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.
Monday, January 28, 2013
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.
Monday, January 14, 2013
One day more
^ Like the Les Mis song. Breaking out of Rockville. Jubilant chorus playing in my head 24/7. So excited I can hardly eat (abnormal, to say the least) or sleep.
My brother asked me today if I was worried about flying. It made me think...and I think the answer is yes, but not for the actual being in the air part. More for the not getting lost in the airport part. I love traveling -- the getting there part of it of course, but also (and maybe more than the getting there) I love the physical experience of traveling. Especially traveling where someone else is controlling the vehicle (carpooling, trains, subways, you get the idea. I tend to be a little too absent-minded to drive reliably). Thinking about what could be ahead, immediately romanticizing everything that's happened in the place I just left, reading and not feeling bad about "wasting time" because there's nothing to do and nowhere to go except onward, people-watching like it's my job...it's weird, but I do all of these things when en route to wherever, and they make me happy. Content. At peace with my limbo, in-transit place in the world, which in and of itself is a thrilling state to be in, because I really wanted to I could change my plan, blip off of the designated path, go anywhere and do anything. So even though the last time I was on a plane was when I was three and it's not an experience I can remember, I think it'll go okay. I'll probably flip a shit at the fact that I'm FLYING OVER THE OCEAN and then sleep until Madrid like the overgrown, over-excitable child that I am.
I can't wait for tomorrow. I can't wait to see what it will be like. I feel extraordinarily lucky that I am able to go, and when I say lucky I mean it truly does feel like luck. Like not something I earned or deserve or anything like that -- it feels like lottery-winning, $20-in-your-coat-pocket-finding, getting-helped-by-the-generous-lady-in-line-at-Chipotle dumb luck. Everything has a tenuous, unreal quality to it. If the whole thing were to fall down around my ears tomorrow -- say, if Spain stopped existing or I began waking up from a series of Inception-like dreams -- I think I would weirdly understand. This is too good to be true.
Goodbye, Maryland. Goodbye, east coast. Goodbye, a lot of American things I probably won't miss until I leave and then realize I don't/can't have them. Goodbye, Abby, loyal canine companion, who is alas about 80 pounds too heavy for my carry-on. Goodbye, English (must stick to the no-English resolution. I must.). Goodbye, sweeteners in my coffee and the dim possibility of snow and the drive to do homework. Goodbye, driving on the right side of the road. Goodbye, eating dinner at six. And so on.
Bye.
*1/16: so they drive on the same side of the road. oops.
My brother asked me today if I was worried about flying. It made me think...and I think the answer is yes, but not for the actual being in the air part. More for the not getting lost in the airport part. I love traveling -- the getting there part of it of course, but also (and maybe more than the getting there) I love the physical experience of traveling. Especially traveling where someone else is controlling the vehicle (carpooling, trains, subways, you get the idea. I tend to be a little too absent-minded to drive reliably). Thinking about what could be ahead, immediately romanticizing everything that's happened in the place I just left, reading and not feeling bad about "wasting time" because there's nothing to do and nowhere to go except onward, people-watching like it's my job...it's weird, but I do all of these things when en route to wherever, and they make me happy. Content. At peace with my limbo, in-transit place in the world, which in and of itself is a thrilling state to be in, because I really wanted to I could change my plan, blip off of the designated path, go anywhere and do anything. So even though the last time I was on a plane was when I was three and it's not an experience I can remember, I think it'll go okay. I'll probably flip a shit at the fact that I'm FLYING OVER THE OCEAN and then sleep until Madrid like the overgrown, over-excitable child that I am.
I can't wait for tomorrow. I can't wait to see what it will be like. I feel extraordinarily lucky that I am able to go, and when I say lucky I mean it truly does feel like luck. Like not something I earned or deserve or anything like that -- it feels like lottery-winning, $20-in-your-coat-pocket-finding, getting-helped-by-the-generous-lady-in-line-at-Chipotle dumb luck. Everything has a tenuous, unreal quality to it. If the whole thing were to fall down around my ears tomorrow -- say, if Spain stopped existing or I began waking up from a series of Inception-like dreams -- I think I would weirdly understand. This is too good to be true.
Goodbye, Maryland. Goodbye, east coast. Goodbye, a lot of American things I probably won't miss until I leave and then realize I don't/can't have them. Goodbye, Abby, loyal canine companion, who is alas about 80 pounds too heavy for my carry-on. Goodbye, English (must stick to the no-English resolution. I must.). Goodbye, sweeteners in my coffee and the dim possibility of snow and the drive to do homework. Goodbye, driving on the right side of the road. Goodbye, eating dinner at six. And so on.
Bye.
*1/16: so they drive on the same side of the road. oops.
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