Six minutes until 2014. Six minutes to reflect on 2013.
This past year was for me to grow self-confident. That's what its purpose was. That's how it served me. The most important part of 2013 was working at the summer camp in La Manga for four weeks. I had never felt so happy in just being myself. Now that I've had a taste of what that's like, I want that for good. I want it to keep. Not something I leave behind when summer is over. My month at camp showed me a self-confidence I didn't know was in me. It all started out as a playful risk, and turned into 40 kids' perspectives being shifted. And it was all because I didn't care what anybody else thought. And because I chose not to complain for one moment, but to see the negatives as either opportunities to have a beer on the complainers' tabs or as amusement. Some of that summer camp self-confidence has noticeably faded, but now I know it's there... I know what's possible and I'm willing to go after it this next year.
My biggest obstacle was self-doubt. For 2014, I want that cleaned out for good. Fifteen years is long enough to have carried it with me. I'm ready to thank it for its well meaning attempt at protecting me, and bury it right here in Sweden. This year I saw myself truly shine and I know that the self-doubt isn't truth. Self-doubt in myself, my talents and my relationships. All out.
#12cosasquequieroen2014
Life
1) To dance more.
2) To learn a brand new talent.
3) To live in a tropical place near a beach.
Relationships
4) To always feel respected, adored and important in all close relationships and friendships.
5) To gain a close and diverse network of friends I cherish and can truly be myself around.
6) To have an intellectually stimulating, playful, mature, adventurous, respectful, supportive relationship in which love is freely given and I always feel absolutely adored - and not getting in my own way of it.
Me
7) To write daily Good Things and thrive with a sanguine perspective.
8) To stop comparing myself to others and worrying about others' judgements of me.
9) To always be grateful to be me, to adore me, to be self-confident and to remember to look at my wrist often and smile, knowing.
Career
10) To work with people I respect and enjoy.
11) To be financially responsible and financially comfortable.
12) To have a job where my unique talents are highly valued and appreciated.
Akershus
Wednesday, December 25, 2013
The ereatheral poise in the silouetted figure's gait reinforces the fortress walls, making them seem taller than they were five minutes ago. Five minutes ago I was just another tourist, walking up the slick, glistening cobblestone path, taking photos of the orbs of light bobbing on the black water below. A subtle, ineffable peacefulness had settled over me as I'd realized I was all alone in a bailey that had began witnessing history 30 lifetimes ago.
This tranquility had coaxed me towards the arched entryway leading to the castle. I'd glanced up at the walkway atop the entryway where the guards used to keep watch. "Allure!" I'd grinned, surprised I'd remembered the technical term I'd learned in some high school history class. But the grin quickly faded when I noticed something move along the allure.
It was was the outline of the plumed bowler hat that tied my ankles together. It was the outline of the bayonet that sucked the air out of me.
Utter silence deafens my ears, causing them to ring slightly. My little toe goes numb as my boots surrender to the damp earth. A rancid taste of nothingness seeps into my dry tongue. The only parts of me that seem to still function are my eyes, pupils having driven out the irises, which follow the figure intently as it marches right to left, with such slow grace that it almost seems to float.
As I continue watching, the consistency in the figure's movement begins to melt my startled fear into a cautious sense of security. I scold myself for not immediately realizing the figure is merely a member of Norway's Hans Majestet Kongens Garde. "The bayonet is an odd touch," I think to myself, "but it has a certain quaintness to it, I suppose."
Upon reaching the end of the length of the allure, I expect the guard to turn around and continue left to right. But instead, he disappears, descending down the allure's steps. Transfixed, I wait for the figure to reach the bottom and pass through the entryway. But nothing appears. Nothing?
Without thinking, courage takes fear hostage, and I run through the entryway and climb the stairs to the allure. When I reach the top, a subtle, ineffable peacefulness is the last thing that settles over me as I realize I am all alone...
This tranquility had coaxed me towards the arched entryway leading to the castle. I'd glanced up at the walkway atop the entryway where the guards used to keep watch. "Allure!" I'd grinned, surprised I'd remembered the technical term I'd learned in some high school history class. But the grin quickly faded when I noticed something move along the allure.
It was was the outline of the plumed bowler hat that tied my ankles together. It was the outline of the bayonet that sucked the air out of me.
Utter silence deafens my ears, causing them to ring slightly. My little toe goes numb as my boots surrender to the damp earth. A rancid taste of nothingness seeps into my dry tongue. The only parts of me that seem to still function are my eyes, pupils having driven out the irises, which follow the figure intently as it marches right to left, with such slow grace that it almost seems to float.
As I continue watching, the consistency in the figure's movement begins to melt my startled fear into a cautious sense of security. I scold myself for not immediately realizing the figure is merely a member of Norway's Hans Majestet Kongens Garde. "The bayonet is an odd touch," I think to myself, "but it has a certain quaintness to it, I suppose."
Upon reaching the end of the length of the allure, I expect the guard to turn around and continue left to right. But instead, he disappears, descending down the allure's steps. Transfixed, I wait for the figure to reach the bottom and pass through the entryway. But nothing appears. Nothing?
Without thinking, courage takes fear hostage, and I run through the entryway and climb the stairs to the allure. When I reach the top, a subtle, ineffable peacefulness is the last thing that settles over me as I realize I am all alone...
Puddles
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
I'm sitting in the lobby of my hostel in Oslo. I have been sitting in the lobby of my hostel in Oslo for the past four and a half hours. Today I learned that the next time I plan a trip to a country alone during a holiday, I should research whether that country decides holidays are time to completely shut down for nearly 72 hours. Oops.
I spent the two hours of the day in which things where actually open walking the main streets and getting thoroughly soaked in the windy drizzle. Delightful. My initial reaction to the city itself was that it was a lot more elegant than I was expecting. Everything feels new. I was expecting some gnomes and rocking horses I guess, but so far it's four story malls and historic yet elegant buildings. I guess you need to get out of the city to find the old-world charm. Makes sense.
I know I'm only a day into it all, but I've been thinking about it, and I think that I would like to retrace my steps of the travels I've done, but instead of going to all the major cities, go to the tiny towns. Next time, I'd go way up north in Norway to see the Northern Lights. I would go way up north in Sweden to stay at the Ice Hotel. Things like that. I'm glad I'm seeing the cities now, but at some point I'd like to see the lesser-known parts of these places. It's like somebody who's only been to New York thinking they know all of the US...
Anyway, I've been sitting in the lobby pondering the challenge placed before me: how do I fill two full days in a foreign country when nothing's open and I'm all alone? Last year's two week adventure was so much different because I couchsurfed the whole time and never had a single idle moment. I was always with somebody doing something. And I ADORED it. But this time, I'm flying solo for the first two countries, and I think the optimism and tenacity I would usually have are being squelched by the fact my cold isn't getting any better and I really just want to be cuddled up in bed right now.
So I've allowed myself to sit here, coughing all over myself, eating my Dutch caramel waffle cookies (they had them at the supermarket here!!) and allowing a damp sense of hopelessness and loneliness puddle around me for a little while. I know that tomorrow, after sleeping in a real bed, finally showering and eating a real meal (and maybe finding a pharmacy for more cough medicine) I'll be ready and open to adventure. But for right now, I'm not, and that's okay.
I did at least use this down time to plan out what I'll be doing in Oslo for the next three days, and I'm excited for the hike in the forest, the stroll through the garden of crazy statues, the giant ski jump and ski museum, the nine minute toboggan ride outside the city, the Viking ship museum, and an afternoon of window shopping and a cookie hot chocolate at Cocoa in the alternative/artsy neighborhood. But if I'm going to do all those things sanguinely, I definitively needed tonight to plan and recharge.
I spent the two hours of the day in which things where actually open walking the main streets and getting thoroughly soaked in the windy drizzle. Delightful. My initial reaction to the city itself was that it was a lot more elegant than I was expecting. Everything feels new. I was expecting some gnomes and rocking horses I guess, but so far it's four story malls and historic yet elegant buildings. I guess you need to get out of the city to find the old-world charm. Makes sense.
I know I'm only a day into it all, but I've been thinking about it, and I think that I would like to retrace my steps of the travels I've done, but instead of going to all the major cities, go to the tiny towns. Next time, I'd go way up north in Norway to see the Northern Lights. I would go way up north in Sweden to stay at the Ice Hotel. Things like that. I'm glad I'm seeing the cities now, but at some point I'd like to see the lesser-known parts of these places. It's like somebody who's only been to New York thinking they know all of the US...
Anyway, I've been sitting in the lobby pondering the challenge placed before me: how do I fill two full days in a foreign country when nothing's open and I'm all alone? Last year's two week adventure was so much different because I couchsurfed the whole time and never had a single idle moment. I was always with somebody doing something. And I ADORED it. But this time, I'm flying solo for the first two countries, and I think the optimism and tenacity I would usually have are being squelched by the fact my cold isn't getting any better and I really just want to be cuddled up in bed right now.
So I've allowed myself to sit here, coughing all over myself, eating my Dutch caramel waffle cookies (they had them at the supermarket here!!) and allowing a damp sense of hopelessness and loneliness puddle around me for a little while. I know that tomorrow, after sleeping in a real bed, finally showering and eating a real meal (and maybe finding a pharmacy for more cough medicine) I'll be ready and open to adventure. But for right now, I'm not, and that's okay.
I did at least use this down time to plan out what I'll be doing in Oslo for the next three days, and I'm excited for the hike in the forest, the stroll through the garden of crazy statues, the giant ski jump and ski museum, the nine minute toboggan ride outside the city, the Viking ship museum, and an afternoon of window shopping and a cookie hot chocolate at Cocoa in the alternative/artsy neighborhood. But if I'm going to do all those things sanguinely, I definitively needed tonight to plan and recharge.
Germany
My limited observations on Germany after having been here a whopping seven hours:
1) German as a language isn't nearly as harsh sounding as it's made out to be. I would argue Spanish teenagers make more of those gross glottal noises (think: the sound of a cat hacking up a hairball) when they speak slang than Germans do in normal conversation. In fact, if you're not paying attention, it almost sounds like English. Obviously, German and English are super closely related, but for me, German has always been the uncouth uncle who burps at the other end of the table. Turns out, I might have had him pegged wrong this whole time.
2) Because they are related, I could sometimes pick up on a few key words when people asked me questions and nod or shake my head in response. That was fun, until they'd keep talking to me and I'd finally have to ask "What?" and they looked at me confusedly.
3) You know how I just said that if you're not paying attention, German can start to sound like English? Well, it can... but the only words it sounds like are curse words! I swear I heard "dick" and "fuck" a million times today. The first makes sense, as I'm pretty sure "dich" means "you," but I can't explain the other one. Maybe "fuch" means "them" or something? Whatever the logical, linguistic explanation is, it doesn't make hearing those words so often and out of context completely hilarious.
4) Teenage German girls look like they are the molds for popular teenage American girls. I've never seen so many blonde hair, blue eyed girls in my life. But I don't mean model types, but cute, chubby cheeks types. Maybe it's just that I've lived in Spain too long (if you see a blonde, you KNOW they're foreign)... but seeing something other than dark brown hair/dark brown eyes was disorienting and exciting!
5) Brats, pretzels and strudel are German. Now, after typing that, that seems obvious, but I never would have thought about it had I never been here. These three things are everywhere here. At the airport. At the metro stations. At the Christmas Market. And, I mean, they make a kinda weird combo, too. But there they are, proudly proclaiming their Germanness.
6) The Berlin Wall was taken down the year after I was born. THAT is really weird to honk about, especially when you're standing in front of it. I found it interesting how they had poles or bricks or other markers to show where it had been. The one I saw cut through a busy street and a METRO STATION. I read that that station was shut down and the entrances were literally bricked shut because that station stopped on the wrong side of the wall. My whole life I considered Europe to be a classy, sophisticated continent with rich history that gave each country it's own depth. But when I see things like the Berlin Wall and hear stories about Franco from the mid-70s, suddenly Europe doesn't seem like the wise grandfather I always considered it to be.
1) German as a language isn't nearly as harsh sounding as it's made out to be. I would argue Spanish teenagers make more of those gross glottal noises (think: the sound of a cat hacking up a hairball) when they speak slang than Germans do in normal conversation. In fact, if you're not paying attention, it almost sounds like English. Obviously, German and English are super closely related, but for me, German has always been the uncouth uncle who burps at the other end of the table. Turns out, I might have had him pegged wrong this whole time.
2) Because they are related, I could sometimes pick up on a few key words when people asked me questions and nod or shake my head in response. That was fun, until they'd keep talking to me and I'd finally have to ask "What?" and they looked at me confusedly.
3) You know how I just said that if you're not paying attention, German can start to sound like English? Well, it can... but the only words it sounds like are curse words! I swear I heard "dick" and "fuck" a million times today. The first makes sense, as I'm pretty sure "dich" means "you," but I can't explain the other one. Maybe "fuch" means "them" or something? Whatever the logical, linguistic explanation is, it doesn't make hearing those words so often and out of context completely hilarious.
4) Teenage German girls look like they are the molds for popular teenage American girls. I've never seen so many blonde hair, blue eyed girls in my life. But I don't mean model types, but cute, chubby cheeks types. Maybe it's just that I've lived in Spain too long (if you see a blonde, you KNOW they're foreign)... but seeing something other than dark brown hair/dark brown eyes was disorienting and exciting!
5) Brats, pretzels and strudel are German. Now, after typing that, that seems obvious, but I never would have thought about it had I never been here. These three things are everywhere here. At the airport. At the metro stations. At the Christmas Market. And, I mean, they make a kinda weird combo, too. But there they are, proudly proclaiming their Germanness.
6) The Berlin Wall was taken down the year after I was born. THAT is really weird to honk about, especially when you're standing in front of it. I found it interesting how they had poles or bricks or other markers to show where it had been. The one I saw cut through a busy street and a METRO STATION. I read that that station was shut down and the entrances were literally bricked shut because that station stopped on the wrong side of the wall. My whole life I considered Europe to be a classy, sophisticated continent with rich history that gave each country it's own depth. But when I see things like the Berlin Wall and hear stories about Franco from the mid-70s, suddenly Europe doesn't seem like the wise grandfather I always considered it to be.
Chicago
Freshman year my dorm organized a day trip to the German Christmas Markets in Chicago. It was a terrible, near-blizzard sort of day and perfect for staying inside and cuddling with a movie, but I had been waiting for weeks for the outting and wouldn't let the weather get in my way. I left J to fend for herself inside my tiny room for the day and bounded for the bus.
Looking back, the German Christmas Market in Chicago wasn't really anything terribly exciting, but to 19 year old me, it was as close as I'd ever come to a European Christmas, and I loved it! I was mesmerized by the cuocuo clock stand and the man explaining how each of them worked in his thick accent. I was enchanted by the warm scents of candied nuts and cider. I pranced along to the little quartets with their festive singers. It was all just so... foreign and exciting!
As I wound my way through the market for the millionth time, snowflakes dusting my eyelashes, I thought to myself, "How amazing would it be to go to a real German Christmas Market?! I mean, to get in a plane and fly to Berlin or Munich and lose yourself in the REAL THING?!" The image made me giggle to myself, but I gently brushed it aside as a quaint little fantasy.
"Nobody would really fly all the way to Germany just to go to a Christmas market, Chels. That's a loooong way just for a little festive shopping!"
It's moments like the one I'm in right this second that I wish I could go back in time and give younger Chelsea a tiny little message. If I could, I would go back and find her in downtown Chicago and show her our plane ticket and give her a little wink.
Still, as I sit on this plane, I can hardly believe it myself. That a tiny little wish I made one afternoon five years and two weeks ago is coming true all because I stumbled upon a flight with an overnight layover in Berlin! That in a few hours, after stopping first to see the Berlin Wall, I will find myself strolling through one of Germany's largest Christmas Markets, drinking mulled wine or hot cocoa and perusing each stall, taking in the sights, smells and sounds of it all.
Man, 19 year old Chelsea would be THRILLED. But not quite as thrilled as 24 year old Chelsea is right now. ;) Thirty minutes until touchdown! Holy. Crap.
Looking back, the German Christmas Market in Chicago wasn't really anything terribly exciting, but to 19 year old me, it was as close as I'd ever come to a European Christmas, and I loved it! I was mesmerized by the cuocuo clock stand and the man explaining how each of them worked in his thick accent. I was enchanted by the warm scents of candied nuts and cider. I pranced along to the little quartets with their festive singers. It was all just so... foreign and exciting!
As I wound my way through the market for the millionth time, snowflakes dusting my eyelashes, I thought to myself, "How amazing would it be to go to a real German Christmas Market?! I mean, to get in a plane and fly to Berlin or Munich and lose yourself in the REAL THING?!" The image made me giggle to myself, but I gently brushed it aside as a quaint little fantasy.
"Nobody would really fly all the way to Germany just to go to a Christmas market, Chels. That's a loooong way just for a little festive shopping!"
It's moments like the one I'm in right this second that I wish I could go back in time and give younger Chelsea a tiny little message. If I could, I would go back and find her in downtown Chicago and show her our plane ticket and give her a little wink.
Still, as I sit on this plane, I can hardly believe it myself. That a tiny little wish I made one afternoon five years and two weeks ago is coming true all because I stumbled upon a flight with an overnight layover in Berlin! That in a few hours, after stopping first to see the Berlin Wall, I will find myself strolling through one of Germany's largest Christmas Markets, drinking mulled wine or hot cocoa and perusing each stall, taking in the sights, smells and sounds of it all.
Man, 19 year old Chelsea would be THRILLED. But not quite as thrilled as 24 year old Chelsea is right now. ;) Thirty minutes until touchdown! Holy. Crap.
Jitters
Sunday, December 22, 2013
A little known fact about me is that right before a big adventure, I suddenly find myself scared SHITLESS. I try to keep it a secret. I rather keep up my image as the fearless, jet-set type. But I shall forever carry proof of it in the form of a small hole.
...
May 2011. I had less than 24 hours before my flight to Spain, and instead of bouncing around, giddy and excited, I found myself sobbing in the parking lot of a Target. And so I called Sammy. We went on a pre-adventure adventure to take my mind off of the growing pit in my stomach.
She'd suggested maybe going out for Krispy Kremes or going to the mall and walking around, but I needed something a little more intense to deal with my anxiety. "Freaky's?" she asked me, eyebrow raised. It was the first smile I'd felt in days, so I made a sharp turn into their parking lot.
A half hour later, I walked out with a pierced lip Monroe and enough courage to last me until my plane ride the next morning.
...
What really scares me is that I know that I will never be who I was before I left for the adventure. There's almost a little period of mourning that I go through right before leaving. It's like attending a sliver of a second of your own funeral. And it's sad. And scary. Because you don't know who you're going to come back as, and how that will affect your life as you currently know it.
...
I am incredibly content and cozy where I am right now in my life. Incredibly. Which is another thing that adds to my apprehension. Last year when I went on my two week adventure, everything had just fallen apart and I couldn't wait to get AWAY from it all. But this year things are quite the opposite. And so to willingly leave this reality for an unknown one for two weeks takes a little more...oomph.
...
But the second I wake up, ALL of this fear and anxiety will miraculously have disappeared. I will be jumping around squealing like a little girl on Christmas morning.
...
May 2011. I had less than 24 hours before my flight to Spain, and instead of bouncing around, giddy and excited, I found myself sobbing in the parking lot of a Target. And so I called Sammy. We went on a pre-adventure adventure to take my mind off of the growing pit in my stomach.
She'd suggested maybe going out for Krispy Kremes or going to the mall and walking around, but I needed something a little more intense to deal with my anxiety. "Freaky's?" she asked me, eyebrow raised. It was the first smile I'd felt in days, so I made a sharp turn into their parking lot.
A half hour later, I walked out with a pierced lip Monroe and enough courage to last me until my plane ride the next morning.
...
What really scares me is that I know that I will never be who I was before I left for the adventure. There's almost a little period of mourning that I go through right before leaving. It's like attending a sliver of a second of your own funeral. And it's sad. And scary. Because you don't know who you're going to come back as, and how that will affect your life as you currently know it.
...
I am incredibly content and cozy where I am right now in my life. Incredibly. Which is another thing that adds to my apprehension. Last year when I went on my two week adventure, everything had just fallen apart and I couldn't wait to get AWAY from it all. But this year things are quite the opposite. And so to willingly leave this reality for an unknown one for two weeks takes a little more...oomph.
...
But the second I wake up, ALL of this fear and anxiety will miraculously have disappeared. I will be jumping around squealing like a little girl on Christmas morning.
Text
Saturday, December 14, 2013
As hour five in a car with three American girls and one Spanish guy crept by, I wanted to open the door and just bail, taking my chances that another car on the highway could run me over and squish me dead.
The girls hadn't shut up for two seconds the whole trip, and from what I could gather, they were idiots. Absolute. Idiots. And the guy. He had an accent that was so Southern and thick that I could barely make out two words, which made me feel like the most fraudulent Spanish major in the world. I was trapped in my own small version of hell, and was beginning to get carsick on top of it all.
"How the FUCK am I going to survive an entire month living and working with these pathetic people if I can't even take five hours in a car with them?!" I texted my friend, seriously hostile and, now, nauseous.
I clutched my phone for dear life and unlocked the screen about a million times, waiting for his response. My question, though clearly lacking in maturity, was a serious one. And I hoped to God my Whatsapp would quickly convert itself into a fountain of digital wisdom... otherwise, this threatened to be one of the worst months of my young adult life.
When my phone vibrated and the little green symbol appeared in the upper left corner, I got so excited I accidentally almost showed human emotion and was invited to join in on the IQ-lowering conversation the girls were now having about some inane culture shock commiseration. His response was only a sentence or three, but I was not left disappointed. Not at all.
"Be so busy doing your own thing and being 100% yourself that you forget to give two shits about what anyone else thinks about it. See it as a 30 day adventure; a game. Have fun with it."
I grinned a sly grin, the nauseous anxiety suddenly evaporated, and wrote back, "CHALLENGE ACCEPTED."
And that's how what I'd dreaded would be one of the worst months of my existence turned into one of the very best months I've ever had.
From that moment on, it wasn't about pleasing anyone nor judging anyone. It was about being authentically me - and not holding back one damn bit. I sang the narwhal song at the top of my lungs randomly. I threw my kids a pizza party one night and bought them Popsicles. I let my kids take 30 minute naps in class when they successfully created a valid argument for it. I taught half a class in my bikini. I made Harlem Shake videos with them at 2am and helped them sneak out of their rooms when the mean lady was on night watch. I taught my kids the "Can't Hug Every Cat" song for a camp-wide performance.
Basically, I made things as weird as I possibly could, and the kids LOVED it (and, quite by accident, learned a lot in the process). The other American girls, of course, thought I was bat-shit crazy, and they were probably right. But those girls aren't getting calls from their campers four months later begging for their address so they can send them Christmas presents and visit them on the other side of the country soon.
In those thirty days I learned things about myself and my potential that amazed me. For the first time, I was being 100% true to myself. And for the first time, I felt 100% adored and valued – all for just being vibrant, unique little me.
When I got back to Madrid, this glow continued for a month or two, but fearing it might fade, I seriously considered getting a tattoo to mark how important the experience had been for me and to remind me of what I was capable of. I never got it, and as feared, the camp high began to fade.
I've been conscious of this progressive fading for the past month and a half, but it wasn't until this week that I actually forgot what it even felt like and promptly crawled into a hole of blahness. I resigned myself to feeling victimized and hopeless. I resorted to incessant complaining and refusing to take any responsibility in the matter.
"I'm surrounded by idiotic Americans and inept teachers. I feel like I'm considered no more intelligent than a circus monkey, doing pointless tasks just to get me out of the way. What a waste of my abilities. What a waste of my time. Why can't every job be like my Summer Camp job? What if that was just a once-in-a-lifetime flash? Maybe THIS is what life really is."
Funks are normal, but when this dismal view didn't clear up a few days after its onset, I knew there was only one thing that could help. I texted my friend asking for a refresher of what he'd told me that day during the interminable car ride.
The response was immediate, and even pithier than the original, but just as perspective altering. "Do your thing and don't worry about anyone else. We both know what you're capable of."
That sly grin from before snuck back on my face and I had to laugh at myself for thinking this situation was so unsalvageable. I'd completely forgotten about how I'd felt in the car on my way to camp! That experience wasn't a unique, magical one that could never be repeated. No, it was a conscious shift in perspective that set everything in motion and made the month what it was. All it took was a weekly dose of playful "fuck it" when I got weird stares from those who just didn't understand.
I only have one week of school left before winter break, so this bit of wisdom will have to settle itself in my back pocket and perhaps peek out occasionally as I make plans for exactly where I'll travel and what I'll do for my two week vacation. But come January 7th, it will be my best buddy. It will come with me to school everyday, just like my tiny pink stuffed animal, Mrs. Hippo did my whole 3rd grade year (I've always been strange).
This past week before that text everything felt so dark and I felt so small. So to have awoken from that place into the life I currently have was like opening up the blinds, thinking you'll see you're in a rundown inner city motel, but instead realizing you are in the Maldives in a little guest house on a sparkling spring mid-morning.
Since feeling the sunkissed again, I've asked myself what exactly went south to make everything I'd worked for fade, and the answer was terribly obvious. The fading began the week I stopped writing gratitudes. Maybe that's what I'll make my New Year's Resolution: to always take time out of every day or two to listen to music and write the little things that made me smile during the day. It changes everything. It changes the way you think.
When you live in another language, you get really great at describing things, because often you don't know the specific word you're looking for, so you have to get creative so the other person can understand you. Imagine not knowing the word for "key" and "forget." Now imagine you've left your keys at home and need to tell your roommate this. You can't say, "I forgot my keys." Instead, you write, "I am unable open the door as the device that unlocks it is in my room!" Sure, it's a little awkward, but they get your meaning and let you in!
It works the same way with keeping a physical running list of gratitudes. You begin to go about your day LOOKING for things that you can add to your notebook later. A simple cup of coffee becomes steamy, cozy and reassuring as you begin to play with words for the entry you'll write about it. A glance from somebody important to you becomes a suspended moment in your day in which you felt inexplicably privy to a fanciful secret only the two of you share. And when you get really good at it, even annoying or seemingly negative things begin to expose their hidden silver lining to you...
Right now? Right now I'm grateful that my stay in the dark hole only lasted for four days. I'm grateful I have a friend who is patient with me and supportive of me and knows just what to say when I most need it. I'm grateful for the one teacher I work with who truly values me and gives me big Spanish kisses every week, thanking me for being such a good teacher to her students. I'm grateful for my home life and how my roommates almost even feel like family. I'm grateful for being financially responsible for the first time since when I used to hoard money from babysitting. I'm grateful for the moments when I feel like my fingers are the story tellers and I go to reread what they've just written and don't remember writing a word of it. I'm grateful for my family and friends in the US who still talk to me all of the time despite the fact I haven't been home in almost a year and a half. And I'm ever so grateful for the sprinkles of top of it all on the other side of the towers that push me to continue growing and make me so happy.
The girls hadn't shut up for two seconds the whole trip, and from what I could gather, they were idiots. Absolute. Idiots. And the guy. He had an accent that was so Southern and thick that I could barely make out two words, which made me feel like the most fraudulent Spanish major in the world. I was trapped in my own small version of hell, and was beginning to get carsick on top of it all.
"How the FUCK am I going to survive an entire month living and working with these pathetic people if I can't even take five hours in a car with them?!" I texted my friend, seriously hostile and, now, nauseous.
I clutched my phone for dear life and unlocked the screen about a million times, waiting for his response. My question, though clearly lacking in maturity, was a serious one. And I hoped to God my Whatsapp would quickly convert itself into a fountain of digital wisdom... otherwise, this threatened to be one of the worst months of my young adult life.
When my phone vibrated and the little green symbol appeared in the upper left corner, I got so excited I accidentally almost showed human emotion and was invited to join in on the IQ-lowering conversation the girls were now having about some inane culture shock commiseration. His response was only a sentence or three, but I was not left disappointed. Not at all.
"Be so busy doing your own thing and being 100% yourself that you forget to give two shits about what anyone else thinks about it. See it as a 30 day adventure; a game. Have fun with it."
I grinned a sly grin, the nauseous anxiety suddenly evaporated, and wrote back, "CHALLENGE ACCEPTED."
And that's how what I'd dreaded would be one of the worst months of my existence turned into one of the very best months I've ever had.
From that moment on, it wasn't about pleasing anyone nor judging anyone. It was about being authentically me - and not holding back one damn bit. I sang the narwhal song at the top of my lungs randomly. I threw my kids a pizza party one night and bought them Popsicles. I let my kids take 30 minute naps in class when they successfully created a valid argument for it. I taught half a class in my bikini. I made Harlem Shake videos with them at 2am and helped them sneak out of their rooms when the mean lady was on night watch. I taught my kids the "Can't Hug Every Cat" song for a camp-wide performance.
Basically, I made things as weird as I possibly could, and the kids LOVED it (and, quite by accident, learned a lot in the process). The other American girls, of course, thought I was bat-shit crazy, and they were probably right. But those girls aren't getting calls from their campers four months later begging for their address so they can send them Christmas presents and visit them on the other side of the country soon.
In those thirty days I learned things about myself and my potential that amazed me. For the first time, I was being 100% true to myself. And for the first time, I felt 100% adored and valued – all for just being vibrant, unique little me.
When I got back to Madrid, this glow continued for a month or two, but fearing it might fade, I seriously considered getting a tattoo to mark how important the experience had been for me and to remind me of what I was capable of. I never got it, and as feared, the camp high began to fade.
I've been conscious of this progressive fading for the past month and a half, but it wasn't until this week that I actually forgot what it even felt like and promptly crawled into a hole of blahness. I resigned myself to feeling victimized and hopeless. I resorted to incessant complaining and refusing to take any responsibility in the matter.
"I'm surrounded by idiotic Americans and inept teachers. I feel like I'm considered no more intelligent than a circus monkey, doing pointless tasks just to get me out of the way. What a waste of my abilities. What a waste of my time. Why can't every job be like my Summer Camp job? What if that was just a once-in-a-lifetime flash? Maybe THIS is what life really is."
Funks are normal, but when this dismal view didn't clear up a few days after its onset, I knew there was only one thing that could help. I texted my friend asking for a refresher of what he'd told me that day during the interminable car ride.
The response was immediate, and even pithier than the original, but just as perspective altering. "Do your thing and don't worry about anyone else. We both know what you're capable of."
That sly grin from before snuck back on my face and I had to laugh at myself for thinking this situation was so unsalvageable. I'd completely forgotten about how I'd felt in the car on my way to camp! That experience wasn't a unique, magical one that could never be repeated. No, it was a conscious shift in perspective that set everything in motion and made the month what it was. All it took was a weekly dose of playful "fuck it" when I got weird stares from those who just didn't understand.
I only have one week of school left before winter break, so this bit of wisdom will have to settle itself in my back pocket and perhaps peek out occasionally as I make plans for exactly where I'll travel and what I'll do for my two week vacation. But come January 7th, it will be my best buddy. It will come with me to school everyday, just like my tiny pink stuffed animal, Mrs. Hippo did my whole 3rd grade year (I've always been strange).
This past week before that text everything felt so dark and I felt so small. So to have awoken from that place into the life I currently have was like opening up the blinds, thinking you'll see you're in a rundown inner city motel, but instead realizing you are in the Maldives in a little guest house on a sparkling spring mid-morning.
Since feeling the sunkissed again, I've asked myself what exactly went south to make everything I'd worked for fade, and the answer was terribly obvious. The fading began the week I stopped writing gratitudes. Maybe that's what I'll make my New Year's Resolution: to always take time out of every day or two to listen to music and write the little things that made me smile during the day. It changes everything. It changes the way you think.
When you live in another language, you get really great at describing things, because often you don't know the specific word you're looking for, so you have to get creative so the other person can understand you. Imagine not knowing the word for "key" and "forget." Now imagine you've left your keys at home and need to tell your roommate this. You can't say, "I forgot my keys." Instead, you write, "I am unable open the door as the device that unlocks it is in my room!" Sure, it's a little awkward, but they get your meaning and let you in!
It works the same way with keeping a physical running list of gratitudes. You begin to go about your day LOOKING for things that you can add to your notebook later. A simple cup of coffee becomes steamy, cozy and reassuring as you begin to play with words for the entry you'll write about it. A glance from somebody important to you becomes a suspended moment in your day in which you felt inexplicably privy to a fanciful secret only the two of you share. And when you get really good at it, even annoying or seemingly negative things begin to expose their hidden silver lining to you...
Right now? Right now I'm grateful that my stay in the dark hole only lasted for four days. I'm grateful I have a friend who is patient with me and supportive of me and knows just what to say when I most need it. I'm grateful for the one teacher I work with who truly values me and gives me big Spanish kisses every week, thanking me for being such a good teacher to her students. I'm grateful for my home life and how my roommates almost even feel like family. I'm grateful for being financially responsible for the first time since when I used to hoard money from babysitting. I'm grateful for the moments when I feel like my fingers are the story tellers and I go to reread what they've just written and don't remember writing a word of it. I'm grateful for my family and friends in the US who still talk to me all of the time despite the fact I haven't been home in almost a year and a half. And I'm ever so grateful for the sprinkles of top of it all on the other side of the towers that push me to continue growing and make me so happy.
Huelgas
Thursday, November 7, 2013
There's something about Spain that makes me giggle. A mischievous little I-wish-I-could-be-in-cahoots-with-you giggle. And that something is Spain's general "¡Qué te den por culo!"* attitude. It's an attitude you can see in school children, in customer service, in the government... Everywhere! But Spaniards especially excel at expressing this when it comes to strikes. Spanish strikes are nothing like American strikes for two big reasons:
1) Spain gets off on their strikes. The glimmer in the eyes of those on strike is like the glimmer of a teenager who has just gotten away with blaming something on their little sibling. Sure, leading up to strike day those on strike seem incredibly passionate about the injustices behind it all, but come strike day, you realized the passion you saw in them wasn't so much about the injustice as it was passionate excitement for a day off. They can sleep in, meet friends for a beer and then head over to the rally at night I'd they feel like causing a little chaos. It's like a day (or more) of relaxation -- in the noble name of justice and solidarity and where do you wanna go for tapas later, since we have the day off?! Yay!
2) Strikes are frequent. I don't mean to say that the same group goes on strike often, but rather that bunches of groups go on strike at different times, often very close together on the calendar. For example: Two weeks ago there was an "education" strike. This meant teachers and students did not attend school. Not really sure the reason for the strike, but I am sure the students and teachers loved the random Thursday off. Then last week the train system decided to go on strike and significantly reduce train service for a few days. Again, no idea the reason for the strike, but the train conductors sure looked happier. And finally, this week. This week, the sanitation department decided, "eff it" and went on strike. Real world result? Every public trash can is more than overfilling and the streets and sidewalks are COVERED in trash. Like, it looks like the aftermath of a very festive parade that had floats slinging biomass into the crowds. It's impressive.
To those not on strike, it seems to royally piss off every single person EXCEPT for those who the strike was meant to stick it to. But not me. I find them amusing. No way you could get every garbage collector in a large US city to just say, "You can eff yourself!" and just not go to work for a few days. Those crazies would be fired and replaced immediately. But not in Spain. Worst that happens is you lose 1.5X your salary per strike day and get a cool t-shirt to prove your BAMF status at the nightly rally.
I can't help but wonder if these little displays really do succeed in changing workplace conditions and political practices. What I do know, though, is that these strikes definitely succeed in serving as perfect examples of the Spanish attitude in practice.
*"Oh go fuck yourself."
1) Spain gets off on their strikes. The glimmer in the eyes of those on strike is like the glimmer of a teenager who has just gotten away with blaming something on their little sibling. Sure, leading up to strike day those on strike seem incredibly passionate about the injustices behind it all, but come strike day, you realized the passion you saw in them wasn't so much about the injustice as it was passionate excitement for a day off. They can sleep in, meet friends for a beer and then head over to the rally at night I'd they feel like causing a little chaos. It's like a day (or more) of relaxation -- in the noble name of justice and solidarity and where do you wanna go for tapas later, since we have the day off?! Yay!
2) Strikes are frequent. I don't mean to say that the same group goes on strike often, but rather that bunches of groups go on strike at different times, often very close together on the calendar. For example: Two weeks ago there was an "education" strike. This meant teachers and students did not attend school. Not really sure the reason for the strike, but I am sure the students and teachers loved the random Thursday off. Then last week the train system decided to go on strike and significantly reduce train service for a few days. Again, no idea the reason for the strike, but the train conductors sure looked happier. And finally, this week. This week, the sanitation department decided, "eff it" and went on strike. Real world result? Every public trash can is more than overfilling and the streets and sidewalks are COVERED in trash. Like, it looks like the aftermath of a very festive parade that had floats slinging biomass into the crowds. It's impressive.
To those not on strike, it seems to royally piss off every single person EXCEPT for those who the strike was meant to stick it to. But not me. I find them amusing. No way you could get every garbage collector in a large US city to just say, "You can eff yourself!" and just not go to work for a few days. Those crazies would be fired and replaced immediately. But not in Spain. Worst that happens is you lose 1.5X your salary per strike day and get a cool t-shirt to prove your BAMF status at the nightly rally.
I can't help but wonder if these little displays really do succeed in changing workplace conditions and political practices. What I do know, though, is that these strikes definitely succeed in serving as perfect examples of the Spanish attitude in practice.
*"Oh go fuck yourself."
Meta
Little Writer pulled on my mint sweatpants' leg, warmed up my tea and broke out a half eaten bag of Oreos with a side of cream cheese. She turned on my favorite song and put me in my favorite writing chair in my apartment. And she told me to surrender to her, please. She had some things to say:
This is going to be something I haven't let myself do in a long while. This. This is going to be a free write. I will type nonstop and I will put it on my blog. This used to be how I wrote every single blog post, but then things got a little complicated inside my mind and I stopped. But today? Today I need to write like I used to. The way I wrote when it used to be just for myself. When I didn't care what other people thought. When I forgot other people even read it. The reason I used to write used to be simply a mode of meditation which I used daily to sort out my thoughts and experiences.
I miss that.
I've started to put great pressure on my writing. At first I thought this was unfair. Now I think this is an exciting challenge. I've always considered myself a writer, but I've never pushed it until these past two months. And by pushing it, I am gaining even more pride and confidence in myself and my words. I am starting to see myself for the first time as a true artist. And I adore it.
But for these few moments, there is no pressure. There is just pure truth. Just me. No fanciful words, no thesaurus, no editing, no revising, no thinking. Just the words as they spill out of my fingers. And the freedom in that is... I feel like I can breathe again! Freely. Unrestricted. Just breathe. Just write. Honestly. Authentically. Me.
The three people I spend the most time around and have chosen to surround myself with are all writers. This is amazing. This is intimidating. Suddenly there are finally others with my gift. Suddenly I'm not the unique one just because of this gift. I try not to compare myself. Ha. I was thinking in the shower about it today. What sets me apart? I know it's a sorely unfair question, but I stood under the hot water and asked it. And immediately the answer came flowing out of the shower head and whispered itself into my ear.
What sets me apart from the three amazing people I'm so grateful to be surrounded by in this little moment of my vast life... Is that I have no ego when it comes to my words. I don't use my writing to prove anything or gain recognition. Not my real writing. My real writing is always an intimate conversation between me and my soul. I can do the artistic writing too, but I see that more as an elegant party trick. What makes my writing my writing is that it is humble, curious and playful.
My writer friends plan. They revise. They edit. They take their craft very seriously. And this is what made me begin to feel a little like a fraud.
Okay, step back. I, like them, have the officially registered little name tag that says, "Hello, my name is WRITER." I know that. But while they're off being adults about their craft, I'm off playing in a big ball pit of letters and words, and having a splendid little time. Tra la la... While they're researching and marking up drafts, I'm dancing in front of the mirror to loud music and having a conversation with an inanimate object simply because it talked to me first.
Speaking of conversations with inanimate objects, I've successfully (and most accidentally) gotten David to start greeting them, as well. It started out as a joke (and I guess it still is), but I catch him doing it all the time now. The normal reaction to seeing me talking to a teapot is to tell me I'm nuts and ignore it. Not David. All my quirks that delight me but weird others out intrigue and amuse him.
The other day I did a full out rendition to a song from "Annie" - dancing, singing, prancing... the whole enchilada - just because I could. And in true David form, instead of looking at me like a crazy, he scrambled to get the music playing on YouTube and joined in. And after we were done, we continued what we'd been doing as if there had never been a dazzling three minute musical in our apartment. And tonight? Tonight he made tea and we tried to see how many languages we could read "Our Father" in with a semi-convincing accident and the tone of an old, fear-inspiring priest. (Answer? Seven.)
In addition to the silly weird random stuff we do together, David is always down for a philosophical conversation in Spanish or is all ears when I have something bothering me and don't know what to make of it. My favorite is when I tell him about people who do something to upset me and his response is always, "They only acted like that because they're envious of you." Hee hee.
Yep, I could not have gotten a better roommate from the Roommate Gods than him to make me feel like the shit about who I am. Perfect timing.
But I digress...
The exact reason Little Writer asked for a night in with me tonight was to remind me that out of all the people on the planet, there was a very specific reason she'd chosen ME to express herself through. What had stood out about me was that I didn't fit any traditional or societally-constructed molds. Not as an individual. Not as a writer. Partly, she observed, because I generally had no desire to, but other times because, even when I realllly wanted to, I simply had no goddammed clue HOW to.
The last time she made her presence known she wanted to (most unnecessarily) prove herself to me for once and for all. This time, it's the other way around. This time she's come to tell me that I don't need to prove myself to her, either. All the quirks about me as a writer aren't signs of being a fraud; they're exactly why she chose me to be her vessel.
I realize I harp on it a lot. That's why I stopped writing on my blog. It was becoming so redundant. I felt like a broken record. But this whole falling in love with being so different is some tricky business some days. With somethings, it's easy. I am a very unique teacher. I love that. I have very unique perspective on life's purpose. I love that. But I seem to need to work through each unique quality about myself and determine if being different is a weakness or strength before I can embrace it and be confident in it. My constant desire to probe deeper into who I am and to work hard to grow into the exact person I want to be isn't something shameful. In fact, it's kinda even brave.
It's easy (cowardly, even, if you want my truthful opinion) to look at yourself and your life and say, "It is what it is." It takes some serious balls instead to say, "It is what I make it." And that's precisely what all of this writing I do for myself is an intimate meditation on.
Before leaving, Little Writer puts it to me in an analogy I can truly understand: My self reflection writing is to what West Coast Swing is for me as my storytelling writing is to what Tango is for me. In WCS, I know all of the moves, all of the subtle leads, the community. Dancing it makes me feel suspended in another dimension, partly because I know so well how to express myself freely. Then there's Tango. I'm new to it, but I'm mesmerized by it and feel like I'm in another dimension, too, those times when I really connect with a partner and dance a song well. It's not as frequent, and I have to try more, but I'm a dancer and I catch on quickly. But by no means do I compare myself to others or feel myself to be a fraud. Quite the opposite. I feel like a badass for leaving my comfort zone and catching on so quickly!
I'll leave off there... Or, actually...
Just now a crazy thought hit me. Maybe someday I'll find people like me and I'll find out that there were teachers who were meant for "my kind" to help us to understand our uniquenesses and blossom into a different, "meta" breed. And when I find them they will marvel at all I have discovered and taught myself on my own, without their guidance. And they will be amazed by my tenacity and faith I carefully balanced on when I needed to stay afloat. And I won't feel like the weird one or the fraud or the insecure crazy or any of those things. I'll finally see my beauty in such a way that I'll never need to question it again. You know, very Harry Potter forgot-to-send-you-your-acceptance-letter-to-Hogwarts style. ;)
Wait... that gives me an idea for the story I've been trying to work on...
This is going to be something I haven't let myself do in a long while. This. This is going to be a free write. I will type nonstop and I will put it on my blog. This used to be how I wrote every single blog post, but then things got a little complicated inside my mind and I stopped. But today? Today I need to write like I used to. The way I wrote when it used to be just for myself. When I didn't care what other people thought. When I forgot other people even read it. The reason I used to write used to be simply a mode of meditation which I used daily to sort out my thoughts and experiences.
I miss that.
I've started to put great pressure on my writing. At first I thought this was unfair. Now I think this is an exciting challenge. I've always considered myself a writer, but I've never pushed it until these past two months. And by pushing it, I am gaining even more pride and confidence in myself and my words. I am starting to see myself for the first time as a true artist. And I adore it.
But for these few moments, there is no pressure. There is just pure truth. Just me. No fanciful words, no thesaurus, no editing, no revising, no thinking. Just the words as they spill out of my fingers. And the freedom in that is... I feel like I can breathe again! Freely. Unrestricted. Just breathe. Just write. Honestly. Authentically. Me.
The three people I spend the most time around and have chosen to surround myself with are all writers. This is amazing. This is intimidating. Suddenly there are finally others with my gift. Suddenly I'm not the unique one just because of this gift. I try not to compare myself. Ha. I was thinking in the shower about it today. What sets me apart? I know it's a sorely unfair question, but I stood under the hot water and asked it. And immediately the answer came flowing out of the shower head and whispered itself into my ear.
What sets me apart from the three amazing people I'm so grateful to be surrounded by in this little moment of my vast life... Is that I have no ego when it comes to my words. I don't use my writing to prove anything or gain recognition. Not my real writing. My real writing is always an intimate conversation between me and my soul. I can do the artistic writing too, but I see that more as an elegant party trick. What makes my writing my writing is that it is humble, curious and playful.
My writer friends plan. They revise. They edit. They take their craft very seriously. And this is what made me begin to feel a little like a fraud.
Okay, step back. I, like them, have the officially registered little name tag that says, "Hello, my name is WRITER." I know that. But while they're off being adults about their craft, I'm off playing in a big ball pit of letters and words, and having a splendid little time. Tra la la... While they're researching and marking up drafts, I'm dancing in front of the mirror to loud music and having a conversation with an inanimate object simply because it talked to me first.
Speaking of conversations with inanimate objects, I've successfully (and most accidentally) gotten David to start greeting them, as well. It started out as a joke (and I guess it still is), but I catch him doing it all the time now. The normal reaction to seeing me talking to a teapot is to tell me I'm nuts and ignore it. Not David. All my quirks that delight me but weird others out intrigue and amuse him.
The other day I did a full out rendition to a song from "Annie" - dancing, singing, prancing... the whole enchilada - just because I could. And in true David form, instead of looking at me like a crazy, he scrambled to get the music playing on YouTube and joined in. And after we were done, we continued what we'd been doing as if there had never been a dazzling three minute musical in our apartment. And tonight? Tonight he made tea and we tried to see how many languages we could read "Our Father" in with a semi-convincing accident and the tone of an old, fear-inspiring priest. (Answer? Seven.)
In addition to the silly weird random stuff we do together, David is always down for a philosophical conversation in Spanish or is all ears when I have something bothering me and don't know what to make of it. My favorite is when I tell him about people who do something to upset me and his response is always, "They only acted like that because they're envious of you." Hee hee.
Yep, I could not have gotten a better roommate from the Roommate Gods than him to make me feel like the shit about who I am. Perfect timing.
But I digress...
The exact reason Little Writer asked for a night in with me tonight was to remind me that out of all the people on the planet, there was a very specific reason she'd chosen ME to express herself through. What had stood out about me was that I didn't fit any traditional or societally-constructed molds. Not as an individual. Not as a writer. Partly, she observed, because I generally had no desire to, but other times because, even when I realllly wanted to, I simply had no goddammed clue HOW to.
The last time she made her presence known she wanted to (most unnecessarily) prove herself to me for once and for all. This time, it's the other way around. This time she's come to tell me that I don't need to prove myself to her, either. All the quirks about me as a writer aren't signs of being a fraud; they're exactly why she chose me to be her vessel.
I realize I harp on it a lot. That's why I stopped writing on my blog. It was becoming so redundant. I felt like a broken record. But this whole falling in love with being so different is some tricky business some days. With somethings, it's easy. I am a very unique teacher. I love that. I have very unique perspective on life's purpose. I love that. But I seem to need to work through each unique quality about myself and determine if being different is a weakness or strength before I can embrace it and be confident in it. My constant desire to probe deeper into who I am and to work hard to grow into the exact person I want to be isn't something shameful. In fact, it's kinda even brave.
It's easy (cowardly, even, if you want my truthful opinion) to look at yourself and your life and say, "It is what it is." It takes some serious balls instead to say, "It is what I make it." And that's precisely what all of this writing I do for myself is an intimate meditation on.
Before leaving, Little Writer puts it to me in an analogy I can truly understand: My self reflection writing is to what West Coast Swing is for me as my storytelling writing is to what Tango is for me. In WCS, I know all of the moves, all of the subtle leads, the community. Dancing it makes me feel suspended in another dimension, partly because I know so well how to express myself freely. Then there's Tango. I'm new to it, but I'm mesmerized by it and feel like I'm in another dimension, too, those times when I really connect with a partner and dance a song well. It's not as frequent, and I have to try more, but I'm a dancer and I catch on quickly. But by no means do I compare myself to others or feel myself to be a fraud. Quite the opposite. I feel like a badass for leaving my comfort zone and catching on so quickly!
I'll leave off there... Or, actually...
Just now a crazy thought hit me. Maybe someday I'll find people like me and I'll find out that there were teachers who were meant for "my kind" to help us to understand our uniquenesses and blossom into a different, "meta" breed. And when I find them they will marvel at all I have discovered and taught myself on my own, without their guidance. And they will be amazed by my tenacity and faith I carefully balanced on when I needed to stay afloat. And I won't feel like the weird one or the fraud or the insecure crazy or any of those things. I'll finally see my beauty in such a way that I'll never need to question it again. You know, very Harry Potter forgot-to-send-you-your-acceptance-letter-to-Hogwarts style. ;)
Wait... that gives me an idea for the story I've been trying to work on...
Sunday Morning
Sunday, October 20, 2013
Plaza Mayor stands proud in the early autumn morning and gives a formal salutation to each of the bustling map holders that scampers across its cobblestones. But none of them seem to hear it. Instead, they concern themselves with their guidebooks, stiff poses for the camera and trying to figure out which archway they entered and which one they're supposed to exit in order to... see... the next sight on their schedule without losing time and accidentally straying from their direct route.
I look around at all the map holders as I walk slowly, deliberately. A crumb from my chocolate croissant is still on my lower lip. I lick it off and take a sip of my steaming chai that's been doing a better job than mittens at warming my hands for the past few blocks. I glance up at the pastel fresco and notice how it glimmers slightly.
"Good morning to you, too, Plaza!" I whisper with a sneaky grin on my face. The Plaza says nothing in return, but I feel its walls embrace me ever so slightly. I continue on until I reach the archway leading to Calle Toledo when my feet suddenly stop. Failing to tell the rest of my body of their plan, my torso sways and my arm not holding my chai throws itself in a full circle before my body regains its balance.
There, through that archway, is a scene so picturesque that it would put Monet and Sargent to shame.
Chorizo scented smoke gracefully swirls around me, enveloping me in a white cloud of Spanish charcuterie tradition. A pudgy fellow with a dark moustache (and a hat and suspenders to match!) plays a dusty accordion from which flows the richest, most authentically European soundtrack imaginable. The sun peeks through the clouds in that moment, illuminating all of the terrace cafes that line the street.
People in light sweaters fill the terrace chairs and leisurely sip their coffee while chatting causally and warmly with their favorite companion or two. Their Sunday Morning companion(s). See, because Sunday mornings have a coziness and authenticity about them. On Sunday mornings, society does not ask you to be anybody but your wonderful-lazy-messy-bun self. And so Sunday Morning companions are intrinsically the crème de la crème of your social circle. The people who love you for you. The people who you would get out of bed (or not) on a Sunday morning for...
A change in the accordionist's song brings me out of my daydream and I smile as I take in the scene one last time. I whisper to myself, then.
"This is real. This is your life. Sometimes I don't even remember how you got us here, but thank you. Seriously."
And I glance behind myself and give a goodbye nod to the Plaza before beginning down the steps, eager to get to the Rastro and browse the antique shops for typewriters.
I look around at all the map holders as I walk slowly, deliberately. A crumb from my chocolate croissant is still on my lower lip. I lick it off and take a sip of my steaming chai that's been doing a better job than mittens at warming my hands for the past few blocks. I glance up at the pastel fresco and notice how it glimmers slightly.
"Good morning to you, too, Plaza!" I whisper with a sneaky grin on my face. The Plaza says nothing in return, but I feel its walls embrace me ever so slightly. I continue on until I reach the archway leading to Calle Toledo when my feet suddenly stop. Failing to tell the rest of my body of their plan, my torso sways and my arm not holding my chai throws itself in a full circle before my body regains its balance.
There, through that archway, is a scene so picturesque that it would put Monet and Sargent to shame.
Chorizo scented smoke gracefully swirls around me, enveloping me in a white cloud of Spanish charcuterie tradition. A pudgy fellow with a dark moustache (and a hat and suspenders to match!) plays a dusty accordion from which flows the richest, most authentically European soundtrack imaginable. The sun peeks through the clouds in that moment, illuminating all of the terrace cafes that line the street.
People in light sweaters fill the terrace chairs and leisurely sip their coffee while chatting causally and warmly with their favorite companion or two. Their Sunday Morning companion(s). See, because Sunday mornings have a coziness and authenticity about them. On Sunday mornings, society does not ask you to be anybody but your wonderful-lazy-messy-bun self. And so Sunday Morning companions are intrinsically the crème de la crème of your social circle. The people who love you for you. The people who you would get out of bed (or not) on a Sunday morning for...
A change in the accordionist's song brings me out of my daydream and I smile as I take in the scene one last time. I whisper to myself, then.
"This is real. This is your life. Sometimes I don't even remember how you got us here, but thank you. Seriously."
And I glance behind myself and give a goodbye nod to the Plaza before beginning down the steps, eager to get to the Rastro and browse the antique shops for typewriters.
Schedule
Monday, October 7, 2013
The next year of my life depended on the paper about to be passed to me. Change had been stalking me for the previous 24 hours, screeching threats at me in a hoarse voice, warning me that happiness only existed in sunshine and that I ought to prepare myself for my crash landing back into reality. Fall hasn't favored me in nearly a decade, Change reminded me, and to think this autumn would be any different was to be fooling myself.
But a little sentence from above suddenly stripped Change of his menacing charade:
"The universe is conspiring in your favor."
In that split second, the room froze and the epiphany wiped away all my powerlessness and fear... It wasn't the paper that would determine my happiness; it was me.
Change, now looking as innocent as a porcelain doll, grinned and whispered in my ear, "You passed." My director handed me the paper and I turned it over slowly. When I saw my schedule, filled with 4's, 5's and 6's, I let out a small gasp. Teaching 4th, 5th and mostly 6th graders had been my dream schedule ever since I'd first stopped to think about it the week after my birthday. And here, six months later, was my dream schedule smiling up at me.
"Thank you!" I squealed at my coordinator, almost hugging him. "Thank you thank you thank you!" He chuckled, confused. I looked up at the ceiling, then, and whispered it once more: "Thank you."
Change winked and Conor waved, but Serendipity just giggled, gently denying responsibility.
My awe melted into an acute awareness of the power of a spirit's mindful happiness and gratitude turned contagious as I walked into my first classroom of the year. The teachers greeted me warmly and the students waved to me, eyes wide with excitement.
But a little sentence from above suddenly stripped Change of his menacing charade:
"The universe is conspiring in your favor."
In that split second, the room froze and the epiphany wiped away all my powerlessness and fear... It wasn't the paper that would determine my happiness; it was me.
Change, now looking as innocent as a porcelain doll, grinned and whispered in my ear, "You passed." My director handed me the paper and I turned it over slowly. When I saw my schedule, filled with 4's, 5's and 6's, I let out a small gasp. Teaching 4th, 5th and mostly 6th graders had been my dream schedule ever since I'd first stopped to think about it the week after my birthday. And here, six months later, was my dream schedule smiling up at me.
"Thank you!" I squealed at my coordinator, almost hugging him. "Thank you thank you thank you!" He chuckled, confused. I looked up at the ceiling, then, and whispered it once more: "Thank you."
Change winked and Conor waved, but Serendipity just giggled, gently denying responsibility.
My awe melted into an acute awareness of the power of a spirit's mindful happiness and gratitude turned contagious as I walked into my first classroom of the year. The teachers greeted me warmly and the students waved to me, eyes wide with excitement.
Fireball
Monday, September 30, 2013
A glowing red fireball slammed into my stomach and lodged itself just below my sternum. The force of the blow threw my heart into the wrong gear and I could hear the desperate revving of the organ in my ear. I tried to breathe, but the fireball made it impossible. My abs clenched further and the room spun on a tilt.
There was no way that was his hat hanging on her door; he wouldn't be back for another whole (interminable) week yet. But her hand HAD just hesitated for a second before she'd touched it...
"No, no... Don't be ridiculous."
When she'd invited me over for pizza and a movie, she'd said she had something to show me. For a brief moment, the idea had entered my mind, but I was sure I was just channeling the last episode of "The Big Bang Theory" I'd watched at 4am that morning. The newest episode, where Penny opens her apartment door to find Leonard standing behind it, there to surprise her a few days early from his long quest.
"That's just cute, clever screenwriting. Shh..."
The fireball still ablaze, I walked slowly into her room and tried to regain my composure before she noticed. We began talking, and just as I could breathe again without reminding myself, her eyes suddenly darted to her doorway. I turned my head to see what had caught her attention and froze immediately, deer-eyed. The fireball entered my bloodstream and began to course through my whole body.
"What. The. Fuck?!" I managed to choke out.
He grinned. That little goddamned adorable grin. "Hi."
"Are you SERIOUS?!" I stammered, still unable to move, still deer-eyed.
His eyes grinned, too, with a glint of smug, self-satisfaction and a glimmer of authentic joy. "Yep."
Weeks and weeks of waiting as patiently as I could, and now that he was in front of me, I was at a complete and utter loss for words. Nobody had ever done anything like this for me before. Nobody had ever gone out of their way to surprise me. All I could do was stare incredulously, giggling and wishing my feet didn't feel stuck to the floor.
Since camp ended, I've spent the past month and a half hanging out with new, amazing friends. Going on adventures around the city. Eating the yummiest food. Writing in the sunshine. Having long philosophical conversations in Spanish. Reading in my PJs in the afternoon. Working relentlessly on a puzzle with music and tea. Living in my incredible apartment. Dancing contemporary at an adorable studio. Exploring my favorite neighborhood. All of this, and what always made me smile the biggest? Seeing that little envelope on my phone and reading those two or three sentences - sometimes adroit, sometimes sweet - every few days.
I had absolutely no plan at the beginning of summer - no apartment, no job, no friends. All I had was me... Plus a heaping helping of undying moxie and sanguinity, too. And that is what has gotten me to where I am. I didn't think it'd be possible to top my last summer in Spain two years ago, but as I write this, two hours until the official end of my summer, I can say this has undoubtedly been the best one of my entire life.
And this... I could fill journals and journals full of ideas and never think of a better way to spend my last day of summer and set the bar nice and high for little Mr. Autumn.
I let out a tiny squeal of delight when my feet finally unstuck themselves, and lost myself in his hug. Happy. So happy.
There was no way that was his hat hanging on her door; he wouldn't be back for another whole (interminable) week yet. But her hand HAD just hesitated for a second before she'd touched it...
"No, no... Don't be ridiculous."
When she'd invited me over for pizza and a movie, she'd said she had something to show me. For a brief moment, the idea had entered my mind, but I was sure I was just channeling the last episode of "The Big Bang Theory" I'd watched at 4am that morning. The newest episode, where Penny opens her apartment door to find Leonard standing behind it, there to surprise her a few days early from his long quest.
"That's just cute, clever screenwriting. Shh..."
The fireball still ablaze, I walked slowly into her room and tried to regain my composure before she noticed. We began talking, and just as I could breathe again without reminding myself, her eyes suddenly darted to her doorway. I turned my head to see what had caught her attention and froze immediately, deer-eyed. The fireball entered my bloodstream and began to course through my whole body.
"What. The. Fuck?!" I managed to choke out.
He grinned. That little goddamned adorable grin. "Hi."
"Are you SERIOUS?!" I stammered, still unable to move, still deer-eyed.
His eyes grinned, too, with a glint of smug, self-satisfaction and a glimmer of authentic joy. "Yep."
Weeks and weeks of waiting as patiently as I could, and now that he was in front of me, I was at a complete and utter loss for words. Nobody had ever done anything like this for me before. Nobody had ever gone out of their way to surprise me. All I could do was stare incredulously, giggling and wishing my feet didn't feel stuck to the floor.
Since camp ended, I've spent the past month and a half hanging out with new, amazing friends. Going on adventures around the city. Eating the yummiest food. Writing in the sunshine. Having long philosophical conversations in Spanish. Reading in my PJs in the afternoon. Working relentlessly on a puzzle with music and tea. Living in my incredible apartment. Dancing contemporary at an adorable studio. Exploring my favorite neighborhood. All of this, and what always made me smile the biggest? Seeing that little envelope on my phone and reading those two or three sentences - sometimes adroit, sometimes sweet - every few days.
I had absolutely no plan at the beginning of summer - no apartment, no job, no friends. All I had was me... Plus a heaping helping of undying moxie and sanguinity, too. And that is what has gotten me to where I am. I didn't think it'd be possible to top my last summer in Spain two years ago, but as I write this, two hours until the official end of my summer, I can say this has undoubtedly been the best one of my entire life.
And this... I could fill journals and journals full of ideas and never think of a better way to spend my last day of summer and set the bar nice and high for little Mr. Autumn.
I let out a tiny squeal of delight when my feet finally unstuck themselves, and lost myself in his hug. Happy. So happy.
"TAK!"
Thursday, September 26, 2013
It's four cups of tea, six crepes and one liter of beer later. Neither of you have showered, and you can smell the rubber from the dance studio floor on your clothes. Your hair is greasy and for a moment his smoke cloud lingers, like a poof of cotton candy. The sunshine jived on the pieces all afternoon to tunes from the 1950's, but the moon doesn't seem to be as interested. Secretly, this pleases the lamp with the giraffe neck and he beams with importance.
The perfume of the countless antique pages from around the world fills the room with spiced, musky wisdom, which you blissfully allow to percolate into you. Concentration's silence is broken with each piece's cardboard sounding "TAK!", causing his lips to curl up and a joyful squeak to spring forth from your own. Fifteen hundred reasons to celebrate. You playfully roll your eyes at his comment, grinning despite yourself.
And at some point, the intense study of greens and browns is paused, and the fields and manes wait patiently to be further unified. He leaves the room physically and you leave the room mentally, reclining in the little bucket chair and putting your feet on the table next to one of their hooves - or is it part of the other's shadow? You slide to unlock, and what others so foolishly call "reality" grabs at you and tries to pull you under.
When you finally free yourself, you close your eyes and take a deep breath of relief to be back home. You couldn't have been gone for that long, yet when you look up, you find him sitting in the corner, eyes carefully masticating the tiniest of details. The graphite is in a tither, performing a spastic yet graceful tribal dance, and you can't tell if he is leading it or it's leading him. For a split second you wonder what all the strokes are crafting, but when you glance at him again, he is staring straight at you and your eyes become a bashful shade of green.
And this is your life now. Your picturesque, surreal life.
When he's finished, you ask him in Spanish if he believes in luck or in energy. With him here is no language barrier; there is no philosophical barrier. When he asks for an example of something lucky, scoffing slightly at the seeming absurdity of such a question, you connect two words with a "TAK!":
"Meeting you."
And his lips curl up.
The perfume of the countless antique pages from around the world fills the room with spiced, musky wisdom, which you blissfully allow to percolate into you. Concentration's silence is broken with each piece's cardboard sounding "TAK!", causing his lips to curl up and a joyful squeak to spring forth from your own. Fifteen hundred reasons to celebrate. You playfully roll your eyes at his comment, grinning despite yourself.
And at some point, the intense study of greens and browns is paused, and the fields and manes wait patiently to be further unified. He leaves the room physically and you leave the room mentally, reclining in the little bucket chair and putting your feet on the table next to one of their hooves - or is it part of the other's shadow? You slide to unlock, and what others so foolishly call "reality" grabs at you and tries to pull you under.
When you finally free yourself, you close your eyes and take a deep breath of relief to be back home. You couldn't have been gone for that long, yet when you look up, you find him sitting in the corner, eyes carefully masticating the tiniest of details. The graphite is in a tither, performing a spastic yet graceful tribal dance, and you can't tell if he is leading it or it's leading him. For a split second you wonder what all the strokes are crafting, but when you glance at him again, he is staring straight at you and your eyes become a bashful shade of green.
And this is your life now. Your picturesque, surreal life.
When he's finished, you ask him in Spanish if he believes in luck or in energy. With him here is no language barrier; there is no philosophical barrier. When he asks for an example of something lucky, scoffing slightly at the seeming absurdity of such a question, you connect two words with a "TAK!":
"Meeting you."
And his lips curl up.
Trust
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
I gave him the link and he sat down and began reading as soon as I left the room. When I returned, the only reaction I heard was his suggestion that I shouldn't write everyday if I wanted to really hone my skills. I sucked in a breath of air and tried to cover the ears of the little writer inside of me, but it was too late. He went on to explain himself and the logic was there, but that initial blow had been all the little writer had heard. And just like that, she packed up her bags and fled, stone-faced.
Whenever I would call upon her for our bonding time to write our blog, she'd refuse. And each time she refused, I was filled with a nauseous guilt so acrid, that I, too, would lose all desire for our once cherished daily rendezvous.
Until his comment, I had been more than content using this little space as uniquely my own, to express whatever my little writer and I so desired. But suddenly it all seemed so self-indulgent and, ultimately, lackluster. So, I started trying to think of ways to make it different... to make it worthy... to make it something somebody like him would take seriously.
True, I'd never read his writing, except in the form of emails and text messages, but I was certain I would never have anything so negative to say about it. This, I would later realize, spoke volumes about me and would have nothing whatsoever to do with the quality of his writing. Unsolicited opinions and advice are something that can only be shared once trust has been properly established, otherwise even the humblest of good-willed comments can come across as outright haughty and be detrimentally internalized.
A week later and still no writing, a serendipitous opportunity presented itself in the form of a semi-private photoshoot for a new magazine geared towards young wanderlust and jet-set women. The two girls there and I began taking about writing and blogs, and it was ultimately brought up that Madrid blogs were really in demand at on the magazine's website. I jumped to tell them that I would love to have mine be one of their promoted blogs, but the little writer inside of me quickly hushed me. "Our blog's not for other people to read. That's obviously been proven. We barely say anything interesting, really."
The little writer's comment stung me just as his had stung her, and I recoiled. I vowed not to write in my blog until I had a plan to make more "appealing." Of course, plenty of ideas came, but with each one came a grey shiver of doubt, and I continued to use my iPad to play spider solitaire and watch The Big Bang Theory, rather than to actually write. Each day the shame grew.
Still unable to face my blog, but knowing that I couldn't stay sane much longer without writing, I purchased a green notebook at a corner store. I decorated it with floral fabric tape, put a picture on the front of a lady from an catalogue from the boutique down the street, and searched Pinterest for hours until I found the perfect quote to write alongside the image. I placed the four markers - pink, green, aqua and black - I had bought next to the notebook and presented it to my little writer as a peace offering.
"The pages within this notebook," I whispered to her, "are for our eyes only. Nobody else shall ever be permitted to look inside unless I've expressly requested your permission beforehand. With these four markers, you are safe to express even the tiniest of thoughts without fear of judgement. As I am your biggest fan, and as I will be this notebook's sole audience, you can count on the reactions to your work being nothing short of awe."
The little writer's nose twitched as she smelled the fresh notebook. Slowly, she peeked her head around the corner and peered at the handmade artwork on the cover and the four virgin markers lined up, begging to be opened and permitted to dance along the college-ruled lines. She looked side to side anxiously, then suddenly made a beeline for the notebook and pens. She struggled a bit to pick them up, as they were bigger than she was, but her determination was evident and she managed to quickly drag everything back to where she'd been sitting.
For the next hour I sat there, listening to tops popping on and off markers, ink scribbling all over the pages and the little writer joyfully humming and giggling to herself as she worked. A soft "thwoop" of the cover closing came just as the light from the setting sun flooded the room. When my eyes adjusted, I looked down and saw the little writer right in front of me. With a cute self-satisfied, yet playful grin on her face, she stood on her tippytoes and streched her arms to hold the notebook up to me.
I giggled at her and gently took it, surprised she was even letting me see what she'd written after how I'd let things get between us the past two weeks. I opened to the first page and began reading.
Moments later when I finished, she was sitting right there on the couch, looking up at me with big eyes. I glanced at her, and then back to the page. My chest rose as I took an audibly deep breath. I looked her right in the eyes then, and with all the sincerity in the world said it gently:
"That was incredible."
Her grin became toothy and she replied, "Yeah, I know. Don't doubt us again, 'kay?"
<3
Whenever I would call upon her for our bonding time to write our blog, she'd refuse. And each time she refused, I was filled with a nauseous guilt so acrid, that I, too, would lose all desire for our once cherished daily rendezvous.
Until his comment, I had been more than content using this little space as uniquely my own, to express whatever my little writer and I so desired. But suddenly it all seemed so self-indulgent and, ultimately, lackluster. So, I started trying to think of ways to make it different... to make it worthy... to make it something somebody like him would take seriously.
True, I'd never read his writing, except in the form of emails and text messages, but I was certain I would never have anything so negative to say about it. This, I would later realize, spoke volumes about me and would have nothing whatsoever to do with the quality of his writing. Unsolicited opinions and advice are something that can only be shared once trust has been properly established, otherwise even the humblest of good-willed comments can come across as outright haughty and be detrimentally internalized.
A week later and still no writing, a serendipitous opportunity presented itself in the form of a semi-private photoshoot for a new magazine geared towards young wanderlust and jet-set women. The two girls there and I began taking about writing and blogs, and it was ultimately brought up that Madrid blogs were really in demand at on the magazine's website. I jumped to tell them that I would love to have mine be one of their promoted blogs, but the little writer inside of me quickly hushed me. "Our blog's not for other people to read. That's obviously been proven. We barely say anything interesting, really."
The little writer's comment stung me just as his had stung her, and I recoiled. I vowed not to write in my blog until I had a plan to make more "appealing." Of course, plenty of ideas came, but with each one came a grey shiver of doubt, and I continued to use my iPad to play spider solitaire and watch The Big Bang Theory, rather than to actually write. Each day the shame grew.
Still unable to face my blog, but knowing that I couldn't stay sane much longer without writing, I purchased a green notebook at a corner store. I decorated it with floral fabric tape, put a picture on the front of a lady from an catalogue from the boutique down the street, and searched Pinterest for hours until I found the perfect quote to write alongside the image. I placed the four markers - pink, green, aqua and black - I had bought next to the notebook and presented it to my little writer as a peace offering.
"The pages within this notebook," I whispered to her, "are for our eyes only. Nobody else shall ever be permitted to look inside unless I've expressly requested your permission beforehand. With these four markers, you are safe to express even the tiniest of thoughts without fear of judgement. As I am your biggest fan, and as I will be this notebook's sole audience, you can count on the reactions to your work being nothing short of awe."
The little writer's nose twitched as she smelled the fresh notebook. Slowly, she peeked her head around the corner and peered at the handmade artwork on the cover and the four virgin markers lined up, begging to be opened and permitted to dance along the college-ruled lines. She looked side to side anxiously, then suddenly made a beeline for the notebook and pens. She struggled a bit to pick them up, as they were bigger than she was, but her determination was evident and she managed to quickly drag everything back to where she'd been sitting.
For the next hour I sat there, listening to tops popping on and off markers, ink scribbling all over the pages and the little writer joyfully humming and giggling to herself as she worked. A soft "thwoop" of the cover closing came just as the light from the setting sun flooded the room. When my eyes adjusted, I looked down and saw the little writer right in front of me. With a cute self-satisfied, yet playful grin on her face, she stood on her tippytoes and streched her arms to hold the notebook up to me.
I giggled at her and gently took it, surprised she was even letting me see what she'd written after how I'd let things get between us the past two weeks. I opened to the first page and began reading.
Moments later when I finished, she was sitting right there on the couch, looking up at me with big eyes. I glanced at her, and then back to the page. My chest rose as I took an audibly deep breath. I looked her right in the eyes then, and with all the sincerity in the world said it gently:
"That was incredible."
Her grin became toothy and she replied, "Yeah, I know. Don't doubt us again, 'kay?"
<3
Ensconced
Friday, September 6, 2013
"I'm going to have a cup of green tea. Do you want one?"
Three and a half honeyed cups later. I'm still at the table, sitting on my foot. He's still reclined on the couch. His knee is raised so that the sketch book he brought into the room sometime after the second cup is safe from his toes.
All those hours in the car driving back and forth from dance class. Piano class. Acting class. All those hours in the car staring out at the stars. All those hours of philosophical conversations with my mom (conversations, she says, no other seven year olds usually have). All those hours had carefully shaped me into the girl sitting with her foot under her, sipping tea.
And is it better to be a bird and work only for food or to be a human being and work only for money? I laugh and respond as I always do.
His gaze fixes on a crack in the table as he ruminates about what I just said, while mine flitters about, incredulous. The abundant sun rays kiss the wooden floor and make my eyes feel as if they are lighter green than usual. We both give a warm salutation to the fan as he turns it on, him mocking me through a smile. And I don't know why he asks my opinions; he's seen half the world and I'm only just beginning. But he does, and I always have an opinion rooted in the tallest of trees with a view.
I'm far from my own country, I'm speaking in another language, I'm bewildered by his earnest perspective. And I haven't felt so at home in years.
Three and a half honeyed cups later. I'm still at the table, sitting on my foot. He's still reclined on the couch. His knee is raised so that the sketch book he brought into the room sometime after the second cup is safe from his toes.
All those hours in the car driving back and forth from dance class. Piano class. Acting class. All those hours in the car staring out at the stars. All those hours of philosophical conversations with my mom (conversations, she says, no other seven year olds usually have). All those hours had carefully shaped me into the girl sitting with her foot under her, sipping tea.
And is it better to be a bird and work only for food or to be a human being and work only for money? I laugh and respond as I always do.
His gaze fixes on a crack in the table as he ruminates about what I just said, while mine flitters about, incredulous. The abundant sun rays kiss the wooden floor and make my eyes feel as if they are lighter green than usual. We both give a warm salutation to the fan as he turns it on, him mocking me through a smile. And I don't know why he asks my opinions; he's seen half the world and I'm only just beginning. But he does, and I always have an opinion rooted in the tallest of trees with a view.
I'm far from my own country, I'm speaking in another language, I'm bewildered by his earnest perspective. And I haven't felt so at home in years.
Burrito
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
We had been planning Burrito Day for two months.
Needless to say, it turned out to be pretty epic.
Kinesthetically
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
Until today.
As I walked down the steps into the adorable little dance studio, I took a deep breath. The walls, decorated in black and white damask with pink accents. The waiting room with cozy black couches and fuzzy black rugs. The two classrooms - one in the back and one in the front with a baby grand piano and with four windows near the ceiling so that passers by can just barely peek in at the dancers. It felt like home.
Slowly, I approached the woman behind the desk. My voice cracking and my Spanish wobbly, I explained I was there to sign up for the class that was about to start. She smiled, handing me the paperwork. And just like that, I'd done it! Four years, seven countries, three relationships later and I was finally there, on the verge of my first Contemporary class!
Had I danced Contemporary before, she asked me.
I'd danced Ballet. I'd experienced how it was akin to learning a musical instrument - the instrument of your body. I'd danced West Coast Swing. I'd experienceed it was akin to learning a new language - a language which you could carry on entire conversations in with another person without ever opening your mouth. But no,I'd never danced Contemporary. For four whole years I'd yearned to experience what it was like to move my body like my emotions moved around inside of me. To learn how to keep a kinesthetic journal for just myself without a single word.
An hour and a half later and I left that little studio beaming. Maybe to some I'd waited an absurd amount of time to push myself to do something so relatively small, but walking up those steps, I knew it'd waited the perfect amount. All along I had subconsciously been waiting for this day. Until I lived in a beautiful apartment in the middle of my favorite neighborhood in the middle of a country I adore, surrounded by friends and happiness. Only then could I have noticed this little studio just minutes from my home and been inspired to try something new.
The class was perfect. The teacher was wonderful and not only taught us movements, but explained the reasoning, technique and history of each one! The other girl (there were only two students in the class!) was extremely gregarious and giggled throughout the whole class when she couldn't get a movement correct. She talked to me before class and made me feel very comfortable in Spanish. And the dancing! It was exactly what I'd watched on repeat so many times in the music video. A few times I caught a glimpse of my arm or my foot or my back doing exactly what I'd seen that girl in the video do so many times and I couldn't but be enchanted by it all.
As I turned the corner from Calle de la Pez, that feeling bubbled up inside me. I looked back at the studio and forward towards my apartment, wonderstruck. How did I get here?! <3
As I walked down the steps into the adorable little dance studio, I took a deep breath. The walls, decorated in black and white damask with pink accents. The waiting room with cozy black couches and fuzzy black rugs. The two classrooms - one in the back and one in the front with a baby grand piano and with four windows near the ceiling so that passers by can just barely peek in at the dancers. It felt like home.
Slowly, I approached the woman behind the desk. My voice cracking and my Spanish wobbly, I explained I was there to sign up for the class that was about to start. She smiled, handing me the paperwork. And just like that, I'd done it! Four years, seven countries, three relationships later and I was finally there, on the verge of my first Contemporary class!
Had I danced Contemporary before, she asked me.
I'd danced Ballet. I'd experienced how it was akin to learning a musical instrument - the instrument of your body. I'd danced West Coast Swing. I'd experienceed it was akin to learning a new language - a language which you could carry on entire conversations in with another person without ever opening your mouth. But no,I'd never danced Contemporary. For four whole years I'd yearned to experience what it was like to move my body like my emotions moved around inside of me. To learn how to keep a kinesthetic journal for just myself without a single word.
An hour and a half later and I left that little studio beaming. Maybe to some I'd waited an absurd amount of time to push myself to do something so relatively small, but walking up those steps, I knew it'd waited the perfect amount. All along I had subconsciously been waiting for this day. Until I lived in a beautiful apartment in the middle of my favorite neighborhood in the middle of a country I adore, surrounded by friends and happiness. Only then could I have noticed this little studio just minutes from my home and been inspired to try something new.
The class was perfect. The teacher was wonderful and not only taught us movements, but explained the reasoning, technique and history of each one! The other girl (there were only two students in the class!) was extremely gregarious and giggled throughout the whole class when she couldn't get a movement correct. She talked to me before class and made me feel very comfortable in Spanish. And the dancing! It was exactly what I'd watched on repeat so many times in the music video. A few times I caught a glimpse of my arm or my foot or my back doing exactly what I'd seen that girl in the video do so many times and I couldn't but be enchanted by it all.
As I turned the corner from Calle de la Pez, that feeling bubbled up inside me. I looked back at the studio and forward towards my apartment, wonderstruck. How did I get here?! <3
Change
Monday, September 2, 2013
Bianca's comment yesterday lingered in my mind so stubbornly that I couldn't sleep. Just as I'd close my eyes, I'd have a nightmare that I was locked in jail with bones protruding from my ankle and wrist I'd injured while moving the day before. It didn't help that the room was pitch black and so each time I awoke with a start I wondered if I was even still alive, because it sure looked that way.
All day long I was stuck in that fog. The day before I had been so excited to move and begin my next adventure, but suddenly it all seemed so unfortunate and scary. I wandered the streets of Madrid, vaguely on a search for decorations for my tiny room, but I didn't have alertness for it, as my mind became more and more entangled in fear... fear that I had maxed out my good luck and that the pendulum of good fortune was about to swing in the opposite direction.
It took me hours and hours to realize it, but when I did, I grinned, relived. I was simply experiencing the fear of change.
Phew!
Once upon a time Mr. Fear of Change and I were sworn enemies. I could hardly enjoy a positive experience for five minutes without him whispering in my ear and ruining it all. But then one day I bought a book that changed our relationship forever. As I inhaled the pages I learned that he was actually a sweet little fellow who'd been sorely misunderstood all these years. After several heart-to-hearts, we actually even became good friends, which culminated in my wrist tattoo.
And so when I realized it was just him visiting and not some other big, bad scary fear that was out to drag me under, my sanguinity quickly started flowing through my veins again and I shifted my attention to the day's mission of decoration.
Four large stores and countless hours later I was starting to feel like giving up when I saw it. I stared at it for a good minute before I began jumping up and down and mumbling to myself like a crazy person. I looked at the price tag, but didn't care. It was too perfect! But when I went to find the box on the shelf, it wasn't there. I searched again and again, to no avail. I hunted down a sweet man on duty and desperately asked if he could help me. I'm not sure if it was my emotional sincerity or my American accent, but he grinned at me for a moment before picking up the phone to ask about the availability of my item.
"I see. So there aren't any left? None at all?" he said into the phone, nodding. He saw my hopeful smile fall. "Okay, then." He winked at me. "Thanks so much."
I felt like I was at the teacher's desk about to receive my final mark as I swayed on my feet waiting for him to hang up. What if there weren't any more?!
Finally he put the phone down and smiled reassuringly. He explained that they'd just discontinued the item but that I might be able to find a few still left over in the discount section at the end of the warehouse. I thanked him and ran.
Oh how the Ikea gods had smiled down on me! Not only did I find it there, but it was 70% off!!!! Holy crap, Batman!!!! I picked up that six foot tall box and hugged it, squealing and giggling like a little kid.
Over the next 45 minutes I retraced my steps with notable exigency and vigor through the Ikea maze, collecting a few pillows here, a blanket there, a planter here, a rug there until my big yellow Ikea bag could be filled no further. I felt like I was a contestant in Supermarket Sweep and I loved every glorious second of the adrenaline rush!
The question of logistics, of course, hit me after I was all checked out: how was I going to get all of it home? I had a purse, an Ikea bag that probably weighed a good 35 lbs and a six foot tall box that wasn't super light, either. I texted my friend about my comical pickle and he suggested Ikea delivery, but I've never been one to turn down a challenge.
What should have been a 15 minute walk to the metro took me an hour and fifteen minutes, with me pausing every half blog on incredibly auspiciously placed benches along the way. When I finally got to the metro, the new issue was getting all of the stuff through in time while passing my ticket in the machine. That was quickly resolved, however, when a sweet girl who turned out to be a police officer told me to go through with her when they opened the gate for her as she showed her police ID.
As we waited for the metro to arrive, we struck up a cute little conversation, which continued several stops until she had to get off! She told me all about being a police officer and about all of the cities she'd lived in in Spain. I told her about being an English teacher and about my desire to practice Spanish more this year. It was by far the most adorable random conversation I've ever had with a stranger in a foreign language!
Bianca met me at Sol and helped me carry everything home from there (thank goodness!). While she went and looked at more apartments, David and I sat at the kitchen table and had a cute conversation over a snack of bananas and a freshly baked baguette!
Despite waking up anxiety-riden, my day turned out to be splendid. I am so eager to put all of my goodies from Ikea in my room and create a cozy, enchanted nook for myself in my newest adventure here in Malasaña.
As I turned off my lights to go to bed, Mr. Fear of Change blew me a goodnight kiss and disappeared into the dark. If today's any indication, my tattoo continues to ring true. I'm ready. Here we go. <3 data-blogger-escaped-br="">
All day long I was stuck in that fog. The day before I had been so excited to move and begin my next adventure, but suddenly it all seemed so unfortunate and scary. I wandered the streets of Madrid, vaguely on a search for decorations for my tiny room, but I didn't have alertness for it, as my mind became more and more entangled in fear... fear that I had maxed out my good luck and that the pendulum of good fortune was about to swing in the opposite direction.
It took me hours and hours to realize it, but when I did, I grinned, relived. I was simply experiencing the fear of change.
Phew!
Once upon a time Mr. Fear of Change and I were sworn enemies. I could hardly enjoy a positive experience for five minutes without him whispering in my ear and ruining it all. But then one day I bought a book that changed our relationship forever. As I inhaled the pages I learned that he was actually a sweet little fellow who'd been sorely misunderstood all these years. After several heart-to-hearts, we actually even became good friends, which culminated in my wrist tattoo.
And so when I realized it was just him visiting and not some other big, bad scary fear that was out to drag me under, my sanguinity quickly started flowing through my veins again and I shifted my attention to the day's mission of decoration.
Four large stores and countless hours later I was starting to feel like giving up when I saw it. I stared at it for a good minute before I began jumping up and down and mumbling to myself like a crazy person. I looked at the price tag, but didn't care. It was too perfect! But when I went to find the box on the shelf, it wasn't there. I searched again and again, to no avail. I hunted down a sweet man on duty and desperately asked if he could help me. I'm not sure if it was my emotional sincerity or my American accent, but he grinned at me for a moment before picking up the phone to ask about the availability of my item.
"I see. So there aren't any left? None at all?" he said into the phone, nodding. He saw my hopeful smile fall. "Okay, then." He winked at me. "Thanks so much."
I felt like I was at the teacher's desk about to receive my final mark as I swayed on my feet waiting for him to hang up. What if there weren't any more?!
Finally he put the phone down and smiled reassuringly. He explained that they'd just discontinued the item but that I might be able to find a few still left over in the discount section at the end of the warehouse. I thanked him and ran.
Oh how the Ikea gods had smiled down on me! Not only did I find it there, but it was 70% off!!!! Holy crap, Batman!!!! I picked up that six foot tall box and hugged it, squealing and giggling like a little kid.
Over the next 45 minutes I retraced my steps with notable exigency and vigor through the Ikea maze, collecting a few pillows here, a blanket there, a planter here, a rug there until my big yellow Ikea bag could be filled no further. I felt like I was a contestant in Supermarket Sweep and I loved every glorious second of the adrenaline rush!
The question of logistics, of course, hit me after I was all checked out: how was I going to get all of it home? I had a purse, an Ikea bag that probably weighed a good 35 lbs and a six foot tall box that wasn't super light, either. I texted my friend about my comical pickle and he suggested Ikea delivery, but I've never been one to turn down a challenge.
What should have been a 15 minute walk to the metro took me an hour and fifteen minutes, with me pausing every half blog on incredibly auspiciously placed benches along the way. When I finally got to the metro, the new issue was getting all of the stuff through in time while passing my ticket in the machine. That was quickly resolved, however, when a sweet girl who turned out to be a police officer told me to go through with her when they opened the gate for her as she showed her police ID.
As we waited for the metro to arrive, we struck up a cute little conversation, which continued several stops until she had to get off! She told me all about being a police officer and about all of the cities she'd lived in in Spain. I told her about being an English teacher and about my desire to practice Spanish more this year. It was by far the most adorable random conversation I've ever had with a stranger in a foreign language!
Bianca met me at Sol and helped me carry everything home from there (thank goodness!). While she went and looked at more apartments, David and I sat at the kitchen table and had a cute conversation over a snack of bananas and a freshly baked baguette!
Despite waking up anxiety-riden, my day turned out to be splendid. I am so eager to put all of my goodies from Ikea in my room and create a cozy, enchanted nook for myself in my newest adventure here in Malasaña.
As I turned off my lights to go to bed, Mr. Fear of Change blew me a goodnight kiss and disappeared into the dark. If today's any indication, my tattoo continues to ring true. I'm ready. Here we go. <3 data-blogger-escaped-br="">
Freshly Baked Cookies
Sunday, September 1, 2013
Nuevo barrio, nuevo piso, nuevo trabajo, nuevos amigos y nueva perspectiva. Todo eso me indicó que ya era necesario empezar un nuevo blog. Pero no quería un blog como los otros dos. No, quería algo distinto. Las otras 389 entradas casi nunca han hecho hincapié en un tema concreto, sino que han sido una mezcla de mis pensamientos y actividades del día - más como un diario que un blog "literario."
Después de pensar en ello, he decidido que este blog será más artístico, más expresivo, más caprichoso y más kuki. Seguiré escribir cada día como antes, pero no siempre tratará de mi día. Espero que cada semana habrá fotos o, aun, un vídeo! Además, escribiré algunas entradas en español (correcciones son bienvenidas) desde la perspectiva de Dulcinea, la Jet-set Cupcake para añadir un sabor un poco más lúdico.
Los otros blogs estuvieron hechos para ayudarme crecer, mientras estaba explorando un nuevo país. Ahora que estoy muy cómoda - no solo con Madrid, pero también conmigo misma - tengo la libertad de crear un blog que podría ser mi propria obra de arte para compartir con los ciudadanos en mi proprio mundito!
Si te gustan los cupcakes y los narwhals... si te apetece viajar por el mundo y aprender idiomas... si te encantan las aventuras y los cuentos... has llegado al lugar perfecto.
Pues, nada. Aquí os presento mi tercer blog... Jet-set Cupcake: Malasaña. ¡Que te lo pases bien aqui, en mi propia esquina de la red!
<3
Sparkly Cupcake Narwhal
Sparkly Cupcake Narwhal
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About Me
- Jet-set Cupcake
- Wanderlust. Sanguine. Jet-set. Tenacious. At least on my best days. ;) I´m a girl from Denver, Colorado (USA) who loves to write about my travel adventures to share cultural quips and personal growth in hopes of inspiring everyone who reads Jet-set Cupcake to go after what they want - no matter what. ^_^