Day 11
First day off of work since I came…weird. The city has a very different feel at 10am, when I tentatively emerged from our penthouse…having had a taste of late morning from my balcony; I went out to immerse myself in it. The rose garden, as beautiful as ever. The gardens busy with its attendants. Buses idling, waiting for tardy school kids or late starters heading to work. Taxis hurried with usual haste, eager to spot the interested nod of the head by pedestrians weary of the walk. Small shops attended to the old ladies who come out for their daily patrol of the neighborhood. Small talk in small shops spills out into the small streets and small greetings pass amongst the city getting into its afternoon groove. The sun languidly arches overhead, making the dash between sun spots through shadows a chilly gateway.
I head back to the apartment to gather my things to go to the Police Station to finally get my temporary residence card (so I can get paid!). I’m all ready to go and I get to the door to head out and it’s locked. Normally this is not a problem. The door is just being a door. What it should do. But my key won’t open it. My pounding pleas won’t make it budge. I’m stuck in my penthouse with no way to escape. I feel oddly like Repunzel, only with no long hair to throw down to save myself. I wonder if this is an omen that I should just go back to bed, I’m not meant to do anything today. My roommate is at work, hopelessly out of reach. So I give a ring to our landlady, using the last precious seconds on my phone. She laughs at the predicament and promises to hurry over….and as you should all know by now, Spanish time works a bit different. About 35 minutes later she releases me, promising to fix the lock. In the meantime we just shouldn’t lock the door…right….but it’s Spain, no pasa nada. We’re the only ones here. And I’m so poor there really isn’t anything worth stealing…even my cool technology is broken (damn camera lens malfunction).
It’s about 2pm and it’s take 2 at the day. I decide to wander through the grocery store making long winded diatribes about the Spanish cuisine (which does not cater to vegetarians) as I drag my cart behind me. (In Spain their baskets have wheels, so you can roll it. Convenient really. But it always brings to mind an image of a mother dragging her child to get a vaccine, right mama? Or reminds me of the times we dragged our dog into the tub to get washed.) Spanish grocery stores are a thing all of their own. Ham hangs from ceilings, allowing for a generous deli section, a spaciously frigid seafood section squats in the back corner, a bread section who’s wafting scents of butter and just cooked rolls would make you weak at the knees lounges to one side, and in the middle are pallets of fried tomatoes. My first visit in Spain taught me that besides olive oil and salt, the other main cooking ingredient is fried tomatoes. Why, I have no idea. Fried tomatoes with onions. Fried tomatoes with garlic. Roasted tomatoes. Name brands. Off brands. Cans. Jars. Packets. Any variety, in any form, in any container. Just as it comes in every form, it can go in everything. Everything. So of course I buy a jar, for kicks. I won’t put it on my cereal, but hey, pasta is cheap, so it looks like it might just be a spaghetti night. I wander down the olive aisle. Because they have an olive aisle. I figure I might as well look at all the green olives and all the black olives and make a soft scowl with a wrinkled nose at them. I shall not buy you. Money is better spent on the next aisle. The baked goods aisle. Europe can bake. You say mom’s American apple pie and I say a 12 pack of chocolate filled croissants for 2 euro. They have donuts, waffles, croissants, cookies, loaves, muffins and more. Most of it is catered to a younger population, so the “estrella” (star) cookies have characters on them, for example. I’m convinced all the same, cool character or not. A chocolate filled croissant tastes just as good whether or not SpongeBob’s face lovely wraps the dessert. They’re on sale. Two please. As I check out my eyeball approach seems to have overestimated the size of my back pack and the endurance of my arm strength. I stuff my pack with my booty and haul it out of the store to drop the goods at home. Normally leaving a grocery store would not be a momentous event (unless you’re like my family and you ask yourself, how did I end up convincing my self that I needed all of this stuff??) but today it was. I looked left and I looked right to cross the street. Then I looked left again. And I stared left….and left….the coruscating Mediterranean Ocean stretched out in a blinding shimmer. Weighed down in awe and Mercodona bounty, I could hardly believe that at 3pm, on the step of the grocery store I was staring at the Mediterranean. Sure the walk back sucked and I had so much back sweat I had to change shirts, but I got to see the Mediterranean. I can’t say it enough, the Mediterranean. I still can’t believe it. (disclaimer though….it’s not crystal clear in Málaga, it looks deceptively just like the Atlantic we see off the coast of Nags Head…)
After some hard core Skype sessions (sooo good to see your faces!!!) I moseyed home to the penthouse to find the roommate in some intense interior decorating project. He was hanging some epic Moroccan blankets in the living room, having already scattered pictures of Spanish cultural icons through out the piso. It was starting to look like someone was living here…not just squatting. I contributed helpful advice, such as, ‘yes, that looks straight” and let him do his thing to make our crib look AWESOME. I failed to plan ahead and bring things to decorate with as he so wisely did. I don’t know if any of you have suffered this, but because I know this isn’t home, I already have a home, I’m having a rather difficult time mustering the interest and motivation to make this apartment a special place. My friends and my family aren’t here, so I know I’m not meant to be here for long. But it doesn’t mean it’s not fun to see a guy try and spruce up the place. He’s got good taste, so I plan on leaving it in his hands, for now. My room meanwhile has a monkish asceticism to it. I’m enjoying it though. It’s refreshing to have few items and even less clutter. Having biked across the USA with only 1 bag to call as my own, I know how much I really need. (Thank you B&B). I’m finding the city of Malaga and the experience of living abroad overwhelming enough, so it’s a gratifying to have extra space to decompress in.
Speaking of decompression, I’m looking for some more good reads. If you’ve read anything that really stuck with you or you thought about for a while after, or just had a really good time getting through, please send me the title. I’ve got some time to kill on my commutes and always like a good book. And yes, I’ll read fiction/non-fiction/sci-fi/ mystery/academic works/scientific works/essays/poems/short stories or anything else you can think of. And yes, English is my preferred language for pleasure reading.
Party time, it’s the end of the week. Hope you all make it to Saturday with some energy left to kick back and have fun.
Peace and immense love. woo
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