Wait, you're a Spainard and you run? Wait, you wear spandex? WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL THIS DAMN TIME?

Day 14

I don’t even know where to begin…there’s just so much to say.

I’m a night time exercise promise maker. (And don’t you dare laugh, because I know you are too) It always sounds so good to say, yep, I’ll rise with the sun at 6am, get in some hardy calisthenics and be ready to greet the world with an endorphin filled body. Somewhere in REM this exuberance is lost in the cycles of sleep, and converted into lethargic abhorrence for any movement more than rolling over to snooze the alarm. Suddenly thoughts swarm the brain….no, you should rest. Remember you were up late last night? Or no, this is Sunday, it’s holy. Stay in bed. Or the kicker…I’ll go for a run later, promise. All lies. The pillow and the bed and the blankets and the warmth seep into your brain through some secret process of osmosis. Needless to say, this morning at 8am I was the slug who was lamenting her terrible decision to “get to know the city and the people better” by signing up for the Carrera Urbana that would take those closet exercisers of Spain through a scenic loop of the center of town out to the University and back. Having told my roommate that I was going to do it, a bit of staunch pride pulled my booty out of bed and slipped my feet into my sneaks. And I was off…not with a bang, but at least I was moving towards the start line.

And it was SO worth it. No, not for the scenic run. I can get lost and incidentally find beautiful places. It was worth it for the clothes. Only in Spain can a 12 year old boy walk out in green spandex shorts and a running tank and NOT be made fun of. Only because all the rest of his friends are wearing them too. For any guy that has done Bike & Build and has been stared down because of their rather tight attire, suffer no more, Europe is on board with spandex. Lord knows they may not actually break a sweat “exercising” but you better believe that they’ve got the gear to make them look professional. I made sure to get there early to people watch. It was a gold mine. (As an anthropologist I (as other anthro nerds like myself) get a real kick out of people watching. In fact, we try and convince other people to pay us to do it). Spandex of every length – full pants, cute capris, all the way up to the spandex underwear (I had a terrible PTSD flashback of my high school track days…oooooo those underwear shorts we had to wear!! I’ll never recover). Everyone was in some super classy sportswear top or had donned their local athletic club shirt. 45 minutes before the start I begin some hardcore spying. I peruse the local area. Runners sit at cafes, drinking café con leches. No surprise. They’re impervious to caffeine. (Interesting note…2 old men sitting at a café drinking Beer at 9:15am.hmmm a bit early to start, eh? Or perhaps they just never called it a night). Or my favorite sighting…those who think it wise to begin some serious warm-up 45 minutes before the race start…even though it’s only a 10k. The guy who starts at one wall and dashes across the plaza to the fountain does a drunken spin and hauls it back to the wall like a newly born horse. The intense leg swings are going on at another corner. Either he’s loosening up his hips or he’s doing a splendid job of drawing attention to high bright yellow and green kicks. And then there’s my kind of folk. They just popped a squat and said to hell with a warm up, its 9am, my wife signed me up for this damn thing because of too many churros after work and now I’m wearing spandex and she’s blaring Shakira on her ipod. I don’t know if I should be surprised or not, but there’s quite a large number of couples at the start. I’m going to look up the divorce rate here…maybe the secret of a healthy relationship. Go run your stress out together.

As we are running I start to get kind of upset. I keep thinking, where the heck are all you runners during the week when I get the strangest and most judging of looks from all of freaking Spain for even thinking that donning shorts and sneakers and going for a jog along the beach would be a reasonable thing?

But on the other hand, I’m excited because I keep thinking; finally I’ve found my kind of people. Up early, outside, wearing spandex, suffering, but loving it. Perhaps you’re thinking as I was, FRIENDS. Yes, Katie could actually make a friend. This could be the day…it turned out a bit differently. Creepy guy with lamb chops comes up to me and asks me why I don’t have my number pinned to my shirt. In my nicest cold shoulder voice I say I do not have safety pins. (Gosh, how did those slip my mind when writing up my packing list?) And then he asked how they’ll know if I’m allowed to be here. I smiled and say “Hombre. Es carrera GRATIS.” (Translated…you dumb shit, it’s a free race, open to the public. They don’t give a rat’s ass if I’m official.) By then he knows I’m not Spanish (because I pronounce ALL my letters…novel idea). So we do the normal jumping through hoops. Yes, I’m not from here. USA. No, not NYC. Washington DC. Much lamer. Yes I’m here to teach English. Well, as long as they have class, I’ll be here. Yep, I love Spain. Yep it’s way better than the USA. So I throw the questions back, a farcical interest shines in my smile. So he thinks it’s a good idea for me to have his email because his phone battery has died. He says we should ‘tomar algo’ (go for coffee) and practice English and Spanish because he speaks ‘very little’ English. Great idea I say. Ball in my court. I jot down his email, juanquieremucho@.... What a gem. “Juan wants a lot” I’ve just befriended a soul-less materialist. Match.com couldn’t have done a better job. The dilemma, tell him now or later that I’ll be raising our children as Buddhists?? I decide I’ll save that for the honeymoon and flash him a super genuine smile telling him I’ll email him. But now, he’s got to go to work at the airport, as TSA security. I’m such a lucky girl; I even got a guy with a job. The bastard who tells me my face lotion exceeds size limit and must throw it out. Somehow that email address never got saved…hmm..Those fickle touch screens. But as my parents would probably have told me, good job girl, getting out there, playing the field. Baby steps.

Oh, and I got a free quick dry shirt. (Because I’m secretly a soul-less materialist when it’s to my advantage)

Post race I went out to explore a new outdoor market I’d discovered in my wandering. At this market people make a profession out of dumpster diving. They sell it all. Cell phones. Cups. Books. Pillows. Shoes. Purses. CDs. Cassettes. Clothes. Jewelry. Sink faucets. Coffee makers. Bowls. Mirrors. Shopping cart wheels. Action figures. Everything you’ve thrown out, they’re selling back to you for 1 euro. I investigate the labyrinth of stands. Staring down boot vendors with ardent desire. Smelling bagged spices with odd labels. Plugging my ears by the man yelling that he’s selling 2 kilos of chestnuts for 2 euro. Not only are the goods being sold a hodge podge mix, but so are the people selling the diverse wares. Spain is not a huge proponent of cultural diversity, sadly. More often than not, it’s white white white brown hair brown hair brown hair people that are next to you at the stop light. But here in the market, all the immigrants have surfaced to create a tent city of second hand shops selling second experiences. They speak a fusion of languages. Spanish, English, French, Arabic, German, and a handful of African tongues. It’s such a treat for my eyes to gaze upon such diversity. I love the colors, the style of hair, the clothing, and the languages. I smile at the man squatting over his blanket covered with small trinkets because by his foot is a large Moroccan teapot, hovering over a small tea cup. Nothing here is concerned with being glamorous, with being lavish, with being overwhelming Spanish. Yes, they are loud. But only because they want to be taken note of, they have collected the remnants of Spain, piled it on the side of the river and created a livelihood out of it. Living at the margin they pack it with what spills over from the center, adding it to the culture and customs they already have. I feel rejuvenated. And I know where I’m going the minute I get my first pack check 

Sundays here are slow….but I’m learning to appreciate that they are a leisurely and relaxing slow. Long walks in the park. Long sits at the café, just sitting. Long naps on the beach. A long while spent just breathing. I was able to sit and stare out at the Mediterranean, trying to make it sink in that I was staring at an ocean, but I couldn’t. But I did marvel at the wonderfully calming effects of a cool ocean breeze. The waves carried the salty wind over the dunes to me, running through my hair as I sat on bench (not so unlike having mom run her fingers through your hair, the desirable head scratch).

But in the silence I missed all the voices I could be talking with. So I send you a day full of loving thoughts and wishes that you are happy. Thank you for being with me today, it was so comforting to know a friend was at my side on the bench by the beach.

All my love.
Now go outside and take a deep breath.