Day 93
Tuesday
A day of little victories.
4th grade A listened…a little bit more. Only had to count down from 10 to cool down three times during class.
Successfully studied for a spelling test with a child that had just come from Judo class and had a chocolate milkshake on the way home. His mom’s apology before class, “I’m sorry, he’s out of control, but do what you can.” And so, with the level of difficulty akin to fly-fishing with your bare hands, we got hold of the vocabulary and his pencil and managed to get most of it in his memory. (Results to be seen Thursday after his spelling test).
One of those days where you say, “Ok, so this week really is going to happen. Monday wasn’t a fluke.” Gives you just enough challenges to make ya sweat, but cuts you enough slack that you actually believe you’re gonna make it.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
The Pursuit of Happiness
Day 92
Monday
Just when you think no one sees you the house lights turn on and the audience of your peers comes into view, having been there all along. The lights came on for me today when my roommate said, “I can’t tell if you’re happy. Are you?” The question froze me in place. Wrinkling my brow as I prepared to voice a response I thought how I always believed my roommate never took note of my moods, as I’d always been pretty even keel. And what’s more, I consider myself a very emotive person (my mother’s a therapist for god sake, when I feel an emotion I know how to express it effectively), so for my roommate to tell me he couldn’t tell if I was happy was shocking. And then what I said surprised me even more than his question, without thinking I blurted, “Well I’m not. I hate my job. I have zero job satisfaction and lack a sense of purpose entirely.” (Where did my social filter go?) He looked even more shocked, “You hate your job?” “Well of course, I don’t serve a purpose. I teach English to children that don’t even speak Castellano correctly. Their parents don’t care to help them, so my stupid games go to waste. But that’s only when the teacher decides to show up or Spain decides to have school, instead of a random holiday. I’m wasting my time here.” “But you’re living the life, you get long weekends, the beach is right there, there’s an awesome international community here, you can go out every night of the week, life’s cheap, the people are hot, the work is easy.” “Exactly. I don’t enjoy any of that. I didn’t come to Spain to party with beautiful rich kids fucking around on a study abroad trip. I mean, I go to the library for fun. Málaga and I have different interests at heart. I’m trying to make it a worthwhile experience, but it doesn’t seem like my efforts getting me anywhere.” And thus began the first real conversation my roommate and I have ever had. It didn’t end like an Oprah show with us crying and hugging each other, finally coming to know the other’s true self, he’s a guy after all and I’m a defensive clam about my feelings, so instead, it was a refreshing discussion about purpose and crisis. I can now say I trust my roommate.
His parting line, “Let’s work on doing the things that make you happy, okay?”
I don’t know that I believe in altruism, but a comment like that certainly gives me cause to want to believe.
Now how can I support YOU in your pursuit of happiness?
Because it tends to be a slow journey if you go at it alone...
Monday
Just when you think no one sees you the house lights turn on and the audience of your peers comes into view, having been there all along. The lights came on for me today when my roommate said, “I can’t tell if you’re happy. Are you?” The question froze me in place. Wrinkling my brow as I prepared to voice a response I thought how I always believed my roommate never took note of my moods, as I’d always been pretty even keel. And what’s more, I consider myself a very emotive person (my mother’s a therapist for god sake, when I feel an emotion I know how to express it effectively), so for my roommate to tell me he couldn’t tell if I was happy was shocking. And then what I said surprised me even more than his question, without thinking I blurted, “Well I’m not. I hate my job. I have zero job satisfaction and lack a sense of purpose entirely.” (Where did my social filter go?) He looked even more shocked, “You hate your job?” “Well of course, I don’t serve a purpose. I teach English to children that don’t even speak Castellano correctly. Their parents don’t care to help them, so my stupid games go to waste. But that’s only when the teacher decides to show up or Spain decides to have school, instead of a random holiday. I’m wasting my time here.” “But you’re living the life, you get long weekends, the beach is right there, there’s an awesome international community here, you can go out every night of the week, life’s cheap, the people are hot, the work is easy.” “Exactly. I don’t enjoy any of that. I didn’t come to Spain to party with beautiful rich kids fucking around on a study abroad trip. I mean, I go to the library for fun. Málaga and I have different interests at heart. I’m trying to make it a worthwhile experience, but it doesn’t seem like my efforts getting me anywhere.” And thus began the first real conversation my roommate and I have ever had. It didn’t end like an Oprah show with us crying and hugging each other, finally coming to know the other’s true self, he’s a guy after all and I’m a defensive clam about my feelings, so instead, it was a refreshing discussion about purpose and crisis. I can now say I trust my roommate.
His parting line, “Let’s work on doing the things that make you happy, okay?”
I don’t know that I believe in altruism, but a comment like that certainly gives me cause to want to believe.
Now how can I support YOU in your pursuit of happiness?
Because it tends to be a slow journey if you go at it alone...
Monday, February 21, 2011
British Hospitality, Andalucian Hostility
Day 90 & 91
Saturday, Sunday
Like 8th graders on a Friday morning, we (the other English teachers and I) slink to the back of the bus and get into proper lounging form for the long bus ride to Ronda. As most group activities go, one person had an idea and everyone else jumped on board, our trip was no exception to this norm. A teacher had come across an adorable hostel in the mountains by Ronda and proposed that we sightsee Ronda by day on Saturday, grab a taxi out to the hostel Saturday night after watching the sunset in Ronda and then Sunday morning, hike back to Ronda and catch the afternoon bus home. The plan was perfect. And like lemmings we jumped.
Ronda, however, was not keen on accommodating our plans. We arrived in Ronda, where temperatures were easily high 30s/low 40s with gale force winds that tore through your coat, if not your face, having come from Málaga, the beachside town where it’s never dropped below 50 F. Calling Ronda ‘blustery’ lacks the vehemence that the wind threw at us, it was tortuously cold. But like poor travelers who’re hell bent on getting their monies worth of the experience we walked around and saw the sights and searched out lesser known sights, then stumbled upon sights that weren’t sights at all, that were just shady streets were normal people lived. And then we reached our breaking point. One can only put on a good face for so long…before it’s blown off by arctic blasts. So we ducked into a warm Chino (a dollar store) and all bought little arctic type wool hats and then commenced to café hop to escape the cold. 3 cafes and 2 glasses of wine later we called it quits, deciding that a sunset in Ronda was like a sunset in Malaga or in our hostel and we hailed the first cab we could find for our hostel.
And this is where the dream begins.
Our hostel was run by a Brit named Bots who smiled beneath a leathery face and loosely tied back pony-tail, like an undying relic of the Rolling Stones, who came to Spain about 15 years ago, fell in love with the coast and one crazy night up and bought a hostel and has been on the outskirts of Ronda ever since. And by the way, he’s a gourmet chef. While we defrosted by the fire he threw together the best paella I’ve ever eaten in my life (his secret, squeeze lime, not lemon over the dish). Dinner evolved into a dinner party and Bots regaled us with his travel tales (including going into the Cambodian jungle and smoking opium with a native tribe) as neighbors popped in and out, bringing a bottle of wine or a bag of dried fruit or left over Christmas candies. The conversation roared and the fire grew dim, and so passed one of the strangest nights of my life.
Crawling out of my bed the next morning, having nearly frozen to death I scrambled to put on every article of clothing I’d brought and then poked my head up to the loft to see how the day was forming for our hike to Ronda.
It was snowing.
Heavily.
Bots, like all hostel owners, had ears sharper than a porcupine quill and heard me taking some obligatory film of the epic snowstorm descending upon the mountainous region. He simply laughed and said, “You all certainly chose the right weekend for a hike. This is the only place in Spain where it’s snowing right now.” I’m not sure what our group did to deserve such a karmic backlash, but some pagan deity certainly was reeking revenge upon us. We decided to eat breakfast and let the weather clear up a bit and then decide if the hike was do-able. But upon reviewing the map with Bots (who had previously assured us it would be an enjoyable 3 hour hike) he said he actually hadn’t done it in 5 years and wasn’t sure if they’d put up fences to keep cows in and hikers out. And what’s more, the cloud cover hung so low the peaks of mountains were invisible, so as we stood out on the loft roof, Bots tried to point to the 2 mountains we’d have to pass between to come around to Ronda, but couldn’t identify where they were hidden. So, the hike was scrapped for another day. But since our group moved with the speed of a sedated sloth, we missed the 1pm bus and had to wait 3 hours for the 4pm bus. What else to do but play Scrabble (in English with a group of Americans, 1 Spaniard, 1 Brit).
In the end, I can’t say I hold Ronda in any special place in my heart, like every other tourist in Spain does. She was a brutal old bird, determined to make us suffer. But I’m happily filing away the memory in the file of stories that are more enjoyable told in retrospect than lived in the present.
Really, SNOW??? It’s the Costa del SOL (SUN!).
Saturday, Sunday
Like 8th graders on a Friday morning, we (the other English teachers and I) slink to the back of the bus and get into proper lounging form for the long bus ride to Ronda. As most group activities go, one person had an idea and everyone else jumped on board, our trip was no exception to this norm. A teacher had come across an adorable hostel in the mountains by Ronda and proposed that we sightsee Ronda by day on Saturday, grab a taxi out to the hostel Saturday night after watching the sunset in Ronda and then Sunday morning, hike back to Ronda and catch the afternoon bus home. The plan was perfect. And like lemmings we jumped.
Ronda, however, was not keen on accommodating our plans. We arrived in Ronda, where temperatures were easily high 30s/low 40s with gale force winds that tore through your coat, if not your face, having come from Málaga, the beachside town where it’s never dropped below 50 F. Calling Ronda ‘blustery’ lacks the vehemence that the wind threw at us, it was tortuously cold. But like poor travelers who’re hell bent on getting their monies worth of the experience we walked around and saw the sights and searched out lesser known sights, then stumbled upon sights that weren’t sights at all, that were just shady streets were normal people lived. And then we reached our breaking point. One can only put on a good face for so long…before it’s blown off by arctic blasts. So we ducked into a warm Chino (a dollar store) and all bought little arctic type wool hats and then commenced to café hop to escape the cold. 3 cafes and 2 glasses of wine later we called it quits, deciding that a sunset in Ronda was like a sunset in Malaga or in our hostel and we hailed the first cab we could find for our hostel.
And this is where the dream begins.
Our hostel was run by a Brit named Bots who smiled beneath a leathery face and loosely tied back pony-tail, like an undying relic of the Rolling Stones, who came to Spain about 15 years ago, fell in love with the coast and one crazy night up and bought a hostel and has been on the outskirts of Ronda ever since. And by the way, he’s a gourmet chef. While we defrosted by the fire he threw together the best paella I’ve ever eaten in my life (his secret, squeeze lime, not lemon over the dish). Dinner evolved into a dinner party and Bots regaled us with his travel tales (including going into the Cambodian jungle and smoking opium with a native tribe) as neighbors popped in and out, bringing a bottle of wine or a bag of dried fruit or left over Christmas candies. The conversation roared and the fire grew dim, and so passed one of the strangest nights of my life.
Crawling out of my bed the next morning, having nearly frozen to death I scrambled to put on every article of clothing I’d brought and then poked my head up to the loft to see how the day was forming for our hike to Ronda.
It was snowing.
Heavily.
Bots, like all hostel owners, had ears sharper than a porcupine quill and heard me taking some obligatory film of the epic snowstorm descending upon the mountainous region. He simply laughed and said, “You all certainly chose the right weekend for a hike. This is the only place in Spain where it’s snowing right now.” I’m not sure what our group did to deserve such a karmic backlash, but some pagan deity certainly was reeking revenge upon us. We decided to eat breakfast and let the weather clear up a bit and then decide if the hike was do-able. But upon reviewing the map with Bots (who had previously assured us it would be an enjoyable 3 hour hike) he said he actually hadn’t done it in 5 years and wasn’t sure if they’d put up fences to keep cows in and hikers out. And what’s more, the cloud cover hung so low the peaks of mountains were invisible, so as we stood out on the loft roof, Bots tried to point to the 2 mountains we’d have to pass between to come around to Ronda, but couldn’t identify where they were hidden. So, the hike was scrapped for another day. But since our group moved with the speed of a sedated sloth, we missed the 1pm bus and had to wait 3 hours for the 4pm bus. What else to do but play Scrabble (in English with a group of Americans, 1 Spaniard, 1 Brit).
In the end, I can’t say I hold Ronda in any special place in my heart, like every other tourist in Spain does. She was a brutal old bird, determined to make us suffer. But I’m happily filing away the memory in the file of stories that are more enjoyable told in retrospect than lived in the present.
Really, SNOW??? It’s the Costa del SOL (SUN!).
How the Fling got Force
Day 89
Friday
Emanating from the burgeoning and blooming folds of friendships conversations foment. Inklings echo with intention given fruition by reciprocity. Heads nod in agreement and a plan is made.
Ronda.
Tomorrow.
*Ronda is a small city in Andalucia
Friday
Emanating from the burgeoning and blooming folds of friendships conversations foment. Inklings echo with intention given fruition by reciprocity. Heads nod in agreement and a plan is made.
Ronda.
Tomorrow.
*Ronda is a small city in Andalucia
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Gringos
Day 88
Thursday
The Mediterranean Diet has received its share of face time in the world. People rave about its health benefits, how it pulls from local ecosystems, and its cooking methods. But some days you just want to throw the olives and the olive oil out the window and eat chana masala or chow mein Or a taco.
One night as we were wandering around some small alleys in the city we stumbled upon a small taco restaurant owned by an Argentine woman. While we doubted her ability to cook up a true Mexican enchilada or Salvadoranean pupusa, our palettes craved anything that didn’t come as a tapas. And while Taco Bell could compete with what we ate, I’ve never relished salsa nor guacamole so much in my life. How could something written in Spanish be so very different from the food we’d known to be Spanish?
And yes, tequila should only go with Mexican.
All hail the immigrants of Spain!
Thursday
The Mediterranean Diet has received its share of face time in the world. People rave about its health benefits, how it pulls from local ecosystems, and its cooking methods. But some days you just want to throw the olives and the olive oil out the window and eat chana masala or chow mein Or a taco.
One night as we were wandering around some small alleys in the city we stumbled upon a small taco restaurant owned by an Argentine woman. While we doubted her ability to cook up a true Mexican enchilada or Salvadoranean pupusa, our palettes craved anything that didn’t come as a tapas. And while Taco Bell could compete with what we ate, I’ve never relished salsa nor guacamole so much in my life. How could something written in Spanish be so very different from the food we’d known to be Spanish?
And yes, tequila should only go with Mexican.
All hail the immigrants of Spain!
The Sound of Innocence
Day 87
Wednesday
Why I love working with children:
I’m standing at the sink of the women’s locker room washing my hands. There is a woman in a robe next to me putting on her face. Between us floats the faint voice of a small boy. It grows louder at a chorus only he knows and it warbles as he forgets words of the song. The woman and I make eye contact in the mirror and the song draws a smile out of us both. Being the only ones in the locker room we both know the voice belongs to her son. Rolling her eyes she sweetly calls, “¿Alejandro, te estas cambiando o te lo has olvidado?” (Alexander, are you changing or have you forgotten?) We both chuckle as he coos back “¡Sííííí!” (yessss), knowing he’s still playing with his swim goggles, while crooning, naked.
Wednesday
Why I love working with children:
I’m standing at the sink of the women’s locker room washing my hands. There is a woman in a robe next to me putting on her face. Between us floats the faint voice of a small boy. It grows louder at a chorus only he knows and it warbles as he forgets words of the song. The woman and I make eye contact in the mirror and the song draws a smile out of us both. Being the only ones in the locker room we both know the voice belongs to her son. Rolling her eyes she sweetly calls, “¿Alejandro, te estas cambiando o te lo has olvidado?” (Alexander, are you changing or have you forgotten?) We both chuckle as he coos back “¡Sííííí!” (yessss), knowing he’s still playing with his swim goggles, while crooning, naked.
Now that's just awkward
Day 86
Tuesday
Life is awkward. Like the pain in my groin. How does one pull their groin? In everyday life people normally don’t move in ways that inflict stress on the groin muscle. It’s in an awkward area. It’s a small muscle. But somehow I managed to pull my groin. So there I go walking normally through school and then one half degree pivot of my left leg and shooting pain runs through my groin and straight into my face, catching my breath and clenching my jaw. I’m sure anyone watching me would have thought I was having a convulsion they way I tensed up. But the next step follows, deep exhalation, pain free, each step a tender guess as to when the pain will flare.
But, there’s nothing like having the teacher who broke her knee 2 months ago (and had a FULL, full leg cast, yes from toe to groin..haha…for 2 months) and had been on bed rest, followed by time scooting around her piso in a wheelchair, eventually scrambling the streets in crutches (the tortuous contraptions the Spanish have invented instead of using the remarkably pain free American crutches) until she could scramble so well as to hop around school. And today was her first day back. And she couldn’t have been happier. And it really didn’t leave me any room to complain about my groin. Pulled groin vs. broken knee in full leg cast….
So as I grimaced as I crossed my legs to sit down at her welcome back party I thought, it’s just a groin. Now it’s time for cake. At least the Spanish know how to party hard enough to make you forget the hard times for a bit…
Tuesday
Life is awkward. Like the pain in my groin. How does one pull their groin? In everyday life people normally don’t move in ways that inflict stress on the groin muscle. It’s in an awkward area. It’s a small muscle. But somehow I managed to pull my groin. So there I go walking normally through school and then one half degree pivot of my left leg and shooting pain runs through my groin and straight into my face, catching my breath and clenching my jaw. I’m sure anyone watching me would have thought I was having a convulsion they way I tensed up. But the next step follows, deep exhalation, pain free, each step a tender guess as to when the pain will flare.
But, there’s nothing like having the teacher who broke her knee 2 months ago (and had a FULL, full leg cast, yes from toe to groin..haha…for 2 months) and had been on bed rest, followed by time scooting around her piso in a wheelchair, eventually scrambling the streets in crutches (the tortuous contraptions the Spanish have invented instead of using the remarkably pain free American crutches) until she could scramble so well as to hop around school. And today was her first day back. And she couldn’t have been happier. And it really didn’t leave me any room to complain about my groin. Pulled groin vs. broken knee in full leg cast….
So as I grimaced as I crossed my legs to sit down at her welcome back party I thought, it’s just a groin. Now it’s time for cake. At least the Spanish know how to party hard enough to make you forget the hard times for a bit…
Friday, February 4, 2011
Beating The Day
Day 85
Monday
For anyone that commutes before the sun comes up, we’re of a special breed. Stealing across the countryside in the carriage of the train, eyes drowsy with sleep stare out big black windows reflecting more of the interior than revealing the exterior world. And so more often than not during my twilight commute to work I’m watching a reel of myself deciding to wake up…and winning or failing. But I will say this about commuting before the sunrise, by the time I arrive at school and the sun has come up I feel like a secret agent, with secret credibility, having sojourned through the birth of the day. And I’m ready to get the day going. Usually. Having committed to the day by getting up so early I geared to be uber productive.
But then I go to class and the teacher says that I can teach what ever I had planned, and she returns to scanning Facebook. I take a second to stare quizzically at the back of her head, wondering, “What am I doing here?” (Or rather, what is she doing here??) And all I can do is muster the energy to forge on with a lesson, more or less created ad hoc. Like a bell curve graph my level of success rises and falls between classes and within classes. You never can be sure when the climax or when the tipping point will hit.
After school I have my private classes, which I’ve come to treasure. Today it was just me and Natalia. She a bright student (reminds me of myself as a child really) (that was me being facetious) and learns English rapidly. Without the competitive arrogance of the other student (who is albeit adorable) Natalia and I sped through animals and foods and what she likes to do. It was the most productive hour of the 12 I had already been awake for.
It’s funny, as I was walking home I thought, what did I really do today? I was awake for long enough to do quite a bit…but…today I…
And I return again to Annie Dillard, “How we spend our days is of course how we spend our lives.”
Monday
For anyone that commutes before the sun comes up, we’re of a special breed. Stealing across the countryside in the carriage of the train, eyes drowsy with sleep stare out big black windows reflecting more of the interior than revealing the exterior world. And so more often than not during my twilight commute to work I’m watching a reel of myself deciding to wake up…and winning or failing. But I will say this about commuting before the sunrise, by the time I arrive at school and the sun has come up I feel like a secret agent, with secret credibility, having sojourned through the birth of the day. And I’m ready to get the day going. Usually. Having committed to the day by getting up so early I geared to be uber productive.
But then I go to class and the teacher says that I can teach what ever I had planned, and she returns to scanning Facebook. I take a second to stare quizzically at the back of her head, wondering, “What am I doing here?” (Or rather, what is she doing here??) And all I can do is muster the energy to forge on with a lesson, more or less created ad hoc. Like a bell curve graph my level of success rises and falls between classes and within classes. You never can be sure when the climax or when the tipping point will hit.
After school I have my private classes, which I’ve come to treasure. Today it was just me and Natalia. She a bright student (reminds me of myself as a child really) (that was me being facetious) and learns English rapidly. Without the competitive arrogance of the other student (who is albeit adorable) Natalia and I sped through animals and foods and what she likes to do. It was the most productive hour of the 12 I had already been awake for.
It’s funny, as I was walking home I thought, what did I really do today? I was awake for long enough to do quite a bit…but…today I…
And I return again to Annie Dillard, “How we spend our days is of course how we spend our lives.”
Chaotic Tranquility
Day 83
Saturday
Today I felt like the kid who hadn’t quite put her goggles on and her little brother went ahead and pushed her into the pool. It was a rough start. Late wake up. Faulty coordination of time zones led to a 2 hour nap waiting for a Skype date with a far away friend, unsure if I was really early or really late. And the internet connection didn’t help clear much up when we did connect. A swim at the pool did little to wake me up; rather it made me long for back floats in the sun on a lazy river.
It was one of the days when you trip walking up the stairs. But really despite the mess I was perpetually caught in, I didn’t have to yell at any of my students. Maybe that’s why I was all over the place – my energy is so used to being focused and pointed that when I’m faced with a pleasant sunny day, I fall to pieces…
Need to work on that.
Saturday
Today I felt like the kid who hadn’t quite put her goggles on and her little brother went ahead and pushed her into the pool. It was a rough start. Late wake up. Faulty coordination of time zones led to a 2 hour nap waiting for a Skype date with a far away friend, unsure if I was really early or really late. And the internet connection didn’t help clear much up when we did connect. A swim at the pool did little to wake me up; rather it made me long for back floats in the sun on a lazy river.
It was one of the days when you trip walking up the stairs. But really despite the mess I was perpetually caught in, I didn’t have to yell at any of my students. Maybe that’s why I was all over the place – my energy is so used to being focused and pointed that when I’m faced with a pleasant sunny day, I fall to pieces…
Need to work on that.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
The Distance to Intimacy
Day 82
Friday
Standing amidst the hub of imbibers and conversers I let my eyes tip toe about the kitchen, out to the hall way where the crowd of people poured out into the living room, and on into my roommate’s bedroom. Ringing with English our apartment held the echoes of majority of the English professors living in Malaga. A small party had suddenly grown into a gathering of all English speakers in the 10 mile range. All the conversations followed similar routes…”1st year teaching…..I work in ___......just graduated from…….next year…..?? Yeah, Spain is great. Different, but great.” And as we repeated the ritual of making a stranger a friend I was struck by the great wealth of potential friends encircling me rather tightly. Where had all these people been all those lonely afternoons I walked by myself? Only the promise of English and alcohol had brought them out of the woodwork.
With each new face, I forgot another name. With each new story I heard, my own became shorter and more concise. And slowly a strange thing began to happen. Instead of eagerly wishing to meet everyone and befriend them all I wanted them to leave. I wanted my apartment empty again. It was not that anyone was terribly awful, they all were nice people, but they weren’t MY people.
It was the back breaking work of building a new community that threw me into a funk. I realized just how special my intimate friends were and how fragile their relationship really was. And I marveled at the work I had already done to create close friends….and amidst all the other things I was dealing with, I just couldn’t muster the energy to make new friends of the same caliber. How could I? I would never dance salsa with these people day after day for 4 years. I would never bike across the country with these people. I would never be caught at 3am in the library writing a thesis with these people. I was just drinking and talking. And the superficiality, the artificiality disgusted me.
Maybe it was just because it was 3am and I had been up since 6am for work, but I was in a fickle, nostalgic mood. Granted, I stuck it out and did my best “I want to be your friend!” façade till the floor cleared out and I could breathe deep again. But all I really wanted to do was call up my old friends and say, “You are so very special to me! I am so grateful to have you (and to have had you) in my life! Thank you for loving me! And thank you for the time that fostered our friendship”
I hope your heart hears this message; it’s torn open my heart and made me a humble admirer of the grace of old friendships.
I love you and I am so grateful for you. The time we’ve shared is a gift I will forever be repaying.
And what a generous gift - to love another person, unconditionally.
I don't love you enough to pick your nose, but you get the idea. Intimacy. That's what I'm talking about.
Friday
Standing amidst the hub of imbibers and conversers I let my eyes tip toe about the kitchen, out to the hall way where the crowd of people poured out into the living room, and on into my roommate’s bedroom. Ringing with English our apartment held the echoes of majority of the English professors living in Malaga. A small party had suddenly grown into a gathering of all English speakers in the 10 mile range. All the conversations followed similar routes…”1st year teaching…..I work in ___......just graduated from…….next year…..?? Yeah, Spain is great. Different, but great.” And as we repeated the ritual of making a stranger a friend I was struck by the great wealth of potential friends encircling me rather tightly. Where had all these people been all those lonely afternoons I walked by myself? Only the promise of English and alcohol had brought them out of the woodwork.
With each new face, I forgot another name. With each new story I heard, my own became shorter and more concise. And slowly a strange thing began to happen. Instead of eagerly wishing to meet everyone and befriend them all I wanted them to leave. I wanted my apartment empty again. It was not that anyone was terribly awful, they all were nice people, but they weren’t MY people.
It was the back breaking work of building a new community that threw me into a funk. I realized just how special my intimate friends were and how fragile their relationship really was. And I marveled at the work I had already done to create close friends….and amidst all the other things I was dealing with, I just couldn’t muster the energy to make new friends of the same caliber. How could I? I would never dance salsa with these people day after day for 4 years. I would never bike across the country with these people. I would never be caught at 3am in the library writing a thesis with these people. I was just drinking and talking. And the superficiality, the artificiality disgusted me.
Maybe it was just because it was 3am and I had been up since 6am for work, but I was in a fickle, nostalgic mood. Granted, I stuck it out and did my best “I want to be your friend!” façade till the floor cleared out and I could breathe deep again. But all I really wanted to do was call up my old friends and say, “You are so very special to me! I am so grateful to have you (and to have had you) in my life! Thank you for loving me! And thank you for the time that fostered our friendship”
I hope your heart hears this message; it’s torn open my heart and made me a humble admirer of the grace of old friendships.
I love you and I am so grateful for you. The time we’ve shared is a gift I will forever be repaying.
And what a generous gift - to love another person, unconditionally.
I don't love you enough to pick your nose, but you get the idea. Intimacy. That's what I'm talking about.
Feel It
Day 81
Thursday
Surprises are always around the corner, if you go exploring you’ll find them. Who knew, there is a weekly flamenco show 1 street over at a local bar?? Crowding in with the other Malaguenos and visiting tourists sipping strong dark wine we waited for the troupe to take to the diminutive stage. Like striking black stallions the dancers paraded through the crowd up to the front, the guitarist and the singer following in the space of their grand entrance. Picking out tragic melodies the guitarist began to entice the dancers to stomp out their dramatic story, twirling hands drew the attention of the audience upwards until a stamp of the foot plummeted our gaze to the floor and in the quiet pause that followed eyes floated back to the face of the dancer who was channeling another world full of strong emotions that played across her face and caused her chest to rise in the exertion of the movements. Like a call and response, the man and the woman took turns moving about the floor to a rhythm they felt deeply, so deeply they needed no choreography, just the sound of the guitar and the voice of the singer to guide their bodies. Flamenco is an intense experience. It leaves your spirit quiet, overwhelmed by the experience. It leaves you wanting to ask “why? Why such pain in the face of the dancer, in the voice of the singer, in the melody of the guitar?” but those dark eyes don’t let you in, rather hands twirl and spin to distract you from the face, the skirt flies and you’ve been deceived by the drama.
Flamenco serves as a suitable metaphor for my time here in Spain. There’s a rhythm to life here that I haven’t been quick to pick up on and I’ve been too timid to make a big show of my own feelings, of my own experiences. But to dance you have to feel it. Really truly profoundly feel it.
Thursday
Surprises are always around the corner, if you go exploring you’ll find them. Who knew, there is a weekly flamenco show 1 street over at a local bar?? Crowding in with the other Malaguenos and visiting tourists sipping strong dark wine we waited for the troupe to take to the diminutive stage. Like striking black stallions the dancers paraded through the crowd up to the front, the guitarist and the singer following in the space of their grand entrance. Picking out tragic melodies the guitarist began to entice the dancers to stomp out their dramatic story, twirling hands drew the attention of the audience upwards until a stamp of the foot plummeted our gaze to the floor and in the quiet pause that followed eyes floated back to the face of the dancer who was channeling another world full of strong emotions that played across her face and caused her chest to rise in the exertion of the movements. Like a call and response, the man and the woman took turns moving about the floor to a rhythm they felt deeply, so deeply they needed no choreography, just the sound of the guitar and the voice of the singer to guide their bodies. Flamenco is an intense experience. It leaves your spirit quiet, overwhelmed by the experience. It leaves you wanting to ask “why? Why such pain in the face of the dancer, in the voice of the singer, in the melody of the guitar?” but those dark eyes don’t let you in, rather hands twirl and spin to distract you from the face, the skirt flies and you’ve been deceived by the drama.
Flamenco serves as a suitable metaphor for my time here in Spain. There’s a rhythm to life here that I haven’t been quick to pick up on and I’ve been too timid to make a big show of my own feelings, of my own experiences. But to dance you have to feel it. Really truly profoundly feel it.
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