Tuesday, April 9, 2013
ALL OF THE THINGS
so many things have pasar-ed since the last post. there should be a new one coming soon, now that insane 11-day backpacking trips are over and keyboards have been fixed. so hang in there, small and loyal blog audience (not sure if audience is too ambitious of a term)! I will deliver. get the door. it's dominos + other stuff like maybe a post.
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
mascelta, maruecos, meals, manana, other miscellaneous things
How has it been two months. HOW. Two months is an eternity. In two months you can finish writing a significant part of your next novel. A cat can get pregnant and have its litter. Sourdough starters can rise. Cities can fall. The leaning Tower of Pisa can lean a little more. The pitch can drop.
I can already tell that leaving is going to hurt. This is fairly a dream, though both much and relatively little time has passed.
Also, the letter M is loosely the theme of this post, though clearly other letters are permitted to make an appearance.
-Morocco: is a beautiful and melancholy country. When I think about it, the image that comes to mind is one long mountain range, high and craggy with deep green valleys. And blue, blue cities. Also men wandering around in djbellahs, and no women in the streets at night. For taste, msmen with jibneh (a kind of soft farmer's cheese), honey and golden raisins, followed by an exceptionally tangy and creamy carton of plain yogurt. Which was also blue (the carton, not the yogurt) (though I probably still would've eaten it if it was blue...Sprinklins, anyone?). Sounds...camels mooing/braying/snorting/growling/various combinations of these sounds. Cloppity-clop of donkey hooves on stone streets. Alternatively Ke$ha and mellow acoustic cover-filled playlists on the bus. The bee-boppin 50's sounds of Grease (watched not once, but two times. The end where they fly into the air is no less baffling the second time around). Feelings...smooth Atlantic-buffered shells and crumbled concrete walls on fingertips. A roundish kind of vastness inside, a desire to sense everything without thought, to absorb it all and turn it over in my mind later. A sponge-like sensation, a wanting to get some part of the country in my pores.
Alas, nothing in the smell department that I can remember.
-Mirador de San Nicholas: and other views from the Albayzin in Granada (although there was no Sevilla/Granada post, it was a good, good trip). Across the way is the Alhambra.
-Mesa/mmmmmmmm: tapas. The entire class had a revelation when we went out to dinner the other night as part of an obligatory after-hours activity. We got all grumpy at the fact that we were going to have to pay a whole 15 EURO for a dinner (we are brats) and then we started eating and it was magical. The papas bravas were these solid hunks of potato, fork-sized and rather heavy looking. Not so. Biting was like biting into some kind of potato cream puff, the crispy exterior shattering into a million shards of starchy goodness and giving way to this, this -- I don't even know how to describe it, it was like a potato cloud, and then it melted in your mouth and all that was left behind was the snap of the garlic in the aioli and tomato-salsa-thing that was drizzled on top. And then the little bites of greens with the goat cheese that woke up the back of your tongue with its tartness, and the GOOD tomatoes (it's winter! where did they get these! WHAT IS THEIR SECRET). And the charred flatbread with the mushrooms and the strange cheese that was sweet and pungent at the same time. And the miracle that was papas con jamon y huevos, with the heads of roasted garlic all mellow and mushy at the bottom. And the pitchers of sangria that just. Kept. Coming.
I have previously and stupidly stated that Spanish food is good, but "too much of the same" and "simplistic." This is a lie. In failing to appreciate the beautiful food baby that the marriage of a few (it's a polygamous relationship, I guess) really, really quality ingredients can produce, I tricked myself into thinking Spanish cooking was unimaginative. Completely, utterly tonta.
^No apologies for the preponderance of food-related thoughts here.
-Mayte: is sometimes a strange cross between an adult and a nina. A veces she's 100% a mother hen, with all her "comelo"s and "toma un postre," because you must always eat more than you are currently eating. She can also be quite sassy, which makes me want to find a better word than insolente, or fresco, to describe her. It's kind of like the word that would describe the archetype of a big sister, if such a word existed (does it?). She gives good boy advice, does not like vegetables and especially not onions, always finds something wrong with her tortilla patata (even though they're always good), cackles when she laughs, is not religious, likes bananas the best of all fruits, loves children, does not consider herself a futbol fan but still screams "TOMA" at the TV when Barcelona makes a significant comeback against Milan.
-Making: conversations with strangers. Some people have an innate talent for this -- they attract the attention of desconocidos through a mysterious combination of pheromones and friendliness -- and others not. I am in the latter category, but I admire people who can just pick up with other people on the spot like it's no big thang. Recently an intrepid couchsurfing amiga opened my eyes to the benefits of uncrossing your arms, removing your scowl and trusting strangers (with conversation, with ideas, with one's company -- everything). And another has done the same through the fearless attitude she maintains towards the world. No one is too intimidating or too strange to talk to in her eyes, and she's met some friggin sweet Spaniards because of it.
-Mascleta: actually, I'm gonna wait on this one. Don't quite get them yet, though I'm definitely a fan.
-Magicjack: can be useful.
-Missing: people, wastefully long showers, vegetables, carbohydrates other than pan (oatmeal oatmeal oatmeal or some rigatoni would be amazing), short walks to class. Having an income, however small. Large cups of black coffee. Cooking. Knowing where stuff is. Withdrawing money from my bank account and having it be the actual amount that will show up withdrawn later instead of 1.4 times that amount. Singing in chorus. Speaking English and not feeling guilty.
-Madeline: instead of Maddie. New country, new identity. I can dig it.
I can already tell that leaving is going to hurt. This is fairly a dream, though both much and relatively little time has passed.
Also, the letter M is loosely the theme of this post, though clearly other letters are permitted to make an appearance.
-Morocco: is a beautiful and melancholy country. When I think about it, the image that comes to mind is one long mountain range, high and craggy with deep green valleys. And blue, blue cities. Also men wandering around in djbellahs, and no women in the streets at night. For taste, msmen with jibneh (a kind of soft farmer's cheese), honey and golden raisins, followed by an exceptionally tangy and creamy carton of plain yogurt. Which was also blue (the carton, not the yogurt) (though I probably still would've eaten it if it was blue...Sprinklins, anyone?). Sounds...camels mooing/braying/snorting/growling/various combinations of these sounds. Cloppity-clop of donkey hooves on stone streets. Alternatively Ke$ha and mellow acoustic cover-filled playlists on the bus. The bee-boppin 50's sounds of Grease (watched not once, but two times. The end where they fly into the air is no less baffling the second time around). Feelings...smooth Atlantic-buffered shells and crumbled concrete walls on fingertips. A roundish kind of vastness inside, a desire to sense everything without thought, to absorb it all and turn it over in my mind later. A sponge-like sensation, a wanting to get some part of the country in my pores.
Alas, nothing in the smell department that I can remember.
-Mesa/mmmmmmmm: tapas. The entire class had a revelation when we went out to dinner the other night as part of an obligatory after-hours activity. We got all grumpy at the fact that we were going to have to pay a whole 15 EURO for a dinner (we are brats) and then we started eating and it was magical. The papas bravas were these solid hunks of potato, fork-sized and rather heavy looking. Not so. Biting was like biting into some kind of potato cream puff, the crispy exterior shattering into a million shards of starchy goodness and giving way to this, this -- I don't even know how to describe it, it was like a potato cloud, and then it melted in your mouth and all that was left behind was the snap of the garlic in the aioli and tomato-salsa-thing that was drizzled on top. And then the little bites of greens with the goat cheese that woke up the back of your tongue with its tartness, and the GOOD tomatoes (it's winter! where did they get these! WHAT IS THEIR SECRET). And the charred flatbread with the mushrooms and the strange cheese that was sweet and pungent at the same time. And the miracle that was papas con jamon y huevos, with the heads of roasted garlic all mellow and mushy at the bottom. And the pitchers of sangria that just. Kept. Coming.
I have previously and stupidly stated that Spanish food is good, but "too much of the same" and "simplistic." This is a lie. In failing to appreciate the beautiful food baby that the marriage of a few (it's a polygamous relationship, I guess) really, really quality ingredients can produce, I tricked myself into thinking Spanish cooking was unimaginative. Completely, utterly tonta.
^No apologies for the preponderance of food-related thoughts here.
-Mayte: is sometimes a strange cross between an adult and a nina. A veces she's 100% a mother hen, with all her "comelo"s and "toma un postre," because you must always eat more than you are currently eating. She can also be quite sassy, which makes me want to find a better word than insolente, or fresco, to describe her. It's kind of like the word that would describe the archetype of a big sister, if such a word existed (does it?). She gives good boy advice, does not like vegetables and especially not onions, always finds something wrong with her tortilla patata (even though they're always good), cackles when she laughs, is not religious, likes bananas the best of all fruits, loves children, does not consider herself a futbol fan but still screams "TOMA" at the TV when Barcelona makes a significant comeback against Milan.
-Making: conversations with strangers. Some people have an innate talent for this -- they attract the attention of desconocidos through a mysterious combination of pheromones and friendliness -- and others not. I am in the latter category, but I admire people who can just pick up with other people on the spot like it's no big thang. Recently an intrepid couchsurfing amiga opened my eyes to the benefits of uncrossing your arms, removing your scowl and trusting strangers (with conversation, with ideas, with one's company -- everything). And another has done the same through the fearless attitude she maintains towards the world. No one is too intimidating or too strange to talk to in her eyes, and she's met some friggin sweet Spaniards because of it.
-Mascleta: actually, I'm gonna wait on this one. Don't quite get them yet, though I'm definitely a fan.
-Magicjack: can be useful.
-Missing: people, wastefully long showers, vegetables, carbohydrates other than pan (oatmeal oatmeal oatmeal or some rigatoni would be amazing), short walks to class. Having an income, however small. Large cups of black coffee. Cooking. Knowing where stuff is. Withdrawing money from my bank account and having it be the actual amount that will show up withdrawn later instead of 1.4 times that amount. Singing in chorus. Speaking English and not feeling guilty.
-Madeline: instead of Maddie. New country, new identity. I can dig it.
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Fallas
Today was the second Tuesday I went to the artist-lady's workshop. From school it's a 20-minute bike ride down Aragon into the Rio. It's four or so by this time, the city slowly coming back to life from its collective siesta, the Rio beginning to fill up with people running, walking their dogs, holding hands, roller skating, strolling, playing futbol.
Victor, Marisa's son, is sleeping when I get there. He's parked in his stroller in front of some dubbed Bones reruns playing on the TV. The arboles we paper-mached last time are gone; in their place are more of the little child-people in various animal costumes. Each one comes up to my knee or so, and though Marisa grabs the cat one by the ears and the pumpkin one by the stem, I cradle each one like it's made of glass. Yes, we're readying them for their festival funeral pyre, but to die a premature death in the hand of a clumsy American seems like it would be the worst kind of injustice. We seal them up with a paste that looks like watery glue and their new under-skin glistens. Paint me! they say. Paint me in absurdly bright colors, and we do.
Marisa wears a man's green jumpsuit over her regular clothes as she works. Today she also has a scarf that looks like the tails of a hundred miniature grey foxes spilling out over the collar; they wag slightly as she leans over the table, turning and adjusting the newspapered arms of the figurine she's building. Watching her work is...deceptive. She's at once so industrious and so distracted that it's easy to forget she's a really, really talented artist. One moment she's so absorbed in the papery creases along the figure's sides she can't be bothered to answer questions with more than a "sí," and the next she's off talking on the phone, chasing Victor around the studio for the next half hour trying to get him to stop playing with the dinosaur and eat his merienda. She comes off as so pragmatic it's hard to imagine these pink moons and fox-children coming from a place in her brain. But they do.
The studio, from the outside, might be the textbook definition of nondescript. The entrance is a dirty glass door, the street seemingly without a name (though I am a poor looker and may just have not seen the sign). The only way I know I'm in the right place is if I pass the graffiti of the woman in the red and white polka-dot dress. Yet a number of people pop in and out of the studio while I'm there, some family, some friends, some who appear to be total strangers but all, I am fairly sure, people from the barrio. An older man brings Victor some croissants in a bag, one lady makes herself at home on a stool and chats with Marisa, while still another woman comes to talk (I think) numbers with Paco, Marisa's husband. I submerge myself in the steady flow of Spanish and afternoon light and paint a cat-kid grey.
My fingers are still covered in paint, and I don't bother to wash it all off when I get home. I cannot wait for next week.
Victor, Marisa's son, is sleeping when I get there. He's parked in his stroller in front of some dubbed Bones reruns playing on the TV. The arboles we paper-mached last time are gone; in their place are more of the little child-people in various animal costumes. Each one comes up to my knee or so, and though Marisa grabs the cat one by the ears and the pumpkin one by the stem, I cradle each one like it's made of glass. Yes, we're readying them for their festival funeral pyre, but to die a premature death in the hand of a clumsy American seems like it would be the worst kind of injustice. We seal them up with a paste that looks like watery glue and their new under-skin glistens. Paint me! they say. Paint me in absurdly bright colors, and we do.
Marisa wears a man's green jumpsuit over her regular clothes as she works. Today she also has a scarf that looks like the tails of a hundred miniature grey foxes spilling out over the collar; they wag slightly as she leans over the table, turning and adjusting the newspapered arms of the figurine she's building. Watching her work is...deceptive. She's at once so industrious and so distracted that it's easy to forget she's a really, really talented artist. One moment she's so absorbed in the papery creases along the figure's sides she can't be bothered to answer questions with more than a "sí," and the next she's off talking on the phone, chasing Victor around the studio for the next half hour trying to get him to stop playing with the dinosaur and eat his merienda. She comes off as so pragmatic it's hard to imagine these pink moons and fox-children coming from a place in her brain. But they do.
The studio, from the outside, might be the textbook definition of nondescript. The entrance is a dirty glass door, the street seemingly without a name (though I am a poor looker and may just have not seen the sign). The only way I know I'm in the right place is if I pass the graffiti of the woman in the red and white polka-dot dress. Yet a number of people pop in and out of the studio while I'm there, some family, some friends, some who appear to be total strangers but all, I am fairly sure, people from the barrio. An older man brings Victor some croissants in a bag, one lady makes herself at home on a stool and chats with Marisa, while still another woman comes to talk (I think) numbers with Paco, Marisa's husband. I submerge myself in the steady flow of Spanish and afternoon light and paint a cat-kid grey.
My fingers are still covered in paint, and I don't bother to wash it all off when I get home. I cannot wait for next week.
Friday, February 15, 2013
no hablo ingles
So attaining fluency is a lot more difficult than I thought.
But in all seriousness I feel a fair amount of guilt when speaking English. It feels like giving up. It feels like I and whoever I'm speaking English with are failing, that we're cheating ourselves. And we are. I even feel a little guilty writing in English right now, but if I don't write something in a language that I understand I'm going to go crazy.
Another student in the program said she felt her Spanish improved dramatically in the first couple weeks and then suddenly plateaued. And I feel the same way. School's not bad -- I usually catch all of what the teachers say, even if my responses are baby-like. But sometimes Mayte talks, or there's a conversation on TV, or we watch a movie in class or I'm just walking somewhere and I hear Spanish and I think...agh. This is hard. How people learn to speak English is beyond me. At least Spanish only has five vowels and a fairly straightforward grammatical structure compared to English, which is both a blessing and a constant reminder that learning Spanish should not be so hard, that I should be picking up way more than I actually am. Spanish speakers all over the world can pick up English; English speakers all over the world can pick up Spanish. Why is my brain soooooo slowwwww
Smaller groups is the key to speaking Spanish outside of school, I think. When a group of us went to Sevilla this past weekend (more on that soon) (possibly today), we spoke only Spanish for one whole day. And it went really well. After an hour of struggling to get into it, those r's just started rolling naturally and we were actually talking, and not "como se dice"-ing every English word that popped into our heads. I even had this weird thing happen this past week after hearing almost all Spanish all day when I tried to go to sleep that night, where a gobbledygook string of Spanish words kept running through my mind along with an unrelated current of English thoughts. THAT was encouraging, if a little strange.
I'm glad I'm realizing how tough this is going to be now, as opposed to later (which seems like it would be impossible -- how can you ignore the fact that you don't understand people for 5 months, but I'm good at denying/ignoring things). But that doesn't take away from the fact that sometimes I want to chuck Don Quijote across the room, preferably into Gandalf's litter box.
I love English for how complex and vast and quirky it is. And I want to love Spanish, too, because in many ways it's so much more direct. It is a decisive language. But right now I just feel boxed out. Gah. Hopefully this changes soon.
Sunday, February 3, 2013
Barcelona, bullet-point style
This is how I will remember Barcelona: not in one cohesive picture or any one consistent theme -- there wasn't enough time for that -- but as a series of brightly colored threads, a brilliant fringe to rub between mental fingers, a burst of small and discrete points of light. And also as somewhat lonely. Maybe it's because of the size, because it is MUCH bigger than Valencia, but it felt emptier, less homey. Valencia feels more like a community to me, more toned-down in many outward respects and more...more quietly exuberant in others.
-La Sagrada Famila. It's so much different than any other religious building I've ever seen. Definitely grand, but not in the distant way a lot of other cathedrals seem to be (a lot of others...I've only seen two or three in person, but pictures count right?). From the first you get the sense that you're watching a very intimate conversation between Gaudi and something divine. God, nature, the creative force in the world, SOMETHING powerful was pushing him to build up, and in a way that looks very much outside of the constraints of any other building, religious or otherwise, I've seen. The Wikipedia page makes me want to read a biography of Gaudi's life, or at least another Wikipedia page.
-Walking through the market and seeing the biggest apricots/tripe/walnuts/selection of fake Ray Bans (Reyes Barres) I'd ever seen.
-Understanding some of the people I traveled with more, and some a little less. Having conversations I did not expect to be having so early on in knowing someone, and opening up a little bit more and having it be okay.
-Realizing that I'm not a club person and never will be.
-Realizing that leaving the club to go to the rope playground on the beach at 3AM is much more my speed.
-Walking through the market and seeing the biggest apricots/tripe/walnuts/selection of fake Ray Bans (Reyes Barres) I'd ever seen.
-Understanding some of the people I traveled with more, and some a little less. Having conversations I did not expect to be having so early on in knowing someone, and opening up a little bit more and having it be okay.
-Realizing that I'm not a club person and never will be.
-Realizing that leaving the club to go to the rope playground on the beach at 3AM is much more my speed.
-Getting a really, really good apple from a little fruit store, even though it looked shitty and the apple was small and brownish. And also a baguette (turning into a pan-fanatic) for a whopping total of one euro. This somewhat softened the blow of the five euro beer from the restaurant on Las Ramblas the night before. Novice traveler lesson number one: do not buy alcohol on the tourist street.
-Standing at the tallest point in the Parque Guell, which involved climbing up a twisting, crowded, railing-less stairway (fear of heights ftw) and seeing the whole city, all sprawled out and lego-like, and the Sagrada Familia looking like some kind of ornate bauble set down in the middle of a sea of blocks. Listening to a man play American country music on a guitar while looking out on the little post-it squares of color. Feeling extraordinarily peaceful.
-Traveling with people I like. Thinking about how this is only the first of many trips. Getting on the bus, leaving the city and thinking about how I might never come back to Barcelona, and not feeling sad but rather just wondering at the fact that I will only be alive for so long and might not choose to come back there again, and at the realization that you can see a place and have it be both the first and last time in your life.
-Standing at the tallest point in the Parque Guell, which involved climbing up a twisting, crowded, railing-less stairway (fear of heights ftw) and seeing the whole city, all sprawled out and lego-like, and the Sagrada Familia looking like some kind of ornate bauble set down in the middle of a sea of blocks. Listening to a man play American country music on a guitar while looking out on the little post-it squares of color. Feeling extraordinarily peaceful.
-Traveling with people I like. Thinking about how this is only the first of many trips. Getting on the bus, leaving the city and thinking about how I might never come back to Barcelona, and not feeling sad but rather just wondering at the fact that I will only be alive for so long and might not choose to come back there again, and at the realization that you can see a place and have it be both the first and last time in your life.
Monday, January 28, 2013
familia, amigos, gatos
It's kind of weird being here and hanging out with people almost all day and realizing you don't really know them. That's not meant in a mean way, it's just...I don't know them. But it's not bad.
^ that's what I wrote a couple of days ago. But I don't think I feel that way now. Everything just seems less...tense. About a week in, people begin to relax and things get a little less "I need friends! Give me friends! I need MY group!" Less attention-whorey, less friend-grabby. It's nice. I think I shall write more of this when I write about BarTHelona. Fake accent emphasis added.
Mayte (la host mama, whose name is a combination of Maria and Teresa, her two first names, I think?) and I also had a moment the other day. Pues (well), I don't wanna call it a moment because that makes it too precious. But there was a definite shift. We hadn't seen each other the day before and when we reunited, it was surprisingly joyful, and she talked very fast and Spanish and I talked faster than I usually do. She took the time to explain the basics of the game -- the difference between red and yellow cards, why it was important that Barcelona win as opposed to Malaga (answer: because Barcelona would have a better chance of beating Real Madrid, and she HATES Real Madrid), who Messi is, really anything that a person who knew anything about futbol would know. We agreed that the majority of futbol players are muy guapo. Mayte laments the fact that I do not have a smart phone and daily extols the benefits of Whatsapp. Es gratis, she tells me, if only you had internet. We both look at my tiny, sad flip phone and sigh. She also keeps telling me I am wearing ropa de verano. In fact, as I type this, she is telling taking a picture of my "summer dress" to send to her disbelieving aunt. "Sonrie!" she tells me. I do, and it's an actual smile. Mayte cracks me up. She shops like a pro, loves little kids, has two tattoos and hates cooking (we've had a lot of frozen pizza recently). Secretly I want to be her favorite study abroad student, which is dumb, but I think she's cool and I just want her to like me.
But Mayte and I are not the sole occupants of the apartment. There is a third. His name is Gandalf, and he is a grey cat, as in Gandalf el Gris from "El señor de los anillos," and this should in theory endear him to me. And for the first week or so he and I got along. And then I realized that I did not like cats jumping up on the bed at 5 in the morning to sit on my face or clawing at my leg as I tried to let him sit in my lap or biting me as I tried to be AFFECTIONATE and pet him. I never wanted to make an enemy out of a Gandalf. If anything I wanted him to take me on a tour of the Shire. But this is not to be. He is a capricious grey cat and I am a dog person.
And this isn't related to anything (trying to cut out extraneous thoughts but it is HARD) but there's been a couple moments that past couple of days where I've had a thought in Spanish before having it in English. It's surprising, and it isn't really happening enough to merit any kind of self congratulatory pat on the back, but it's still exciting. And it was also weird trying to write in English in the school's study center where it's OBLIGATORIO that you speak in Spanish (broke this rule within 5 minutes of stepping inside oops) and I was writing in English. Cognitive disconnect. Bleh.
More extraneous thoughts, but also Spain is making me enjoy life about a million times more than I ever thought I could.
^ that's what I wrote a couple of days ago. But I don't think I feel that way now. Everything just seems less...tense. About a week in, people begin to relax and things get a little less "I need friends! Give me friends! I need MY group!" Less attention-whorey, less friend-grabby. It's nice. I think I shall write more of this when I write about BarTHelona. Fake accent emphasis added.
Mayte (la host mama, whose name is a combination of Maria and Teresa, her two first names, I think?) and I also had a moment the other day. Pues (well), I don't wanna call it a moment because that makes it too precious. But there was a definite shift. We hadn't seen each other the day before and when we reunited, it was surprisingly joyful, and she talked very fast and Spanish and I talked faster than I usually do. She took the time to explain the basics of the game -- the difference between red and yellow cards, why it was important that Barcelona win as opposed to Malaga (answer: because Barcelona would have a better chance of beating Real Madrid, and she HATES Real Madrid), who Messi is, really anything that a person who knew anything about futbol would know. We agreed that the majority of futbol players are muy guapo. Mayte laments the fact that I do not have a smart phone and daily extols the benefits of Whatsapp. Es gratis, she tells me, if only you had internet. We both look at my tiny, sad flip phone and sigh. She also keeps telling me I am wearing ropa de verano. In fact, as I type this, she is telling taking a picture of my "summer dress" to send to her disbelieving aunt. "Sonrie!" she tells me. I do, and it's an actual smile. Mayte cracks me up. She shops like a pro, loves little kids, has two tattoos and hates cooking (we've had a lot of frozen pizza recently). Secretly I want to be her favorite study abroad student, which is dumb, but I think she's cool and I just want her to like me.
But Mayte and I are not the sole occupants of the apartment. There is a third. His name is Gandalf, and he is a grey cat, as in Gandalf el Gris from "El señor de los anillos," and this should in theory endear him to me. And for the first week or so he and I got along. And then I realized that I did not like cats jumping up on the bed at 5 in the morning to sit on my face or clawing at my leg as I tried to let him sit in my lap or biting me as I tried to be AFFECTIONATE and pet him. I never wanted to make an enemy out of a Gandalf. If anything I wanted him to take me on a tour of the Shire. But this is not to be. He is a capricious grey cat and I am a dog person.
And this isn't related to anything (trying to cut out extraneous thoughts but it is HARD) but there's been a couple moments that past couple of days where I've had a thought in Spanish before having it in English. It's surprising, and it isn't really happening enough to merit any kind of self congratulatory pat on the back, but it's still exciting. And it was also weird trying to write in English in the school's study center where it's OBLIGATORIO that you speak in Spanish (broke this rule within 5 minutes of stepping inside oops) and I was writing in English. Cognitive disconnect. Bleh.
More extraneous thoughts, but also Spain is making me enjoy life about a million times more than I ever thought I could.
Friday, January 18, 2013
Lost (episode one and hopefully the series finale as well)
She looked so reasonable, so calm, so knowing drawing the map, with its specialized landmarks and notes of where street names changed that I too felt confident. I too felt like I knew exactly what she was talking about. Of course I knew where Calle Barcas was. Of course I'd have to cross the Plaza del Ayuntamiento,obviously, clearly. And I bet it would be a pleasant stroll, just like the woman in the Yoigo shop said.
So like the dumbass I am, I promptly split off from the group to follow my map (why did I think I could follow a map. I am terrible at reading maps. I'm terrible at reading Google map directions. I even managed to get myself and a friend halfway from Charlottesville to Virginia Tech once before realizing that our destination was in fact 20 minutes away from where we'd left, and that was with a smartphone telling me what to do). And I think I must have taken a wrong turn right at the start, because for the next two hours I unwittingly circled Calle Barcas like a decrepit, memory-addled vulture who is trying to remember how to zero in on his unmoving target.
Except for one 10 minute period wandering up and down Avendia de Germaine (this may or may not be a real sreet) after a payphone call to mi madre ("You're where? Oh, that is far away") when my eyes started watering and I just wished there was a damn fountain somewhere nearby because that zumo de naranja from 8:00 AM wasn't cutting it, I honestly did not despair. It was terrifying and wonderful to be suddenly spun out into the city on my own, like the end of a thread pulling away from the spool.
And when I finally, FINALLY found Calle Barcas, which is Calle Barcas on the map but not on the signs which are in Valenciano, which resembles French-influenced Spanish, and followed it, and then it really did turn into Calle Juan de Austria and then Calle de Sorni and then the traffic circle and then this wonderful, welcome sight...I just. Not sure if I have the skill to find the right words to describe what I felt. Like a strange combination of weariness and gratitude and the definite sense of something won -- not like a triumph over the city but something it ended up revealing, or sharing. I don't know exactly.
There was nothing sweeter than turning onto Avenida del Puerto and recognizing things, really knowing where I was. I rejoiced at the graffiti on the walls of the private garden, and the Donor Kebap store and the smallish grove of orange trees clustered, oddly, in the middle of the sidewalk. I practically started skipping when I saw the neon Boston Videoteca sign, with its gigantic arrow pointing to my block on Islas Canarias. I thought it was tacky before. Now it was like a neon lighthouse calling me home. And then there was the awkward thing where out of sheer overexcitment I tried to fit my key into the apartment building next to mine for a good five minutes but that doesn't count because at least I was there, mostly.
Every Valenciano I asked for help -- and there were at least 20 of them -- took pity and helped me as much as they could, the vast majority of shopkeepers even leaving their stores to point me in the right direction on the street. Maps were drawn. Routes were highlighted. Kind words and judgmental but well-deserved looks were given (you, lady in the Rufasa beauty shop). So muchisimas, muchisimas gracias for helping out a broken Spanish-speaking, overconfident americana. I will find a way to pay you back.
So like the dumbass I am, I promptly split off from the group to follow my map (why did I think I could follow a map. I am terrible at reading maps. I'm terrible at reading Google map directions. I even managed to get myself and a friend halfway from Charlottesville to Virginia Tech once before realizing that our destination was in fact 20 minutes away from where we'd left, and that was with a smartphone telling me what to do). And I think I must have taken a wrong turn right at the start, because for the next two hours I unwittingly circled Calle Barcas like a decrepit, memory-addled vulture who is trying to remember how to zero in on his unmoving target.
Except for one 10 minute period wandering up and down Avendia de Germaine (this may or may not be a real sreet) after a payphone call to mi madre ("You're where? Oh, that is far away") when my eyes started watering and I just wished there was a damn fountain somewhere nearby because that zumo de naranja from 8:00 AM wasn't cutting it, I honestly did not despair. It was terrifying and wonderful to be suddenly spun out into the city on my own, like the end of a thread pulling away from the spool.
And when I finally, FINALLY found Calle Barcas, which is Calle Barcas on the map but not on the signs which are in Valenciano, which resembles French-influenced Spanish, and followed it, and then it really did turn into Calle Juan de Austria and then Calle de Sorni and then the traffic circle and then this wonderful, welcome sight...I just. Not sure if I have the skill to find the right words to describe what I felt. Like a strange combination of weariness and gratitude and the definite sense of something won -- not like a triumph over the city but something it ended up revealing, or sharing. I don't know exactly.
There was nothing sweeter than turning onto Avenida del Puerto and recognizing things, really knowing where I was. I rejoiced at the graffiti on the walls of the private garden, and the Donor Kebap store and the smallish grove of orange trees clustered, oddly, in the middle of the sidewalk. I practically started skipping when I saw the neon Boston Videoteca sign, with its gigantic arrow pointing to my block on Islas Canarias. I thought it was tacky before. Now it was like a neon lighthouse calling me home. And then there was the awkward thing where out of sheer overexcitment I tried to fit my key into the apartment building next to mine for a good five minutes but that doesn't count because at least I was there, mostly.
Every Valenciano I asked for help -- and there were at least 20 of them -- took pity and helped me as much as they could, the vast majority of shopkeepers even leaving their stores to point me in the right direction on the street. Maps were drawn. Routes were highlighted. Kind words and judgmental but well-deserved looks were given (you, lady in the Rufasa beauty shop). So muchisimas, muchisimas gracias for helping out a broken Spanish-speaking, overconfident americana. I will find a way to pay you back.
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