that’s as close as you get.  Kind of like buying a ticket to New York and getting dropped off in Jersey.  Close enough!

You may say, “But what are they staring at?” Ahh you silly, silly foreigner! You think they need a reason? Even if they did need a reason (which, I must stress, they don’t) you are already giving them one by dressing like that.  However you’re dressed, it doesn’t really matter.  But a particularly good reason for locals to stare are shorts and sandals in January, or ubiquitous tennis shoes during the rest of the year. (I’m not sure where the rest of the world got the idea that Spain is always hot, but in Madrid there’s plenty of pneumonia to go around if you don’t dress for winter in winter, my darlings.) Americans in particular LOOK the most like tourists, and if you don’t know what I’m talking about, you are most likely the center of a lot of attention.  Congrats!

I am no longer surprised by staring. I am blonde after all, and for the first few weeks of my stay was convinced I must look just like someone famous named Rubia as men kept calling me this as they’d walk by or shouting it at me from passing cars. (If you don’t know what rubia means, go look it up, I’ll wait.)  It must also be noted that I used to wear shorts in January and ubiquitous tennis shoes and yes, the pneumonia was truly and thoroughly enjoyable, thank you.

The thing is that everyone KNOWS I’m not from here, which is a strange sensation that I can’t quite seem to shake. In the States you see such a mix of races and ethnicities that until someone opens their mouths, you have no idea that they aren’t anything but American, because that’s what people usually are.  Here, it’s the opposite.  Odds are if a person is black they are actual immigrants from Africa, if they have a terribly deep sunburn, they’re probably from Ohio….or Liverpool.

In summary: they can’t be staring, because they don’t even have that verb.  Got it?  Okay, got it.

And one final totally unrelated note because it needs to be said:

Flamenco dancer dolls: please don’t buy these as a souvenir unless the receiver is 5 years old and / or the plan is “Sevillana Barbie”.  (I’m just saying…)