It's not the block that bothers me...it's that I put it there.
Around it? Over it? Under it?
Through it?...maybe that's best. Work through it. Let the dust clear so I can breathe again.
And be in Malaga. Not trapped in Malaga and my mental prison.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
I hold the key?
I'm getting mentally cluttered. With classes being canceled and rainy days following one after another, I've got too much free time. I never got a handle on free time growing up in Northern Virginia. It was go to exhaustion, collapse, recover, repeat. So, copious free time tends to make me nervous. I get odd habits to pass the hours. I get small anxieties about missing out on life, on wasting perfectly good moments of productivity. And so with all the mental clutter, it's been harder than usual to see life for what it is. Or rather, its been harder to let the light in. I feel like I'm in the basement, scouting through old boxes of Katie and her memories, revisiting old neuroses, wondering about moments that almost happened, thinking about what will happen when I get back and spending an inordinate amount of time avoiding Malaga. I wish I were busier, then the whir of my ticking brain would clear out some of these dust bunnies and I might feel a bit lighter. But every writer (everyone) can understand the block.
It's not the block that bothers me...it's that I put it there.
Around it? Over it? Under it?
Through it?...maybe that's best. Work through it. Let the dust clear so I can breathe again.
And be in Malaga. Not trapped in Malaga and my mental prison.
It's not the block that bothers me...it's that I put it there.
Around it? Over it? Under it?
Through it?...maybe that's best. Work through it. Let the dust clear so I can breathe again.
And be in Malaga. Not trapped in Malaga and my mental prison.
Friday, April 29, 2011
The Doctor is In.
A bit like a doctor that makes house calls on sick patients, I make house (or office)calls on the monolingual. Days like these make me feel like a one woman traveling carnival - the bilingual backpack toting, sneaker wearing Americana, who brings silly tongue twisters, colored markers to correct your homework and who'll tell it to you straight in the real English, not the silly British English of the school books. And even though grammar is a drag (unless you're a bit nerdy and you actually enjoy discussing the Saxon Genitive, ahem, guilty) each client requires a different approach. You can't use the same magic words for everyone to make them understand and the fun side of my traveling English gig is learning what that is for each student.
Jorge, the overscheduled family man engineer likes to write with expensive pens in a posh notebook and practice reading from his 'Modern Marvels in Architecture" book. He likes to start class late, end class early and really just talk about cool bridges and his kids. I stopped bringing the lesson book months ago....he's a social speaker who can't pronounce -ed endings. He's my decaffe latte, easy, slow going and relaxing student.
Antonio, the uber important doctor and director of the city hospital, who mumbles worse than rolling thunder, is trying at age 50 to learn English so he can talk with his patients. Only problem, he grew up speaking French and Andalusian Spanish. Whatever he doesn't add a "-th" to he drops the 's' off the end of and keeps telling me "Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday" all sound the same. The exact same. He's silly and likes to laugh. He needs English at a 1st grade level because he's overworked at the hospital 6 days a week, so he enjoys laughing at me trying to explain "Tuesday, Wednesday,Thursday" over and over again, as he snaps his imaginary suspenders in victory, having remembered the verb "to be". He's like cafe bon bon, strong espresso with sweetened condensed milk - an intense spurt, but so delightful even until the end because he's such a good heart.
The auditors are another story. It's a varying trio that shows up Friday afternoons for their company covered English class. Teresa, the girl with no boyfriend and few friends like to use our English class as a therapy session, spilling everything and edging everyone else out in the conversation. Fatima, the nervous speaker who would rather never speak in public, and just drink her waterbottle. Then there's David, the laid back manager, who speaks very well, and tries to crack (bad) jokes followed by an anxious laugh. David also cannot make eye contact. It's an odd bunch. We sit in a room the temperature of a winter sauna, sweating and fanning ourselves, trying to work through speaking activities without letting Teresa talk our ears off. They're like cafe con leche, not bad, but not quite the flavor you were going for.
And by 6:15, the back pack is packed, paycheck earned and I'm ready to put my feet up and sit by the ocean and listen to the ocean and watch the sea gulls float on the sea breeze in lazy circles by the port. Sometimes I wonder, how do I do it, 3 different classes...not literally, but psychologically...they are all beginners, which means I have the sensation of running my head into a wall over and over again, trying to help them understand and then trying to understand them. But I think I know...I'm just passing through. I ring the doorbell, face on. The alarm clock counts down to my finale and then I'm back out the door, leaving them with homework (or not). And so as much as I am drained by the drifting like aspect of my day, it's a secret blessing really, I join so many other lives in a humbling window of time. I'm brought in, I'm welcomed, I'm expected, I'm thought about, I'm worried about if I'm late, I'm given attention, I'm joked with, I'm questioned, and I'm wished well as I leave...and I'm sent with the kind words of "See you next week!"
Maybe they're not real friends, but they re-charge me all the same. It's true, I think, you get what you give...and even though they still might not know how to answer me when I ask "How have you been?" they stumble along with their answer and even more eagerly show off by asking, "How have you been Katie?" And they give me the chance to re-affirm that I'm okay.
Jorge, the overscheduled family man engineer likes to write with expensive pens in a posh notebook and practice reading from his 'Modern Marvels in Architecture" book. He likes to start class late, end class early and really just talk about cool bridges and his kids. I stopped bringing the lesson book months ago....he's a social speaker who can't pronounce -ed endings. He's my decaffe latte, easy, slow going and relaxing student.
Antonio, the uber important doctor and director of the city hospital, who mumbles worse than rolling thunder, is trying at age 50 to learn English so he can talk with his patients. Only problem, he grew up speaking French and Andalusian Spanish. Whatever he doesn't add a "-th" to he drops the 's' off the end of and keeps telling me "Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday" all sound the same. The exact same. He's silly and likes to laugh. He needs English at a 1st grade level because he's overworked at the hospital 6 days a week, so he enjoys laughing at me trying to explain "Tuesday, Wednesday,Thursday" over and over again, as he snaps his imaginary suspenders in victory, having remembered the verb "to be". He's like cafe bon bon, strong espresso with sweetened condensed milk - an intense spurt, but so delightful even until the end because he's such a good heart.
The auditors are another story. It's a varying trio that shows up Friday afternoons for their company covered English class. Teresa, the girl with no boyfriend and few friends like to use our English class as a therapy session, spilling everything and edging everyone else out in the conversation. Fatima, the nervous speaker who would rather never speak in public, and just drink her waterbottle. Then there's David, the laid back manager, who speaks very well, and tries to crack (bad) jokes followed by an anxious laugh. David also cannot make eye contact. It's an odd bunch. We sit in a room the temperature of a winter sauna, sweating and fanning ourselves, trying to work through speaking activities without letting Teresa talk our ears off. They're like cafe con leche, not bad, but not quite the flavor you were going for.
And by 6:15, the back pack is packed, paycheck earned and I'm ready to put my feet up and sit by the ocean and listen to the ocean and watch the sea gulls float on the sea breeze in lazy circles by the port. Sometimes I wonder, how do I do it, 3 different classes...not literally, but psychologically...they are all beginners, which means I have the sensation of running my head into a wall over and over again, trying to help them understand and then trying to understand them. But I think I know...I'm just passing through. I ring the doorbell, face on. The alarm clock counts down to my finale and then I'm back out the door, leaving them with homework (or not). And so as much as I am drained by the drifting like aspect of my day, it's a secret blessing really, I join so many other lives in a humbling window of time. I'm brought in, I'm welcomed, I'm expected, I'm thought about, I'm worried about if I'm late, I'm given attention, I'm joked with, I'm questioned, and I'm wished well as I leave...and I'm sent with the kind words of "See you next week!"
Maybe they're not real friends, but they re-charge me all the same. It's true, I think, you get what you give...and even though they still might not know how to answer me when I ask "How have you been?" they stumble along with their answer and even more eagerly show off by asking, "How have you been Katie?" And they give me the chance to re-affirm that I'm okay.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Cleaning House.
I'm being left behind.
In so many ways that one sentence sums up this year. I'm being left behind. In my head it is spun out in tangent anxieties, lonely walks and jaw clenching frustration during classes. But today, as I stood in my PJs watching my stylish roommate pack for his weekend trip, asking me if these shorts matched this shirt and if the hat worked with the brown shoes, I laughed and gave my best peanut gallery advice. He rolled his suitcase out the door and I put the kettle on. Tea time. My brooding time. I had the apartment all to myself....not really a blessing when you've got too much time to spend with just yourself already. So I cleaned. Throwing away the crumbs of our existence in the apartment. Dishes washed, floors mopped, counters wiped. chairs straightened, doors open letting the wind run through the fresh surfaces and the newly arranged space. And there I sat in an apartment that looked barely lived in, feeling the weight of my life barely lived. What could I use to scrub at the malaise I was feeling? Why couldn't I ball it up and put it in the trash?
And I thought as my toes curled over the iron rail of my balcony and I held my cup of tea, staring out into the bustling street, maybe I could just sleep away the coming month...maybe then I wouldn't be living the nightmare of being left behind by friends who got 'real' jobs and now have bank accounts and homes, by friends who went back to school and now have another diploma, by friends who still have bikes they can ride, by friends that got married, by friends that now have families, by friends that kept dancing salsa, by friends that get to be with other friends...
maybe I could dream away the month, and oh it's such a tempting fantasy, but no, no, no, a box came today, full of love and Peanut Butter flavored with bananas, reminding me that there are still people who want me to keep going and that there are still surprises to be discovered.
And a dear friend who refuses to let me sulk away in Spain reaches out and gives me a voice to say, "I will be good with my time here."
I will be good with my time here. As a memory that lives in your hearts, I will be good with my time there, so that when I reach you on the path we're walking, you'll know me by the life in my eyes and the light in my smile.
In so many ways that one sentence sums up this year. I'm being left behind. In my head it is spun out in tangent anxieties, lonely walks and jaw clenching frustration during classes. But today, as I stood in my PJs watching my stylish roommate pack for his weekend trip, asking me if these shorts matched this shirt and if the hat worked with the brown shoes, I laughed and gave my best peanut gallery advice. He rolled his suitcase out the door and I put the kettle on. Tea time. My brooding time. I had the apartment all to myself....not really a blessing when you've got too much time to spend with just yourself already. So I cleaned. Throwing away the crumbs of our existence in the apartment. Dishes washed, floors mopped, counters wiped. chairs straightened, doors open letting the wind run through the fresh surfaces and the newly arranged space. And there I sat in an apartment that looked barely lived in, feeling the weight of my life barely lived. What could I use to scrub at the malaise I was feeling? Why couldn't I ball it up and put it in the trash?
And I thought as my toes curled over the iron rail of my balcony and I held my cup of tea, staring out into the bustling street, maybe I could just sleep away the coming month...maybe then I wouldn't be living the nightmare of being left behind by friends who got 'real' jobs and now have bank accounts and homes, by friends who went back to school and now have another diploma, by friends who still have bikes they can ride, by friends that got married, by friends that now have families, by friends that kept dancing salsa, by friends that get to be with other friends...
maybe I could dream away the month, and oh it's such a tempting fantasy, but no, no, no, a box came today, full of love and Peanut Butter flavored with bananas, reminding me that there are still people who want me to keep going and that there are still surprises to be discovered.
And a dear friend who refuses to let me sulk away in Spain reaches out and gives me a voice to say, "I will be good with my time here."
I will be good with my time here. As a memory that lives in your hearts, I will be good with my time there, so that when I reach you on the path we're walking, you'll know me by the life in my eyes and the light in my smile.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Cinderelley Cinderelley
Miguel Angel leans over my armrest and whispers, a bit too loud, into my ear, "Was the magic real? Did the fairy godmother really turn the pumpkin into a carriage?" In the darkness of the theater I smile back at his question and nod my head vigorously answering him, "Of course! She's the fairy godmother, she knows all the secrets of magic. Only she knows how to make a pumpkin into a carriage, look!" And in the darkness his small glasses glinted back at me in shock and delight, "Really??" he contested. I just nod and said, "Yes, Miguel Angel. Magic is real." And he sat back into his seat, in awe of the English play Cinderella we had traveled into the city to see. The rest of the play a little hand tapped my shoulder, asking me, "What's happening now?" as the play was in English and it was meant to be a bilingual field trip for the elementary school children, to practice their listening and apply all that they had learned the month before of the play. And while the majority left joking, "Has entendido algo? No?! jaja, yo tampoco!" (Did you get anything? No? Haha! Me neither!) the innocence with which they approached the play was refreshing. Cinderella was greeted with their cries of "Guapa!" (Gorgeous!) and their steadfast belief in the Fairy Godmother's power reminded me that what's real needn't always be verifiable. They shouted "YES!" to every question the actors posed to the audience (as the play was interactive, meant to help them learn English) even if the question was "What is the name of the girl who lost her shoe?" (Cinderella). They were more interested in making noise and playing than in being right.
It was my first day back after being sick for the past 3 days and I honestly had wanted to stay in bed and not go, but I knew that we had prepared for weeks prior in the hopes that the kids might understand something when they went to see the play, so I had to go. And as I felt like mierda climbing the mini montana to my school I thought, maybe the buses broke down, maybe I'll get to go home...you know, doing the escapism thinking that seems to start up the minute we have to do something we'd rather not. But like a splash of cold water to the face in the morning, children have a way of waking you up to life. I board the bus at the end of the crowd and I'm greeted by shouts of "Seno!!! Where were you?? Sit here sit here, we saved you a seat!" And cramped stomache and all, I'm glowing and rising up out of the bus. Was it really just the other day I was lying in bed thinking no one cared....And so while the day was an odd mix of travel hassles, counting heads and losing backpacks, kids puking on the bus and secret deals of candy trading going on between bus seats, I can't tell you how big my smile was when my kids started singing along to the play, IN ENGLISH...those dumb songs that I felt so silly singing for them and then begging them to sing along....now they were screaming and singing along..."You can try, you can try, you can try" and I felt a guilty secret pride that my kids were singing along and no other class nor other school was able to do so.
The smiles, the hugs, the greetings and the unconditional love my kids show me get me through the day. But sometimes I need more than that to get through the week, and having them sing along in English was just what I needed. The smallest bit of validation that what I'm doing here in Spain might actually have a lasting effect...
I feel bad for not having more faith in them. But not so bad...they put me through the ringer whenever they can. But I'll never doubt their innocence...something I've missed in adults. As much as I want to hurry up their education and help them grow, I don't want to be the one to say, "Magic isn't real" when I saw it happen today...
It was my first day back after being sick for the past 3 days and I honestly had wanted to stay in bed and not go, but I knew that we had prepared for weeks prior in the hopes that the kids might understand something when they went to see the play, so I had to go. And as I felt like mierda climbing the mini montana to my school I thought, maybe the buses broke down, maybe I'll get to go home...you know, doing the escapism thinking that seems to start up the minute we have to do something we'd rather not. But like a splash of cold water to the face in the morning, children have a way of waking you up to life. I board the bus at the end of the crowd and I'm greeted by shouts of "Seno!!! Where were you?? Sit here sit here, we saved you a seat!" And cramped stomache and all, I'm glowing and rising up out of the bus. Was it really just the other day I was lying in bed thinking no one cared....And so while the day was an odd mix of travel hassles, counting heads and losing backpacks, kids puking on the bus and secret deals of candy trading going on between bus seats, I can't tell you how big my smile was when my kids started singing along to the play, IN ENGLISH...those dumb songs that I felt so silly singing for them and then begging them to sing along....now they were screaming and singing along..."You can try, you can try, you can try" and I felt a guilty secret pride that my kids were singing along and no other class nor other school was able to do so.
The smiles, the hugs, the greetings and the unconditional love my kids show me get me through the day. But sometimes I need more than that to get through the week, and having them sing along in English was just what I needed. The smallest bit of validation that what I'm doing here in Spain might actually have a lasting effect...
I feel bad for not having more faith in them. But not so bad...they put me through the ringer whenever they can. But I'll never doubt their innocence...something I've missed in adults. As much as I want to hurry up their education and help them grow, I don't want to be the one to say, "Magic isn't real" when I saw it happen today...
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
There's a reason our bodies don't come with autopilot. TAKE CHARGE AND DRIVE YOUR DAY!!
Somedays life has a familiar rhythm, but lately I've been stumbling to an itinerant beat, wishing for (oddly enough) dependable consistency. Teaching allows for a flexible schedule every day, or rather, it has an erratic schedule you have to react to (classes get canceled, kids are suddenly sick, you have to sub for another teacher..the copier breaks, etc)...and with all the school vacations Spain has, you can never get in a groove. Just last week I was in Sweden and Germany, and now I'm back in Spain, which is not to complain, god no, traveling is a blessing, but I think that humans are meant to settle, meant to have a place in a community. Traveling is only fun when you can go home. But coming back to Malaga, my heart didn't rise to the heights I had thought it would...and my welcome back wasn't helped by the virus I seem to have caught at some point during the return journey...all this rambling is to say that, in trying to make good use of my time, but how do we make good use of our time every day? What does that life look like? Feel like? What is it like to go to bed on a Monday night knowing that I made good use of my time?
....not sure, but I've got plenty of time to think about it as I'm stuck in bed most of the day. Funny, staying in bed and thinking about watching the world go by is food for thought...and worrisome as I watch my life go by, and the only progress made is eating a PB sandwich.
Too much practice in being presence when you're sick. Ready to buck the mentality and embrace the physicality of being alive and having a body that is on board with living!
May you be well, and as my dear friend Bets reminded me, make good use of your time.
(thanks Bets for giving me something to write on and think about)
....not sure, but I've got plenty of time to think about it as I'm stuck in bed most of the day. Funny, staying in bed and thinking about watching the world go by is food for thought...and worrisome as I watch my life go by, and the only progress made is eating a PB sandwich.
Too much practice in being presence when you're sick. Ready to buck the mentality and embrace the physicality of being alive and having a body that is on board with living!
May you be well, and as my dear friend Bets reminded me, make good use of your time.
(thanks Bets for giving me something to write on and think about)
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Happy Easter!!
A very happy easter to all those back home. Wishing I was there to munch on chocolate and dig through easter baskets and smell the sweet arrival of spring with you all...
thank you mama easter bunny for making a long distance trip via UPS to deliver my easter basket :)
A poem for my loves, by one of my favorites...
April
by: Amy Lowell (1874-1925)
A bird chirped at my window this morning,
And over the sky is drawn a light net-work of clouds.
Come,
Let us go out into the open,
For my heart leaps like a fish that is ready to spawn.
I will lie under the beech-trees,
Under the grey branches of the beech-trees,
In a blueness of little squills and crocuses.
I will lie among the little squills
And be delivered of this overcharge of beauty,
And that which is born shall be a joy to you
Who love me.
thank you mama easter bunny for making a long distance trip via UPS to deliver my easter basket :)
A poem for my loves, by one of my favorites...
April
by: Amy Lowell (1874-1925)
A bird chirped at my window this morning,
And over the sky is drawn a light net-work of clouds.
Come,
Let us go out into the open,
For my heart leaps like a fish that is ready to spawn.
I will lie under the beech-trees,
Under the grey branches of the beech-trees,
In a blueness of little squills and crocuses.
I will lie among the little squills
And be delivered of this overcharge of beauty,
And that which is born shall be a joy to you
Who love me.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Hej! Sweden!
Thursday, April 14 - Saturday April 16
For as much of a homebody as I can be, I've got this terrible itch to move. It flairs every 3 weeks, coinciding with my week break here in Spain during Semana Santa (Holy Week...which means a week of KKK like dressed people doing processions around the city with huge Virgin Mary statues, vendors lining the streets selling candy and baked potatoes, and endless crowds mingling the main drag and spitting sunflower seeds at your feet). So I escaped the religious revival for Sweden and Germany.
My 'bosom buddy' from college, Leise had recently moved to Stockholm, Sweden to live with her boyfriend for a bit while she figured out her next move after teaching English for a year in Thailand. I decided to repay the favor of her visit to Malaga with a visit to Stockholm and I couldn't be more glad that I did. There's nothing like exploring a new city with a friendly local who just happens to also be your best friend. She knew exactly what I'd enjoy and so she backed in everything we could in the best 48 hours I've had since I arrived in Europe.
Arriving on the first sunny day Stockholm has seen in a while, I engulf Leise in a hug and we head off to her apartment to drop off my back pack. We then march out into the city, abandoning our coats for the brave spring warmth that joined us for our adventures. She took me to her favorite spot (and mine as well), the Culture House of Sweden, a 5 story building of artistic playfulness and intellectual daring. We wandered the collections, lounged in Dr.Seuss like libraries,
and sipped espresso in their hip to the max cafe overlooking the main square with brilliant windows that spanned the lenght of the wall so you had a clear view of everything. Our next stop was the Vasa Museum. A hilarious exhibition of the Vasa, a great Swedish vessel that sank after a 30 minute career.
It speaks to the Swedish sense of humor...honoring the greatest engineering failing of their day. Then...we high tailed it to the most amazing restaurant I've ever been to..Hermans.
It doesn't amaze you by name, but one step inside and you're in love. It's a vegetarian buffet. It had HUMMUS. I almost died. And Leise and David even reserved a table for us just to make sure I could eat a vegetarian meal with them.
Dave, the 'local' if you will, took us to a hot young hipster hangout, "Skybar" Yes, it sounds cheesy, but the view was worth the 8euro beer bought to get ritzy window seats.
Exhausted, we wandered back to their apartment and watched American History X with Swedish subtitles on TV. As silly as this sounds, I've missed just hanging out with friends. Sinking into the couch, I couldn't help but slip in a secret smile, I'd found that "I'm home" feeling again.
Day 2 in Sweden was just as busy...off to the Palace to see the nonchalant changing of the guards, wandering the old city,
sitting in cafes, peeking in old churches,
wandering through a dog park to an Ethnography Museum (another reason why I love Leise, she humors my nerdy side and happily goes with me to Ethnography musuems. a true friend).
And then, Leise took the cake. She, Dave and I went to the circus she had bought tickets for. If you ever get the chance, GO. It was breathtaking. The whole time I was on the edge of my seat, gasping, "Oh MY GOD!!" when my jaw wasn't hitting the floor. It was such a simple set up. 3 men, one pole, countless yoga balls, one floor, 1 trampoline and 2 small trampolines and countless odd props, like a palm tree, Elvis costumes, pieces of wood and tires. They were true comedic acrobats who choreographed their a routine to music that looked and felt so natural, as if they were simply bouncing around and creating the performance organically. For your youtube-ing pleasure, look up "Race Horse Company" the show is called "petit Mal". Be stunned.
After the show, breathless and eager to play, we went to the popular burger joint in Stockholm that on the menu lets you know how many carbon points you earn for eating a cow burger versus a veggie burger. And then I did something that I had never done before in all my teen years. I ate a (veggie) burger and fries and hung out with Leise and Dave. Maybe this seems like a moment I should just skim over, but it was envlivening to do something that so many of my friends had done during highschool and college, but I rarely/never did...eat burgers and hang out...it was fun..and weird...and I liked it. Not that anyone is normal or we had a normal night, but, it felt so right to do something so relaxing and unpresumptiously enjoyable. Later we met up with some of Dave's Swedish friends and listened to some Swedish punk at a local bar and they affirmed an inkling that'd been growing stronger...Sweden is cool.
Needless to say, I was bummed to leave the next morning. But, to call upon my favorite poet, "That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet."
- Emily Dickinson
And so, with shaky breaths and tears I didn't want to fall I got on the bus to the airport, I sunk into the loving solitude of waving goodbye. It's so hard to move on and go on, to other places and other people, when the ones who mean so much only come with you in memory.
For as much of a homebody as I can be, I've got this terrible itch to move. It flairs every 3 weeks, coinciding with my week break here in Spain during Semana Santa (Holy Week...which means a week of KKK like dressed people doing processions around the city with huge Virgin Mary statues, vendors lining the streets selling candy and baked potatoes, and endless crowds mingling the main drag and spitting sunflower seeds at your feet). So I escaped the religious revival for Sweden and Germany.
My 'bosom buddy' from college, Leise had recently moved to Stockholm, Sweden to live with her boyfriend for a bit while she figured out her next move after teaching English for a year in Thailand. I decided to repay the favor of her visit to Malaga with a visit to Stockholm and I couldn't be more glad that I did. There's nothing like exploring a new city with a friendly local who just happens to also be your best friend. She knew exactly what I'd enjoy and so she backed in everything we could in the best 48 hours I've had since I arrived in Europe.
Arriving on the first sunny day Stockholm has seen in a while, I engulf Leise in a hug and we head off to her apartment to drop off my back pack. We then march out into the city, abandoning our coats for the brave spring warmth that joined us for our adventures. She took me to her favorite spot (and mine as well), the Culture House of Sweden, a 5 story building of artistic playfulness and intellectual daring. We wandered the collections, lounged in Dr.Seuss like libraries,
and sipped espresso in their hip to the max cafe overlooking the main square with brilliant windows that spanned the lenght of the wall so you had a clear view of everything. Our next stop was the Vasa Museum. A hilarious exhibition of the Vasa, a great Swedish vessel that sank after a 30 minute career.
It speaks to the Swedish sense of humor...honoring the greatest engineering failing of their day. Then...we high tailed it to the most amazing restaurant I've ever been to..Hermans.
It doesn't amaze you by name, but one step inside and you're in love. It's a vegetarian buffet. It had HUMMUS. I almost died. And Leise and David even reserved a table for us just to make sure I could eat a vegetarian meal with them.
Dave, the 'local' if you will, took us to a hot young hipster hangout, "Skybar" Yes, it sounds cheesy, but the view was worth the 8euro beer bought to get ritzy window seats.
Exhausted, we wandered back to their apartment and watched American History X with Swedish subtitles on TV. As silly as this sounds, I've missed just hanging out with friends. Sinking into the couch, I couldn't help but slip in a secret smile, I'd found that "I'm home" feeling again.
Day 2 in Sweden was just as busy...off to the Palace to see the nonchalant changing of the guards, wandering the old city,
sitting in cafes, peeking in old churches,
wandering through a dog park to an Ethnography Museum (another reason why I love Leise, she humors my nerdy side and happily goes with me to Ethnography musuems. a true friend).
And then, Leise took the cake. She, Dave and I went to the circus she had bought tickets for. If you ever get the chance, GO. It was breathtaking. The whole time I was on the edge of my seat, gasping, "Oh MY GOD!!" when my jaw wasn't hitting the floor. It was such a simple set up. 3 men, one pole, countless yoga balls, one floor, 1 trampoline and 2 small trampolines and countless odd props, like a palm tree, Elvis costumes, pieces of wood and tires. They were true comedic acrobats who choreographed their a routine to music that looked and felt so natural, as if they were simply bouncing around and creating the performance organically. For your youtube-ing pleasure, look up "Race Horse Company" the show is called "petit Mal". Be stunned.
After the show, breathless and eager to play, we went to the popular burger joint in Stockholm that on the menu lets you know how many carbon points you earn for eating a cow burger versus a veggie burger. And then I did something that I had never done before in all my teen years. I ate a (veggie) burger and fries and hung out with Leise and Dave. Maybe this seems like a moment I should just skim over, but it was envlivening to do something that so many of my friends had done during highschool and college, but I rarely/never did...eat burgers and hang out...it was fun..and weird...and I liked it. Not that anyone is normal or we had a normal night, but, it felt so right to do something so relaxing and unpresumptiously enjoyable. Later we met up with some of Dave's Swedish friends and listened to some Swedish punk at a local bar and they affirmed an inkling that'd been growing stronger...Sweden is cool.
Needless to say, I was bummed to leave the next morning. But, to call upon my favorite poet, "That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet."
- Emily Dickinson
And so, with shaky breaths and tears I didn't want to fall I got on the bus to the airport, I sunk into the loving solitude of waving goodbye. It's so hard to move on and go on, to other places and other people, when the ones who mean so much only come with you in memory.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Si se puede!
Sunday
Limits.
I learn to set limits, respect my limits and the limits of others. And then I push my limits. In so many small ways I like to push my limits. And slowly my tip toing on my limits has become a mad dash into no-man's land, wondering where the line was drawn to begin with. Wearing crazy earrings (I feel daring). Wearing a skirt. (I feel rather feminine). Biking across the USA (I'm stronger than I ever knew). Moving to Spain (what was I thinking?).
It is such a strange thing though...when we push our limits and when we go beyond our limits we feel defeated (I'm not meant to live thousand of miles away from my family, too lonely) or we feel liberated (I made it to California on a bike. By my own to 2 legs. Hell yeah). Which is why limits make me nervous. And so I constantly draw back from them, trying to force a crossing, trying to jump the gap, so my limits might never be realized, but rather, sit like dangerous mines, harmless as long as I find a way around them. This hasn't always worked....
But that emotional detour is not the point of my latest limit confrontation. Spain has been a mental, emotional, social and pyschological (overlapping categories?) challenge, and a very rigorous one to be honest. But physically, it has been constraining. I broke my foot in December, which rendered me a hobbler on crutches and I find that I'm so busy teaching, planning and commuting that I haven't had the chance to do physical that approaches biking the USA. But I began a slow comeback, I wanted to suffer physically, a little bit at least. I wanted something that would put me to the test. And I got it.
This Sunday I ran the Malaga Half Marathon. The bell went off at 10am and the Mediterrean sun was already high overhead, clocking the temperature at 80 degrees. And off we went, running faces to the sun. It was a brutal course - 11 km straight down the beach into the sunlight and 11 km back down the beach, running into gale force headwind. Delirious and nearing heat exhaustion as I ran by a sign telling me it was 31 degrees celcius, I decided I would finish. End of story. People began to pass me as I slowed down. I began to pass men that fell back, walking into the cruel headwinds. And I played the game of "I'm just running to the next stop light....the next stoplight...the next stoplight....the next sign..." until I finally got to "I'm just running till I cross that finish line." And I sprinted it. Legs wobbly with exhaustion but spirit sailing above my body, I sped up and ran the clock down. Satisfaction tempered by exhaustion makes for a healthy glow of pride and gratitude for having finished what I set out to do. Mingling amidst the other runners who had finished I felt strong and I felt very alone. I didn't remember any of them on the course, probably because they finished days before me, but also because running is such an independent sport. It's not a sad loneliness, but a very present loneliness I'd say. You feel all (and yes I mean ALL) the muscles in your body. You feel your lungs breathe. You taste the salt on your skin and you feel the burn starting to set in on your nose. And everyone else is feeling some sort of variation and they can't do anything about you or themselves. And that is what makes it so lonely. You must carry yourself mentally across the finish line. So while there is a comraderie amongst runners that have completed a race because they "did it" there is also a pervasive solitude present. When all you can do is breathe, there is no space for words. You feel your emotions, but you don't immediately emote them.
On the bus ride home, I kept saying "I did it" just to remember that I did indeed do it. That I still had it in me. I certainly didn't check anything off my to do list nor did I add to my resume, but mentally, I feel like Joan of Arc.
How humbling are the moments that make us decide if we are to be stronger than we previously thought? But how necessary and how empowering they are...
[ on a lighter note....2 km out, when it was the worst part of the race, hot as hell, brutal headwinds, an eldery man stepped out and yelled at a group of middle-aged men slowing down to my left, he said, "I know this is hard, but I'll tell you what's harder, being married to the same woman 64 years." That put us all to tears...and I secretly hoped that marriage wouldn't ever be so terrible]
Limits.
I learn to set limits, respect my limits and the limits of others. And then I push my limits. In so many small ways I like to push my limits. And slowly my tip toing on my limits has become a mad dash into no-man's land, wondering where the line was drawn to begin with. Wearing crazy earrings (I feel daring). Wearing a skirt. (I feel rather feminine). Biking across the USA (I'm stronger than I ever knew). Moving to Spain (what was I thinking?).
It is such a strange thing though...when we push our limits and when we go beyond our limits we feel defeated (I'm not meant to live thousand of miles away from my family, too lonely) or we feel liberated (I made it to California on a bike. By my own to 2 legs. Hell yeah). Which is why limits make me nervous. And so I constantly draw back from them, trying to force a crossing, trying to jump the gap, so my limits might never be realized, but rather, sit like dangerous mines, harmless as long as I find a way around them. This hasn't always worked....
But that emotional detour is not the point of my latest limit confrontation. Spain has been a mental, emotional, social and pyschological (overlapping categories?) challenge, and a very rigorous one to be honest. But physically, it has been constraining. I broke my foot in December, which rendered me a hobbler on crutches and I find that I'm so busy teaching, planning and commuting that I haven't had the chance to do physical that approaches biking the USA. But I began a slow comeback, I wanted to suffer physically, a little bit at least. I wanted something that would put me to the test. And I got it.
This Sunday I ran the Malaga Half Marathon. The bell went off at 10am and the Mediterrean sun was already high overhead, clocking the temperature at 80 degrees. And off we went, running faces to the sun. It was a brutal course - 11 km straight down the beach into the sunlight and 11 km back down the beach, running into gale force headwind. Delirious and nearing heat exhaustion as I ran by a sign telling me it was 31 degrees celcius, I decided I would finish. End of story. People began to pass me as I slowed down. I began to pass men that fell back, walking into the cruel headwinds. And I played the game of "I'm just running to the next stop light....the next stoplight...the next stoplight....the next sign..." until I finally got to "I'm just running till I cross that finish line." And I sprinted it. Legs wobbly with exhaustion but spirit sailing above my body, I sped up and ran the clock down. Satisfaction tempered by exhaustion makes for a healthy glow of pride and gratitude for having finished what I set out to do. Mingling amidst the other runners who had finished I felt strong and I felt very alone. I didn't remember any of them on the course, probably because they finished days before me, but also because running is such an independent sport. It's not a sad loneliness, but a very present loneliness I'd say. You feel all (and yes I mean ALL) the muscles in your body. You feel your lungs breathe. You taste the salt on your skin and you feel the burn starting to set in on your nose. And everyone else is feeling some sort of variation and they can't do anything about you or themselves. And that is what makes it so lonely. You must carry yourself mentally across the finish line. So while there is a comraderie amongst runners that have completed a race because they "did it" there is also a pervasive solitude present. When all you can do is breathe, there is no space for words. You feel your emotions, but you don't immediately emote them.
On the bus ride home, I kept saying "I did it" just to remember that I did indeed do it. That I still had it in me. I certainly didn't check anything off my to do list nor did I add to my resume, but mentally, I feel like Joan of Arc.
How humbling are the moments that make us decide if we are to be stronger than we previously thought? But how necessary and how empowering they are...
[ on a lighter note....2 km out, when it was the worst part of the race, hot as hell, brutal headwinds, an eldery man stepped out and yelled at a group of middle-aged men slowing down to my left, he said, "I know this is hard, but I'll tell you what's harder, being married to the same woman 64 years." That put us all to tears...and I secretly hoped that marriage wouldn't ever be so terrible]
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Bifocal
Saturday
There are days in my life that flow by in a tranquil rhythm. I never know when to expect them and I can never plan them. Like sand dollars on the shore, they fall at your feet if you wait long enough after the waves have passed.
Today was simple. Today was lovely. Like a drop of honey. Slowly sweet.
Michaella (a fellow profesora here) and I catch the morning bus to Nerja, a nearby beach town and from there catch the connecting bus to Frigiliana, one of the typical Andalusian white wash village towns nestled in the mountians. It is postcard worthy at everyturn and we easily peruse its streets in 2 hours. The far off sea, lounging beyond verdent rolling green hills tempts us back down, so we wait for the afternoon bus to carry us back to Nerja.
Nerja, being one of the usual tourist hot spots in the south of Spain boasts its fair share of cheap restaurants and typical beach shops selling bathing suits, towel, flip flops and kitschy souvenirs scribbled with the word "Nerja." But if you can crawl through the myriad of cheap deals and fast food, you reach the ocean and the aquamarine Mediterrean stares back at you with a gaping mouth. Large rocks, like the cookie crumbs of a long ago giant, sprinkle the beach, creating coves where small groups of people cluster in pockets of sand. Cliffs run right behind the beach, like a staunch hand, pushing the shore to sea, cupping the beach in sections and coves. It is Idyllic. Tramping by the cafes and restaurants on the overhang above the beach (called the Balcony of Europe) we high tail it down to the beach to snag a spot in the sun and soak it up. We scout out an open space between boulders and lay out, glistening in sunscreen.
A young girl was playing by herself in the waves in front of us. Laughing and jumping in her floatie like I used to do when I was a child. And as I causually watched her tease the waves, the ocean grew big, eclipsing the present in a memory of when I was young and the sea was my playmate. But all I could say was, "I can't believe in 2 months I won't be here." And it surprised me, how change was still unfathomable, even as we deal with change everyday. I'd eventually fly home and leave Malaga, just as I'd left my floatie and wave jumping days long ago. And even though I just arrived in Nerja I found myself saying, "I don't know what I'll do without the ocean...." as if I carried a small hope that my playmate might never forget me, even though I'd left him behind years ago. And maybe it was just the heat that was making me oddly emotional, but at the same time, the day was a moment of beautiful presence. Sitting on a beach and listening to waves. And watching my childhood jump the waves, wondering when we lose the lightness of being young.
Before I realize it, it's approaching dusk, but the sun is no where near the horizon, but my body says, go home, seek cool darkness.
And as we arrive in Malaga, its an odd moment, joking, "Home sweet home," feeling dry and sunburned, slow and cankterous, much like Alice must have felt as she walked back through the mirror, leaving Wonderland behind.
There are days in my life that flow by in a tranquil rhythm. I never know when to expect them and I can never plan them. Like sand dollars on the shore, they fall at your feet if you wait long enough after the waves have passed.
Today was simple. Today was lovely. Like a drop of honey. Slowly sweet.
Michaella (a fellow profesora here) and I catch the morning bus to Nerja, a nearby beach town and from there catch the connecting bus to Frigiliana, one of the typical Andalusian white wash village towns nestled in the mountians. It is postcard worthy at everyturn and we easily peruse its streets in 2 hours. The far off sea, lounging beyond verdent rolling green hills tempts us back down, so we wait for the afternoon bus to carry us back to Nerja.
Nerja, being one of the usual tourist hot spots in the south of Spain boasts its fair share of cheap restaurants and typical beach shops selling bathing suits, towel, flip flops and kitschy souvenirs scribbled with the word "Nerja." But if you can crawl through the myriad of cheap deals and fast food, you reach the ocean and the aquamarine Mediterrean stares back at you with a gaping mouth. Large rocks, like the cookie crumbs of a long ago giant, sprinkle the beach, creating coves where small groups of people cluster in pockets of sand. Cliffs run right behind the beach, like a staunch hand, pushing the shore to sea, cupping the beach in sections and coves. It is Idyllic. Tramping by the cafes and restaurants on the overhang above the beach (called the Balcony of Europe) we high tail it down to the beach to snag a spot in the sun and soak it up. We scout out an open space between boulders and lay out, glistening in sunscreen.
A young girl was playing by herself in the waves in front of us. Laughing and jumping in her floatie like I used to do when I was a child. And as I causually watched her tease the waves, the ocean grew big, eclipsing the present in a memory of when I was young and the sea was my playmate. But all I could say was, "I can't believe in 2 months I won't be here." And it surprised me, how change was still unfathomable, even as we deal with change everyday. I'd eventually fly home and leave Malaga, just as I'd left my floatie and wave jumping days long ago. And even though I just arrived in Nerja I found myself saying, "I don't know what I'll do without the ocean...." as if I carried a small hope that my playmate might never forget me, even though I'd left him behind years ago. And maybe it was just the heat that was making me oddly emotional, but at the same time, the day was a moment of beautiful presence. Sitting on a beach and listening to waves. And watching my childhood jump the waves, wondering when we lose the lightness of being young.
Before I realize it, it's approaching dusk, but the sun is no where near the horizon, but my body says, go home, seek cool darkness.
And as we arrive in Malaga, its an odd moment, joking, "Home sweet home," feeling dry and sunburned, slow and cankterous, much like Alice must have felt as she walked back through the mirror, leaving Wonderland behind.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Pulling Myself Together
Day 129
Sunday
What is harder about the act of saying good bye...the person saying adieu or the person watching the other drive away as they are left behind? Frequently caught in the former position, as the college student driving to campus, or as the graduate hugging her family at the airport as she heads to her first real big girl job, I'm used to the final glance back and the quiet loneliness (as well as the revealing tears) that falls over you,weighing your aura with memory. But, in Spain, having friends visit me puts me in the position of being the one left behind....It happened when my family visited me, as I watched my dad and brother meander back to the hotel after walking me back to my apartment or when I watched Leise hustle through security at Malaga and scurry to her gate. The moments after being abandoned are hallow, you think, well, I guess back to the routine...grocery shopping, laundry, lesson plans....and you go about finding the scattered pieces of the quotidian you burst out of when everything changed and the joy of saying hello illuminated your far away life.
And the pieces seem so dull in the dust of yesterday, but you find that they work, and sometimes the pieces come together in a new way...and you realize a new perspective.
and in the silence of your room that still doesn't talk back, you think, maybe goodbye isn't a wave of surrender to loneliness, but a chance to pull myself together in a new way...to realize that my hands are capable of letting go and holding on simultaneously.
taking hold of the present, i find a coherence in my re-imagined and newly understood (and incessantly modified) Self.
today is was about a tangible, potential coherence...a ponytail.
first ponytail since aug.2010.
Sunday
What is harder about the act of saying good bye...the person saying adieu or the person watching the other drive away as they are left behind? Frequently caught in the former position, as the college student driving to campus, or as the graduate hugging her family at the airport as she heads to her first real big girl job, I'm used to the final glance back and the quiet loneliness (as well as the revealing tears) that falls over you,weighing your aura with memory. But, in Spain, having friends visit me puts me in the position of being the one left behind....It happened when my family visited me, as I watched my dad and brother meander back to the hotel after walking me back to my apartment or when I watched Leise hustle through security at Malaga and scurry to her gate. The moments after being abandoned are hallow, you think, well, I guess back to the routine...grocery shopping, laundry, lesson plans....and you go about finding the scattered pieces of the quotidian you burst out of when everything changed and the joy of saying hello illuminated your far away life.
And the pieces seem so dull in the dust of yesterday, but you find that they work, and sometimes the pieces come together in a new way...and you realize a new perspective.
and in the silence of your room that still doesn't talk back, you think, maybe goodbye isn't a wave of surrender to loneliness, but a chance to pull myself together in a new way...to realize that my hands are capable of letting go and holding on simultaneously.
taking hold of the present, i find a coherence in my re-imagined and newly understood (and incessantly modified) Self.
today is was about a tangible, potential coherence...a ponytail.
first ponytail since aug.2010.
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