Fireball

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.

"TAK!"

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.

Trust

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

Ensconced

"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.

Burrito

We had been planning Burrito Day for two months.

Needless to say, it turned out to be pretty epic.

Kinesthetically

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

Change

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="">

Freshly Baked Cookies

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