Going Home and other such adventures

I jumped off the blogging boat for a while, what with exams, papers, packing, and goodbyes, i couldn't find the heart to publish about it all.

And now I find myself in a new home, a new context, and really, a new world.

I left Oviedo (my midnight journey to the bus station accompanied by 6 friends) to spend one whirlwind week running around North Carolina, only to land in The Elsewhere Collaborative in Greensboro.

Initial culture shock felt more like culture daze as I tried to figure out what was going on. But I think I'm cheating. I'm immersing myself in another world far different from the norm.

Elsewhere is like no other place I've ever been. It's one of the only remaining alternative museum and art spaces in the states. It's a world in and of itself. And I'm living here, in an environment of constant curation. Every part of the museum is a part of the collection and can be rearranged in a way to make it something new. All that, plus a room sized wardrobe full of vintage clothing I can wear whenever I want.

So for now, in my new home, inside a thrift-store converted museum, I'll be finding new sorts of things to write about.

Sitting in Malayerba reading through the 50 pages of class notes that I have serendipitously acquired and I come across:

"todos los productos estaban racionados, no se daba más de 200 gramos de pan al día por persona, no más de un litro de aceite al mes."

referring to the rationing of food during Franco's dictatorship.

And I think about how little a liter of oil a month is, especially considering the cooking style I've come to know as Spanish.

Considering Spanish cooking, I start to file through my mental photo album of the kitchens in which I have cooked while in Spain. One image repeats itself: that of a slightly dirty frying pan with remaining oil resting in the bottom. The pan is placed either inside the turned off oven or atop the stove. It appears in nearly every Spanish kitchen.

People are always saving their oil. Even the little bit that remains after cooking is left in the pan and used tomorrow.

One liter of oil a month, that isn't much.

that for all the rain here, it rarely smells like rain.

And with that, I felt ready to go back to North Carolina.

-Quisiera ser amigo tuyo. Eres una 'peque' muy original. Si me prometes que algún día me llamaras por teléfono para salir conmigo, te dejo aquí. A mi también me gustan mucho las calles viejas y se todos los rincones pintorescos de la ciudad. Conque, prometido?

--Nada, Carmen LaForet

My flat is filled with old things.

A family used to live here, then the children moved out and it was just the couple, and finally just the mother-now-grandmother was left. From the random kitchenware to the bits of newspaper clippings to the out-dated tapestries, you can tell she held onto things.

Then I discovered the buttons. In two tins tucked away in a closet, there is a wealth of buttons: round, rectangular, shiny, spotted, bumpy. I started putting them on strings and hanging them in my room, imagining the grandmother loving the fact that I was admiring all the buttons.

Some friends came over and we were sorting through them in the living room, showing each other when we found a favorite. Then Laura sees a lapel pin. She is shocked.

She holds it up for us to see. "Do you know what this is?"

We all shake our heads.

"This is the sign of the Republic. That means that the people living in this flat were Republican."

I act in awe with everyone else, but I don't really understand.

Later I find out that, during the Civil War, all of Asturias was Republican. Except for Oviedo. Oviedo was Fascist. I start to contemplate the repercussions of being a Republican in a Fascist city. And suddenly, my flat has a whole new history.

We're sitting in my room, Laura on my bed, and I on the computer correcting her recent attempt at a letter of intent to study abroad at Chapel Hill. She is reading "La etapa social de Blas de Otero en la trilogia que trata de Espana" that she found there.

I look over and laugh. "Te interesa?"

"Si, mucho."

"Quieres hacer el trabajo para mi?"

Laughter.

She reads me a fragment of one of the poems in the article about the post-Civil War Spanish poet. She gets excited. "Siempre con el doble sentido! Es tan buena."

I tell her that I have a hard time picking up on the double meanings in the Spanish language. She launches into an explanation of the poem she was reading. But then she gets really excited. She asks me of my understanding of the historical situation in which Blas de Otero was writing.

I shake my head, "muy poco."

One hour later, several poems, and a few webpages later and I not only have an understanding of Blas de Otero's situation, but I'm discovering more pieces of the Spanish Civil War and the oppression that followed.

A quote from Dolores Ibarruri. "Prefiero morir de pie que vivir de rodillas." (I'd rather die on my feet than live on my knees.)

Pictures of the Republican and Fascist soldiers.

And then start the stories.

Laura tells me that Asturias was completely Republican during the Civil War, with Oviedo as the only Fascist city.

"Do you know what they did to kill Asturias? They hired troops from Morocco and told them to come, kill, rape, and steal. Do whatever they want.

They came to my pueblo.

My great-grandmother was raped and then killed. She had eight children. My grandmother was the oldest one, and she ran with the rest and hid in the caves. There were a lot of people hiding in the caves."

"Ostia," is all I can manage. And I feel once again like I'm discovering this past I had no idea existed.

seagull's flying shadow
projected on the old light brown building
and I almost cry
for the beauty of it.
"do it again," I whispered
and the shadow flew once more
and then
away.

It's 7:55 and I need a snack. My window is open. It's rainy and gray and and I feel like it should be making me miss sunny Barcelona but I'm finding myself quite content in my little nook of a room.

I got back to the flat I was staying at last night at around 3:30 AM and decided to skip out on sleep for the night, since I had to catch the first metro at 5. So today is feeling like a non-day, since I got home at around 10 and then slept until 4 and it is strange to be back home anyways. Strange, but good.

I really like my home here.

But, Barcelona, Barcelona could be a future home. I decided this on my last day there as I was wandering around the streets in the old part of town and kept on finding hidden cafes and bars each different from the other and I said to myself, "Yes, I could live here."

It's a combination of the movida in the street, the international hodgepodge of people, the artistic and theater life, and the ocean, that confirmed my prior suspicion that I would love Barcelona.

_________________

3/28
Slacklining for five or so hours in Parc de la Ciutadella and people and beauty and life. Twirly things and percussion circles and music and capoiera and tree yoga and jugglers.
And then later, the hidden - well, I guess not so hidden, but I would never have known it existed - bar. We were late and the fusion flamenco had already ended.
But the jam session was just starting.
And I managed to make my way through the narrow crowded bar and ended up on the floor right in front of the musicians. It was music and movement. And then the Spanish women in their normal clothes who got up and danced flamenco and pulled at the tops of their jeans as if they were flamenco dresses.

_________________

3/30
Being alone in a big city is more acceptable than being alone in a small city and this feels like a general rule and it makes me like big(ger) cities.
Placa de Sant Vincen de Sarria I am in. And the wind is blowing these little golden feathery seeds all around. And the dogs are out to play.
And making friends with the security guard at the embassy. I can do that joking with a stranger thing in Spanish now.

_________________

3/31
So as not to forget. The best little apple tart I've ever had followed by searching for the MACBA followed by finding the MACBA with Guillem's help.
Interesting exposition "I am making art" and the canvas with it's own story and the one that had purged everything but art...the kiss/panic..and some.
Then lunch in a secret-society courtyard that you get into with a fingerprint reader...and delicious food and sun and then the old library upstairs with the frescos.
Then Sergi's antique store and hidden treasures and the gold of the bottom room.
Then in moto up to Parc Guell.
And my first turn diriving a moto and now I want a mint green one with a white helmet.
Then to watch the Barca game at a friend's flat and I pulled the tradition's card (what respect they have for tradition!) and got to run away to the grocery store...the game and they flipped over a mediocre bean dip and que va pues nada ya esta y estamos en casa bien cansados y joder que dia.

_________________

4/1
And then I look to my left and there's a naked man some 50 meters away. Tomando el sol. Completely naked. He doesn't hide his dark body hair or spilling over stomach. It's just out there for the ocean and sand and birds.
Good morning, Beach. Good morning, Barcelona.
The two little Asian women selling massages have found a customer. A 60-something man with a beret and a tattoo on his right shoulder. He could easily be a sailor. I can smell their massage oil more than I can smell the ocean.
(For that matter, I don't smell the ocean much. And I'm not sure why. I don't smell salt; I don't smell sea. But if I close my eyes and breathe slowly, I can smell it. Just a hint, but it's there.)
So I bury my feet in the sand. Just a few more moments.
And then I realize, I think I could live in Spain.

"Entonces, tu eres una rompe corazones."
"No! Pues, no intento de ser una."
"Entonces es natural. Mejor, mejor."
And all laughter.

_________________

4/2
Hidden little cafe with mismatched vintage chairs, art on the walls, and at least one item each color and shade therein. And I"m especially proud of my losing it, wandering, and then finding it again. I take this as a Good Sign, as is the little red teapot and the friendly attractive bartender and all in all I'd say I could live here. I want to learn Catalan and move here.
I want one of these teapots. I wonder if I can discreetly take a picture. Flor de desierto. That's good tea.
My particular chair is a faded yellow green with a worn floral seat cushion. It used to be - well still is - a soft velor like fabric, but on the arms there are threads showing.
Pretty sure almost everyone here is Catalan (language so surprising!) and I like it.
I wonder if they're hiring.

There's a point where you stop doing things just to make your resume impressive. Then there's another point where you realize the things you have been doing because you have wanted to do them make your resume impressive.

As I'm updating my resume, I'm continually taking things off that I had done previously just to look better and replacing it with the things I have done without any thought of how it would make me a more appealing candidate when applying for a job. The irony: these things that I've done that I actually care about are, in my opinion, more impressive.

C'est la vie.

I was having one of those Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Days. They seem to happen more often while living in what is still a foreign country. Emotions are all over the place. Always.

There are the frustrations: My inability to express myself perfectly, follow things in class, and the fact that I find myself spending too much money money on things that I would have before deemed a ridiculous sum (such as a 5 euro calling card that only gives me 55 minutes).

Couple that with some stresses: an increasingly busy schedule, still trying to settle into a new flat, and forgetting to plan English lessons and having to do them minutes before class.

And then throw in the fears: the fact that I accidentally underloaded last semester I might not have it count or, worse, I might be suspended from my program, or the fear of flying to London only to have them decide to deport me home because I no longer have a visa (since it was stolen in Portugal).

Let's just say I was feeling a bit overwhelmed.

The rain and the cold were getting to me and I was jealous of sunny North Carolina.

So as I was walking from class to my English class, I asked for a miracle.

A few hours later I was sitting in a cafe where I was stealing internet from someone and eating a hasty lunch. I finish and the waiter brings me a piece of chocolate mocha cream deliciousness that I hadn't ordered.

I give him a look that goes from "wait what?" to "you don't have to do that."

He counters with his own look of "Relax. Take it and enjoy."

And mine shifts to "Thank you. Thank you."

Miracle delivered.

Now I just wish I knew how to say, "you made my day" in Spanish.

“Hoping to go see this next month in London: The prayers of Peter Brook | Stage | The Guardian,” the Facebook status read. Emil Kang had popped up on my news feed by chance.

"Peter Brook? Like The Empty Space Peter Brook? Like the acclaimed genius artist and director Peter Brook? The one who changed experimental theatre? Peter Brook!?" My mind ran fast, my fingers faster.

“Really? Because I just might join you there…” I wrote in response.

I was half-way serious.

A few days later I get a reply. Emil informs me that if I’m serious about going to see the show he might be able to get me a ticket.

I become completely serious.

Well, not completely serious. I might have let out a school-girl style squeal.

Several series of e-mails later, travel plans are made and I find myself with a plane ticket to London.

*******

Then, the other day I finally got the chance to Skype with Emil. It was the follow up to an e-mail I had sent back in November following an artistic crisis-near-breakdown. I was frustrated because all of my searches for collaborating artists had been proven futile. I couldn’t find an outlet anywhere. This lack had made me realize just how important art and performance were to me and all of this culminated in one long e-mail to Emil (who I hadn’t really seen or spoken to since my Freshman seminar with him, a couple years ago.)

Fast forward a few months to now and our conversation found me in a lot better state [artistically]. I told Emil of how his response to my e-mail, the personal development I was experiencing, along with my experiences in London and Portugal all led me to create the theatre collective here. I think he was more proud of me than I was of myself.

We talked future possibilities, current musings, and parental concerns. Emil told me the story of how his parents threw a wine bottle at his head when he told them he didn’t want to be a doctor, instead pursuing a career in the arts.

We agreed that there would be more time to discuss these things in London. And then he gave me a few things to consider in the mean time:

Get feedback on my work. “It’s not very good to get to 50 and find out you stink.”

Keep searching for more ways to do what I’m doing but further it. Look to do it in different ways. The same idea, but in different ways.

Push myself to work with my weaknesses as well as my strengths.

*******

Today I drudged up some of the essays I wrote for the performance class in which I had Emil as a professor. Some of them were pretty terrible. And they certainly made me surprised that Emil remembered me in a positive light.

Always growing, always moving. My perspective on performance has certainly altered since that communication performance course in which I first came into contact with Peter Brook. I remember feeling confused reading "The Empty Space" and thought it was interesting, but maybe just a bit weird.

At the end of the semester, we had to get into groups and write a performance piece. I didn't really understand the whole idea of performance as something other than traditional theater and wrote this really terrible mini-play. (Trust me, I just reread it. It's awful.)

Our professors stretched us and helped us change it into something that, if I remember correctly, was half presentable. But I do remember feeling frustrated during the process and complaining with my group that the professor didn't make any sense.

But then, when it came time for all the groups to perform, I remember clearly this one performance. I can't remember what it was about or what exactly they did, but I remember this red piece of cloth that they used throughout the piece. And I thought it was one of the most beautiful things in the world. And it was beautiful because I couldn't figure out why it was so beautiful. It just was. And I didn't have to make sense of it.

*******

Now, this week, the collective is going to the street. To start to make beautiful things that will probably make little sense. Or will make the sense that people decide to place on them. Or perhaps we'll come up with a sense of our own.

In a few weeks I’ll be heading to London. To watch beautiful things crafted by a man who at first made no sense to me.

And now I finish with a sentence that will try and be a summary of all these things in my head. But this sentence isn't coming, so I'll just throw out a few words.

Pursuit and passion and perform and play and pushing and prayers and peter

and I think I somehow got stuck on p's.

I just had my fortune read by Abuela. She took the Spanish playing card deck and passed them out on the table.

Apparently I'm going to:
Have change that I won't like.
Fight with a girl over money.
Get invited out to drinks by a married man who I'm going to like.
Do very well in the University.
Receive a really nice present.
Have a special someone who is going to ask me to live with him. Apparently he's a really good one. But I'm not sure about him.
Go to a wedding and meet a man there who is going to make me think.
Have a phone call about love.
Fight with my parents about something.
Go on a trip that I won't like.

My madre had hers read. She recieved something she didn't like. "Mentiras," she said.

"Mentiras," Abuela says to me. "Mentiras ella dice. Pero vas a ver que va a pasar."

That was awesome. So awesome that I danced and hummed my way home. Well half-danced. Okay. It was just a little skip here and there and I let my arms swing.

Pardon my holding off on writing about Portugal so that I can write about tonight.

First, a bit of background.

When I came to Oviedo, I was determined to find a theatre group I could be a part of. That was going to be my way to grow roots here. In fact, I remember setting a Facebook status that went like this, "Just sent messages to 17 theatre groups in Oviedo asking if there was anything I could participate in. Determined."

Well, for all my well-intentioned determination, I ended up with a few "no thanks" e-mails and a lot of no responses.

Then I thought my chance came when I found out that there was a University Theatre group that had a casting. A friend of mine told me that he had negative experiences with the group, but I went anyways. The casting was fun, and I was just thrilled to get to be on a stage again. Afterward, I talked with some of the members and felt even more hopeful. One, two, three months later I get my first response from them: an invitation to participate in a theatre course. The cost: 280 euros. So much for that.

I was frustrated. But an inkling of a thought wandered into my head. "If you see a need...do something about it." But what could I do? I didn't have the resources, didn't even know of anyone else who wanted to do theatre...I had a lot of good excuses. I started entertaining the idea of taking the bus to a random city and doing solo performances just as a creative outlet.

Then I went to London.

And something about being in London gave me a little bit of perspective and even more determination. By the time I got to Portugal, I was decided. I was going to make my own group. Even if it was just me, practicing in a space once a week, I was going to do it. I had to.

A few days after I got back from Portugal, I was sitting in a cafe writing about collective versus individual identity, a topic which was broached in a bar in Portugal as I debated with a 60-something year old man. And I began to think about the beauty within a collaborative, and how you can make something that couldn't have been there before. My foot started tapping on the ground in impatience. I needed a performance collective. Here.

But where would I find the space? Who would do it with me? Could I really just start my own?

The next day I was having lunch with my friend Sergio, who started and runs Partycipa, an activist organization focused on combining creativity and play with social action. They work a lot with kids.

And somehow the subject of performance and street action comes up and I become a bit animated and launch into my idea for an experimental performance group.

He offers me a space. I just have to pick a date.

And now, a week later, I am sitting in my kitchen having just hurriedly eaten some chicken* and I still have a bit of a post-performance afterglow.

Well, to be fair, I didn't perform tonight. But we got started.

There were seven of us tonight. Only two had ever done anything remotely related to theatre.

In a rough combination of English and Spanish, I led us through some warm-ups (samurai, lion/lemon face, shake down), some games (museum, instant protest), some exercises (sound circle, partner mirror, partner and group curve/angle) and then a body relax/energy focus cool down.** I wanted to start on Viewpoints/Flow today, but ran out of time. And that might have been a bit ambitious.

And it was beautiful. Already people were making beautiful moments together. Realizing the potential that they had to create.

It was energizing. It was perfect in its imperfection. It was a start.

And we also have next week.

So I 1/3 skipped, 1/3 walked, and 1/3 danced my way home.

______
*With garlic, lemon, and a balsamic syrup. Good times.
**To Sigur Ros, of course.

As I settle in to write, I am eating the last of my Christmas tree Little Debbie cakes. Don't worry, I have a box of the Valentine ones awaiting me.*

The truth is, I've procrastinated on writing this. Mostly because the thought of condensing my London and Portugal experiences in an entertaining written form felt daunting. And so I just didn't.

But, with a little bit of late night/early morning energy, my arms and back sore from my first day back to climbing for weeks, and that over-sugared-kinda-sick feeling I always get after I eat a Little Debbie cake, I will just tell a few stories, and for tonight, just about London.

As I walked into the house I was staying in**, I was immediately greeted by a lovely smile and a, "Would you like some tea? Go upstairs and you can put your things down and I'll put the tea on." Hours later, watching English sitcoms and eating snacks and chatting, I felt like part of the family. I was laughing. A lot. Plus, I found out that I was now only two degrees of separation away from the queen.

The tea became a habit.*** We passed a few evenings with the fireplace, cozy sofa, late night TV, and Bilbo, the dog, comfortably sitting on my lap. And with the cold and the snow outside, I couldn't really be bothered to move.

Not to say we didn't venture outside in the cold. We were in London. We had to.

We did the typical tourist things. Actually, I'd say we did all the tourist things. You know, the palace, the big clock tower, this other tower, museums, etc. Which, to be honest, never really does much for me. It feels like I'm just checking things off a list. Not to say these things aren't beautiful or interesting or that I wouldn't want to see them, it's just not what makes a trip for me.

So when we went to see the Globe Theatre, I decided to do something different, and put up my slackline for a few, very cold, minutes.

Now, the highlights reel:****

+Climbing inside a castle.

+Diversity! Different types of people! Lots of different languages! And people don't look at you strange if you're not from there!

+Food on the street. Bagels! Fish and chips. Wild mushroom risotto.

+Brick Lane Vintage Market.

+Snow patterns with feet. And playing in that snow with Heather.

+The room in the Tate Modern on the fluxus art movement. It was this tiny little room and most people just walked right through it but a quote on the wall caught my eye and then I spent the next 32 minutes in there reading everything. Completely beautiful.

+Christmas party at Victoria Wood's house where I talked about classical music with high school boys and sang Christmas carols with Andy Serkis.*****

+Johnny's swing/jazz/blues/funk band. And when we [accidentally] went to his show at a Christmas party at a home for mentally handicapped people. We danced anyways.

+Theatre. Lots of theatre. Pantomime, murder-mystery "Rope", The Comedy Store Improv, and "Hairspray." And, I have to mention that for three of these, I have Mr. Edis to thank for getting us in/getting us cheap tickets. Man's got connections.

+Exclaiming, "You gave me a stocking too!" when I found the thing hanging on my door after breakfast and then promptly ran downstairs and gave Mrs. Edis a hug.

+A nordic cafe where I tried gloog. New favorite hot beverage.

...and that was London. More or less, at least.

Sitting in Stansted Airport with about 6 hours to kill, I had a little time to think. I had felt like a part of a family for the last 10 days and it was lovely. I also was able to communicate fully, and even have my personality come across in conversation (!) something I had really missed the months prior.

But London also inspired me.

After the improv show at the Comedy Store, we went out for drinks with some of the players. And I got into a conversation with one of their wives. She asked me about what I wanted to do after university, and I, for the first time in a conversation like this, told her that I was thinking about pursuing the arts in some form.

"Oh you should!" she replied.

"I hope so," I laughed. "I'm just not sure how..."

"Well, have you thought about going to a school of the arts?"

I hadn't.

"There's a lot of one-year programs you can do, and can get a grant for. In fact a friend of mine..."

She went on to tell me of this friend who started out in visual art, then progressed to installations, then performance...all within this one program.

I was intrigued. That conversation, combined with being surrounded by art in so many forms, and the exhibits at the Tate...it has all made me start to think. About new possibilities. And about acting on them. Now.



______
*Thanks, Mom. And Lydia. And Lisa. But I think mostly Lydia. I heard you had to sacrifice these for me. After flaunting your own over Skype, I guess it's the least you could do.
**I was staying with the Edis family. How did I end up there? Heather Johnson made me come to London for Christmas. She met Chris Edis while studying abroad in Italy. Chris lives in London. His family decided they would love to host a random stranger in their home for Christmas. I was the lucky random stranger.
***I never realized that the stereotype of the English always drinking tea was actually true. But I don't think I've ever had so much tea in one week. And I loved it.
****I seriously hate having to do this. But it's the only way to say all I want to say and not be overwhelmed.
*****You know, Gollum in LOTR? He also had an appearance in 13 going on 30...

It snowed in Oviedo last night. I opened my window, leaned out, and caught some in my hand. Legs pressed up against the heater, I watched the flakes fall.

Then today the postman brought a package from my Mom. I opened it while skyping with her.

Everything was individually wrapped.

A picture Ebby drew.*
Praline Pecans.
Shortbread Rounds.
Spiced Apple Cider Mix.
North Pole Pals Chocolate Penguin.
Butterfinger.
Heath Bar.
M&Ms Minis.
Trident White Spearmint.
Tic-Tacs.
Starbursts.
Skittles.
Little Debbie Christmas Tree Cakes.
Little Debbie Nutty Bars.**
Charcoal Pencils.
Drawing Pencil Set.***
North Face Winter Gloves.****
Note from the Secret Snowflake.

It feels like home.


__________
*Apparently the line across the top of the smiley faces is hair.
**I forgot these existed and almost started jumping up and down when I saw them.
***It's a nice and neat little kit. I love kits.
****For snowball fights.

Gracias a Su por el video :)

We were 15 Spaniards, 1 Puerto-Rican-American, 1 French guy, 1 Argentinian, 1 German, and 2 Americans. And everyone was hungry.

With good reason, of course. It was almost time to eat Thanksgiving dinner.

The cooking marathon had started the night before...baking pies* until 4 AM in an oven that seemed unreasonably slow. We watched episodes of Big Bang Theory to keep morale high.

And then it was an early morning to:
Bake the turkey
Make sweet potato casserole
Fret about the turkey
Make the tomato-herb gravy
Check on the turkey
Make the stuffing
Name the turkey**
Make the not-quite-cranberry-sauce***
Take the turkey out of the oven and realize that it's beautiful.

A few Spaniards stopped by to check on our progress and sample our food. "Wow, Americans do know how to cook!" one responded, after a bite of stuffing. This was Thanksgiving - of course we know how to cook.

Next came the mission of transporting everything to the flat where the feast was to take place. Nothing spilled, and no one got burned. Success.

We arrived, gave the dishes some finishing touches, and all sat down at a very large table. And we ate.

For the majority of the dinner, I was far too tired to begin to engage in the rapid-fire Spanish conversation. So I just sat back and smiled and watched everyone else smiling and laughing and chatting. And I was happy to see everyone else so happy. This was Thanksgiving - eating too much and talking too loudly.

Later I informed everyone that we had to go around the table and say what we were thankful for. Naturally, since it was my suggestion, I had to start. I don't like being put on the spot when I have to speak in Spanish...so I began...

"Pues...voy a decir gracias para estar aqui, en Espana..."

They cut me off. I knew it had been a cop-out.

"Vale..vale...digo gracias para que todas las cosas no se quemaron."

Juan pointed at my sweet potato casserole that might have gotten a little burned on the top. I laughed.

Then slowly, and very rowdily, we went around the table and everyone got a chance to say something. This was Thanksgiving - making crude jokes coupled with sentimental quips.

After dinner, before dessert, we went outside and attempted to teach American football. It was an interesting venture, and I think what everyone enjoyed the most was the strategy-planning huddles. Team Pavo won.****

Back inside we had some pie and played a game. Then it was cleanup time. And we boxed up leftovers for later. This was Thanksgiving.


_____________
*2 apple, 1 pecan. And yes, the crust was made from scratch, of course.
**Sheldon
***We went crazy trying to find cranberries and couldn't. So we used red currants instead. Different, but I liked it.
****My team, naturally.

It was early in the morning, I didn't sleep during the 6-hour nighttime bus ride, and I was having none of Madrid.

I grumbled to myself as we plodded along from the bus station and into Atocha, a slightly older bus station. Somehow I was supposed to be impressed by the elaborately designed outside and the atrium filled with plants and turtles on the inside. But all I wanted to do was lie down on one of the wooden benches and sleep.

We left, and continued down the cold street. I was grumpy and silent. Why do I bother traveling? I could be at home, in bed, and asleep.

It took a breakfast, a second picnic breakfast, and a nap in the park to make it all right.

Later that evening we saw who we came for: Andrew Bird. He is an incredible musician, played a fantastic show, and had a sock monkey on stage with him.

Afterward we were wandering around trying to decide where to eat dinner. As we walked beside the concert hall, I thought I saw Mr. Bird. As we got closer, I realized it was him...with a small line of people waiting to talk with him.

We passed by and I squelched my spontaneous desire to go and play the adoring fan role. 10 minutes later the line was gone, and I couldn't help it. And naturally, instead of saying any of the things I had planned beforehand, this was all I could muster:

"I...I liked your show. It was awesome. You were amazing."

"Thanks."

"No really...it was really fantastic."

"Thanks."

"So...are you going to hang out in Madrid tonight?"

"Umm...I think we're going to find some dinner and then go back to the hotel and sleep."

"Oh yea. You must be tired. Okay. Bye!"

It was awkward.

The next day was spent slacklining in Parque del Retiro and being shown around the city by a Colombian actor/professor. But that night...was blues night. A blues jam session, to be precise, in a jazzy little bar on the street. We danced like it was 1923.

Then came the day of callejeando*. I got lost. Very lost.

It was fun at first...wandering around. Letting myself get lost. Intentionally being lost.

I stumbled upon several places I had wanted to encounter...like the Palacio Real and the Egyptian Temple. I haggled for a hat in a market. I walked down a shaded avenue where the leaves on the trees were turning yellow. I saw people going about their daily routine, picking children up from school, sweeping the street, carrying too many groceries. I hadn't looked at a map all day.

But then there came a point where enough was enough. I got hungry and tired and grumpy. And I realized I had to find my way back to the flat where I was staying. I pulled out my map and began to rely on the kindness and directions of the natives to help me with my not-so-perfect navigational skills. The people were friendly to me, my feet were not.

The next morning I went and drew in el Prado.** Then I wandered some more and ended up back in Parque del Retiro. The whole trip I had been imagining a spontaneous encounter that could make for a good story. Nothing.

Then while I was standing against a tree writing, an Italian asked me for directions. I told him I wasn't from Madrid, but pulled out my map and to help if I could. I ended up accompanying him to the other end of the park. He invited me to an Irish pub with his Spanish friend. I agreed, informing him that I have a motto when I travel that if someone invites you somewhere, you go for it. In the pub we debated whether or not Ohio borders Canada*** and watched the Barcelona game. And as we sat there, I smiled, satisfied that my random encounter had been realized.

After a few days, I determined: Madrid is a proper city. With a metro, prostitutes, fountains, museums, construction, and lots of people crammed onto the sidewalk. Each barrio**** has its own personality, and they can change abruptly from one street to the next. It is very much alive.

But after it all, I was happy to go home to Oviedo, tucked away in the hills.*****


________
*A word I loosely understand as wandering around aimlessly on the street.
**Famous art museum. Their collection of de Goya is amazing. At first I couldn't figure out why I knew so many of them and then I remembered that I had done a project on him for Spanish class in high school.
***The Italian was convinced that it did. I refused to agree. We drew maps on paper napkins and argued for a while. The Spaniard thought it was hilarious.
****Neighborhood.
*****And a quick shout out of thanks to my fantastic hosts: you made me feel at home in your flat and cooked me delicious food. Not to mention, showing me around Madrid...see you in Oviedo in the spring!

"Cualquier día, voy a morir."

"Vas a dormir?"

"No, voy a morir."

"No! No hables como así."

"Nacemos para morir."

"No. Nacemos para vivir."

It's starting to get cold in Oviedo, and rainy. A thin layer of water reflects the fractured streetlight as I walk home from a meeting at L'Arcu.*

I pass by Swing, a jazz club I've been tempted by many times. There's an antique bike hanging in the window. I hear music. Jazz music. Live jazz music. I peer inside. It looks empty.

I twist my foot into the ground in hesitation. It's the hesitation that's my signal. I walk in.

Attractive bar tender wearing a trendy t-shirt. No red wine.** I get a drink and choose a table close to the trio playing. One on base, one on drums, one seated at the piano. And they're good. They're having fun.

The bar is empty except for them, another girl who seems to be their friend, and me.

I pull out my sketchpad and before I can draw, I write:

I walked past the jazz club I'd seen so many times before...I like jazz. It can't be written - it can't really be drawn - logically. It's just rapid movement. Flashes of color and light and sound....I think the drummer just asked me a question and I wasn't paying attention and I just laughed instead. And I think he's insulted. He's noisy. Now they're all singing. It's...I feel like I'm watching something that should be happening in someone's basement.

Not long after, the pianist switches to a fast salsa number. The drummer tries to pull his friend out of the booth to dance. She refuses. I'm his second choice. And, of course, I oblige.*** The quick dance breaks the barrier between myself and the others.

After the dance I return to my sketchpad. My dance partner comes to see what I'm doing. I won't let him see. So he tells me that he will draw me something. Anything.

"Dime...cualquier palabra."

"Jazz."

He draws a piano with a lamppost growing out of it surrounded by some trees. He writes at the bottom, "Se tu misma. Y nunca te olvides de disfrutar del momento."**** And so I show him my sketches.

Later, they play "Ain't No Sunshine." I sing softly to myself while I draw. They notice, and pull me beside the piano to sing. There's no objecting. I sit beside the pianist, smile to calm myself, and slowly begin the song. Smooth and smoky. They look surprised. And then smile at each other. The bassist says something about how he didn't expect that to come from me. I just laugh. After the song, the pianist hugs me.

And from then on, it's a night of humming and singing, chatting about nothing, and trying to understand their jokes.

Later I ask the pianist to play me something and I'll work out a song. I get a happy start. Then they grab my notebook away from me and tell me that I'm going to be rich all of them the next day. Their eyes flash in jest. I protest as best I can.

We pack up. The bar is closing. We head into the slightly misty streets.

I like jazz. It's never still. It's movement and spotnaneity. It's streetlights and misty nights and smoky bars. It's water dropping from the leaves of trees, falling into soft puddles on the bricks that our feet encounter as we walk home.


_______
*A "comercio justo" shop I'm starting to get involved with.
**How can a jazz club not have red wine? That, my friends, is a travesty.
***I decided, when I was in my first salsa club here, that if someone asks you to dance, you dance. Especially when it comes to salsa.
****Be yourself. And never forget to enjoy the moment.