aguilas 2.0
When I was seventeen, there were few thrills I found more satisfying than staying out all night gallivanting and boozing in the streets. Being too poor for skydiving or bungee jumping on a regular basis [or ever] I sought my adrenaline rushes in acts of rebellion. I found underage drinking, breaking curfew and sneaking into neighbors’ pools while they were away on vacation or asleep all surefire ways to achieving this heightened sense of invincibility. I rarely needed anything [except for occasionally French fries from Wendy’s] to keep me smiling and flirtatious and quite simply, happily awake, until the morning hours.
Then around twenty-two, my brain and body raised the white flag. Refusing to put up with such continued abuses, all-night extravaganzas became fewer and fewer and I often found myself opting to stay in and watch a movie rather than further develop my social life.
Not surprisingly though, adulthood still brings thrills that I once associated with the aforementioned activities [you’ve got to find your rush somewhere, eh?]; however instead of invincibility in risky behaviors, naughtiness has morphed to take the form of the satisfaction of indulgence: purchasing overpriced lipstick from MAC or Bobbi Brown or a pair of sexy shoes that I can only wear with a specific dress, during a specific season, to a specific type of establishment [for example]; ordering champagne with dinner [or lunch]; and gluttonous desserts. Let’s hear it for chocolate and macaroons, eh?
This past weekend*, the vast majority of Auxiliares in Murcia [who I know, at least] traveled to Aguilas to celebrate Carnaval. It sounded like it would have been a blast. Honestly—despite my ever-growing lameness in the party arena, I’ve never been opposed to costumed debauchery. Unfortunately, it being mid-February it also sounded cold. Really cold. And with the plan being an all-night botellon [outdoor party] in the streets of Aguilas, stumbling on the first train home in the morning I questioned whether or not I could rise to the occasion or if I would be whiney and miserable circa 3 AM with three more hours of “fun” ahead of me.
Debating until Friday evening, I was eventually enticed by the alternative—shopping, cheese, and wine.
Now, let’s be frank: shopping, cheese, or wine could each be considered epic in its own rights, but the combined threat of all three make for a trifecta of awesome. Like, Mentos in Coca-Cola awesome: you know it’s going to be good, but you’re still caught off-guard by the fizzy explosion and the subsequent giggles.
My friend Anthony and I started the day with a Corte Ingles** shopping excursion. “I told Ben to meet us at Santo Domingo in an hour,” he mentioned upon meeting up. “I figured we wouldn’t need that much time for lipstick and shoes.”
Lipstick AND shoes in one hour? Knowing quite well that I could spend an entire afternoon at Tysons oogling at the MAC counter or in Sephora, I traced my memories for any occasion that I had bought even just lipstick in under an hour. Nope, blank.
Enter panic mode.
Feeling pressured and not wanting to be “that girl”, I scooped the first color that remotely resembled what I was looking for, Bobbi Brown’s Lip Color in Chocolate. Yum.
vixenish.
Upon further review, it’s not quite what I had hoped paired with the envisioned hair and outfit, but it adds a little variety to my overwhelming array of reds and pinks. [Just in case you were wondering in the least.] Regardless, it was completely worth the equivalent week’s worth of groceries I parted with to purchase it.
Next up? Wine and cheese fanatics rejoice! We met with Jess and Ben in the Plaza Santo Domingo and walked over to La Lechera de Burdeos—a little spot in Murcia that totally takes the cake. It reeks of stinky queso and while to some this is a total nightmare, for those of us in attendance it was a fantasy. We were presented with a sample of five cheeses and two wines selected and paired by the shop, plus dried fruits, crackers, and membrillo to snack on. I personally dug all of them*** [sopresa, eh?].
"if you give four twenty-somethings a bottle of wine, they're going to ask for a second one to go with it." and maybe a third.
starting the day with deliciousness.
cow, cow, cow, sheep, goat. happy farm family.
Buzzed from wine, but bellies still empty, we then hiked to the Plaza de los Flores for tapas [and Santo Domingo for frozen yogurt—shhhh]. I unfortunately did not record these hours as the tapas were mediocre at best and llaollao, while delicious, is not an altogether infrequent occurrence in my life here. Enough of you have experienced pretty plazas filled with flowers and me eating ice cream. Use your imagination and put the two together. Then fill in the blanks with people speaking Spanish.
at plaza de los flores. this wine? the epitome of ordinary.
At this point in the day, things could have gone in two directions: we break, nap, and then reunite for our much discussed river runs and spin classes, or we give in to ourselves, embrace Aguilas 2.0, and buy more booze.
…
Our sunset champagne river walk proved to be a great success. Somewhat surprisingly with our pace, we even caught the sunset. Regrettably we only bought one bottle of champagne, but quite fortunately happened upon Bar Luky during our meandering. Incredibly cheap beer buckets just as the bubbles run out? Yahp. We’ll take one.
riverside toast. ultimate splurge: plastic champagne flutes.
after a day of corks, anthony is baffled by the bottle top.
mmm: watery beer with a patatas bravas finish.
Six hours after our tapas, hungry yet again, we rounded out our European food tour at an Italian spot in the Plaza de Teatro. I’m salivating just thinking about it. [Or is that from the peanut butter banana sandwich I’m currently devouring?]
risotto&pizza party.
fear not fellow veggies, only not cute animals were harmed in the making of this seafood pizza. (obviously i kid...rest in peace sebastian.)
supersonic(knucklesandwich) salad.
cruet of spicy pizza grease.
italian food and red wine—almost as classic as peanut butter and jelly. maybe more so, if you're not american.
teamwork in recapturing the spirit of rené magritte's "the son of man".
Then?—Onward to an Asturian bar. The cons of this spot? Wine tasted like fermented sheep urine. The pros? A bottle of said fermented sheep urine cost only 3 Euros and there was novelty in drinking it—you pour drinks at your table from a funky easel-like machine that makes it fun. Who doesn’t love fake drinking games?
toy or torture device? ring the bell and find out...
unanimous vote for toy.
Wandering lastly to the Murcian rum bar I finished my night with an Abuelo and Coke. Inhaling the scent of summer I almost forgot that I would soon be stumbling home in the cold.
does that come with sea salt and a tan?
procrastination of goodbye...street corner style.
With big hugs and besitos we departed around a reasonable 2 AM, coming to a group decision that there was no shame in not finishing our drinks—we are adults now, right? Fifteen minutes later I was happy, home, and snug in my bed, drifting into dreams smirking, considering those still in the streets over an hour from home. Exceptional and unexpected, it was my best day in Murcia yet.
And you know what? On Sunday I even got up and went running.
Game over.
*Sometime in mid-February.
**My friend Lisha [who lived in Murcia] told me that Corte Ingles was like if Macy’s and Super Walmart had a baby. This is spot on. But, living in Spain on a 700€/month budget, purchases equate to those made at Whole Foods and Neiman Marcus. They have a bit of a paper-cut sting.
***In reality, the cheese was actually pretty delicious, but something about eating that much mold as the powder flaked on my hands and teeth freaked me out enough to shake my taste buds into thinking it was poisonous.
thawing out.
Much like a bear, I like to hibernate through winter. While I don’t sleep without pause for months on end [though sometimes I’d like to] I do retire to my apartment, often to my bedroom or bed, where I wear fleece pants, hide beneath piles of warm blankets and sit as close to the fire as possible without melting all the synthetic materials I’ve snuggly wrapped myself in. Occasionally I emerge when work or a trip to the grocery store requires it, but infrequent as these occurrences are, I am usually groggy, grouchy, and disinterested in whatever activity you want me to partake in. I wish this wasn’t the case. But it is, and I’ve accepted it: I’m made for the tropics, and when wearing shorts no longer becomes the comfortable norm my attitude can become as frigid as the weather.
January and February in Murcia were bitterly cold. My father, who checks the weather here daily, will probably argue against this point; he knows that temperatures never dipped below freezing. But I, living in this not unlike desert-ish climate, know that the cold here was much, much worse than whatever claims Wunderground and Weather.com have made. Thermometers evidenced a mild winter, but the humidity made the chill penetrating and despite layering up like a marshmallow puff, my body never adjusted.
Hence: I haven’t posted in over a month. Quite frankly, I have done absolutely nothing worth blogging about…the peak of my entertainment and exploration has been through twenty or so new movies and television series. I haven’t felt inspired. But with the turning weather, it’s time to reemerge from my cave and return to the life I love living.
Three weeks ago I saw crocuses sprouting and knew I was in the home stretch. Now here I am welcoming spring with open arms. Gone are the days of sleeping in a winter jacket and scarf. Hello cut-offs and sandals. God willing, in two weeks time I will even have the opportunity to wear the other 80% of my wardrobe. Wah-freaking-hoo.
it’s all in the cards.
Today I hang my head in shame in confessing to having had a complete meltdown in the public eye not once, but twice, over a span of no more than an hour.
[Insert embarrassed emoticon here.]
Let’s recap:
Last night denoted the death of one of the most significant relationships of my life. Though I’ve excelled in the art of creating distance from my ex and our relationship, mostly in an effort to stay focused on the present, I’ve yet to have a day since leaving Panama where I haven’t feet nostalgic for the love and happiness we shared this summer. I think instinctively I knew the ending to this story was inevitable, but that didn’t assuage the emptiness and numbness I felt upon being explained to the impossibility of being friends. I went to sleep feeling more lonely than I had in weeks.
Then I woke up this morning [January 9th] feeling calm. Sleep had brought me a sense of inner peace, and though I was not quite “okay”, I also wasn’t wallowing in melancholy, lamenting in bed to Bon Iver and Taylor Swift. In an effort to divert my lingering attentions, I figured I’d spend the first part of my day investigating a seemingly solvable problem, namely figuring out why my Spanish bank card was consistently failing to function—in stores, online and at the ATM. Having spent October, November and December acting more like an intern than a paid employee of the Murcian community, I was eager to get my hands on some cash, which would be promptly followed by the spending of it on a winter jacket and hairdryer [and maybe a weekend getaway to Paris to mollify any remaining bits of feeling sorry for myself].
However, in my efforts to detangle the mess, the web only became more complicated and my emotional state more on edge. Upon arriving at Santander, I was informed that my failing card was the result of a lack of funds: I had exactly 15€ in my account. After a somewhat confused argument as to where the other 1400€ were, I exchanged my composure at the counter window for wet, messy tears and a bad temper before storming out of the bank [only briefly disrupted by the security doors] to the Office of Education.
As expected, our program head was not at her desk. [She keeps odd hours, that woman.] Fortunately, as more tears started to build other initially resistent department members recognized the presence of a bomb in the building and eventually took action.
Due to an inexplicable error, I soon learned that the account number on my bank certificate, which was required by my program for payment and obtained directly from the bank when my account was opened, did not match any of my other bank documents. So, while I wasn’t actually jipped pay, those hard earned October and November dollars never reached their final destination—quite similar to how packages shipped from the United States to Spain also never reach their final destinations. Hearing that payment would be delayed at least another week [we’re now at seventeen days and counting] I lost every ounce of maturity and professionalism and Tazmanian Devil-style erupted into anger, frustration and—yes! you guessed it!—more tears. It is truly a curse on my dignity that being in the public presence does nothing for my control.
But then—enlightenment! Beauty in the breakdown!
While ostensibly it appeared that my tantrum was precipitated by these two occurrences [neither of which are entirely negligible occasions], after quiet contemplation it seems that these issues merely catalyzed collapse. I have come to understand that today [and past tantrums] illustrates something [much] bigger: I’m suffocating. And it’s not from lack of funds or winter weather or commitment to and feeling trapped in one location. It’s because I deny myself the human condition of honesty with, acceptance of and verbal expression of my own emotions. [Ooof. So deep, right?]
But seriously, I have struggled for much of my life wrestling with emotions; like ants in the kitchen, I have always found them to be a nuisance. I started believing at a young age that expression of certain sentiments didn’t make you a more honest or beautiful or whole person, but exemplified your weaknesses. I sometimes like to claim that I wear an external armor of tin, which holds a lot of the “mushy gushy” in.
This isn’t necessarily to say I’m cold or that I lack a heart. I am compassionate, thoughtful and I love, if anything too often and too deeply. I’m not a robot, quite the contrary—I’m a twenty-four year old female! I let hormones get the best of me. I unabashedly cry during movies and on more than one occasion commercials have brought me to tears. I love, laugh and hurt. I experience guilt, irritation and disappointment just like everyone else.
However, for fear of embarrassment, rejection or judgment, I rarely let people in beyond my front gate, instead amassing a collection of over-syrupy sentiments, doubts and frustrations in my emotional file cabinet where I persistently ignore them and hope that eventually they will all just go away. As an “emotional cockroach of complete and utter devastation” I have a knack for survival, but haven’t had much practice with verbal self-expression. Instead, when the overfilled file cabinet bursts open, I often act out visually—intense, raw emotion occasionally dished in the form of unpredictable and misdirected anger or immature behavior [i.e. public breakdowns].
I hold my “breath” and shut people out in times of mental stress or confusion, just as I do during physical activity during moments when surrendering to breath is critical. I ignore the quintessential “find your center, find your breath” mantra of yoga and in the weight room as my muscles threaten to give out on me, I counteract with furrowed eyebrows, flushed cheeks and a facial expression that screams constipation.
Though these inner and outer asphyxiations occur unconsciously, they have tremendous effects. They create an impenetrable barrier between my mind, my body, my spirit and the oxygenation of these vital elements of my being. I constantly fight the natural ebb and flow of life, and unfortunately for me it’s a losing battle.
On the eve of my departure from Virginia my friend and mentor Jocelyn suggested I do an oracle reading before heading to Panama. Always eager for meditative guidance, I pulled three cards, one to represent each part of my then intended journey: Virginia, and the life I was leaving behind; Panama, my immediate future of summertime sunshine, hula hoops and cocktails; and Spain, my not so far-future of teaching, learning and gallivanting through Europe. For Virginia I drew “Courage”, for Panama, “Beloved One” and for Spain, “Breathe”. In “Courage” and “Beloved One” I felt a surge of inspiration and excitement—they were cards of strength and discovery. But “Breathe” drew concern. Lost in my glorified image of the tropical paradise lifestyle I was headed toward, the card turned me off—it seemed boring. Not to mention caused momentary panic—quite literally, I read: “Spain will only bring frustration!” It felt like someone had just dumped the Queen of Spades on my perfect game—that murdering vixen of any chance at victory.
But having been given time to consider this card, I’m realizing the impact that the presence “Breathe” can have in my life. It’s a reminder to inhale and exhale slowly, deeply and consistently [sounds like scuba, no?] giving way to life’s natural rhythms. It helps me to recognize that having feelings and vocalizing them is not a vulnerability or crack in my armor, that these mini-meltdowns and barriers I’ve put up are actually some of my greatest weaknesses; and, that in order to grow during my journey as I hope to, I must acknowledge and accept my sensitivities even if they make me uncomfortable [which, at this point in time, they make me feel as though I’ve just stepped barefoot in gooey grape jelly on a hot summer day]. It prompts me to be a good host—opening my doors and inviting friends in for tea instead of making them climb through windows. And encourages me to let go of all-consuming, smothering logic and allow my heart’s voice be heard as well.
the partridge in her pear tree.
Up until this year, I’ve contentedly spent Christmas cozied up in pajamas next to a gas fireplace, staking claim on my entirely too appropriate “Partridge in a Pear Tree” wine glass, watching the Grinch and encouraging a high enough alcohol consumption that no one issues a mandate on attending evening church services. Lacking all of the aforementioned prerequisites for such a day, this year I was forced to find a suitable alternative.
the partridge in her pear tree.
christmas trees are universal?
Here in Spain, on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays I travel to Abarán, a town about thirty minutes to the north of Murcia, where I spend my days fumbling through elementary Spanish, hugging adorable children who give me rainbow colored cards declaring that I’m the greatest thing since Barbie and Spiderman [ego boost, chyeah] and working side-by-side with an amazing staff. I’m incredibly fortunate to have been placed at Virgen del Oro. It’s a happy little place filled with big personalities, loud laughter and an apparent sense of camaraderie amongst employees. I have heard stories from other Auxiliares who have painted their time at school more like a parole sentence than an experience abroad, and I’ve often found myself thankful that my employment is spent more so with friends than just co-workers.
VdO staff luncheon and ... beauty pageant?
Most significantly impacting my teaching experience in Spain has been the head English teacher at the school. Enter, Amor: my fun, funky and undeniably hilarious mentor who has led me through the basics of teaching and helped me get acquainted with all things involving tapas and good wine.
practicing.
Already previously impressed by the blatant awesomeness of her extended family, having spent a weekend with them this past fall, I welcomed the offer to celebrate “La Noche Buena” in their home. I’m a sucker for warm fuzzy holiday moments, and since I’m a big believer in familial indulgence this time of year, the invite was irresistible.
cookies and carrots for dinner.
The party didn’t start until 10:30 PM and it lasted until 7:00 AM, totally discharging my previously conceived notion that Christmas Eve should start when I wake up and end respectably by midnight or before. My mother instilled in me at a young age the importance of giving Santa ample time to stuff stockings and arrange packages…wouldn’t want him forgetting to leave your Easy-Bake Oven under the tree. Alas, on this side of the Atlantic even baby Elena was still wide-eyed with wonder at 3:00 AM.
behbeh elena defining stamina.
I substituted Gouda for Brie, soup for salad and volcanoes for pie. “Gambas” replaced cocktail meatballs and there was lamb instead of ham. Ice cream was still served because there is not a rational soul in this world who does not appreciate a bowl of that frozen, slow-melting goodness. Despite our cultural differences, I found that along with the ice cream, many familiarities of Christmas in Virginia had made their way into my Spanish celebration. Gifts were exchanged, Trivial Pursuit was present, wine was spilled on new tablecloths and embarrassing stories and subsequent humiliation became unavoidable as the hours passed and the night rolled on.
carving the roast beast.
i'm not quite ready for kids.
no christmas eve is complete without trivial pursuit.
real sons gloss their mums' lips.
There was a panoply of alcohol, and enough was guzzled that I happily led my hosts through a variety of English Carols, including Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer and Here Comes Santa Claus. I learned how to play an instrument that I still can’t pronounce in Spanish—in English it’s something to the effect of “stick of bamboo”—and five were bequeathed to me upon my departure. Looks like I’ll be bringing a new tradition home to the Thom house next year…
fast track to palm bruising.
enthusiastically singing "villancicos".
because i wasn't loud enough already.
“that apple ‘jus’ was frothing.”
“The Cultural Experience”
Exiting the plane in Marrakech was like stepping off a spaceship on a mission to Mars. Aside from the fact that I wasn’t wearing a spacesuit, and it took a mere 12 hours to reach my destination [instead of a gargantuan 214 days], my presence in Morocco was about as foreign or unfamiliar as peanut butter in your spaghetti.
Being the independent and carefree person that I am, I arrived in Marrakech with no more of a plan than “my flight home is the morning of the 13th”.
Fahking brilliant.
I was in Marrakech for a total of four days Couch Surfing with two local boys I had met online. Despite the good nature of the two gentlemen, I was not cut out to travel this city alone. I felt like a fish out of water and my inability to speak a lick of Arabic or French coupled with my long blonde hair essentially put a giant target on my body and left me carrying a sign that said “I’m a young American”. As even buying some fruit next door was frustratingly difficult, venturing out to explore alone was almost impossible.
making tea like a pro.
commence pomegranate obsession.
square filled with hundreds of snakes. *shudders*
yves saint laurent garden.
Saturday was a day of experience. Without going into all the nitty gritty details, I’ll include some of the highlights in the form of lessons learned:
Café, conveniently, is a mostly universal term. Pomegranate, however, is not. “Jus de pomme” is in fact frothy white milk and pureed apple. Two things I dislike in drink form. SURPRISE!
coffee + book = bliss. to the left?--an excuse for apple juice.
When wearing a headscarf, you will be less often harassed. However, do not speak to anyone. Should you try locals will assume you are a) foreign or b) stupid.
embracing culture.
Do not trust homemade “vegetarian” dishes, unless you are prepared to bawl your eyes out and vomit until you bleed. [Future references to this will only be listed as the “incident”.]
death by cous-cous. not a good way to go.
Ashen and exhausted after the “incident”, my host suggested a trip to the baths. Steam filled rooms and hot water sounded therapeutic after my insides had taken their revenge, so I trucked along with towel and shampoo in hand to the local bathhouse. There I was dragged [literally] into the wash area and scrubbed mercilessly by an older naked Moroccan woman with boobs the size of small watermelons. I am fit to describe them accurately because they knocked me in the face over and over again. I eventually lost count of how many times it happened because she scrubbed my skin so hard I started crying in the bathhouse. Fortunately my tears were hidden by buckets of water simultaneously being thrown overtop of my body. Next time I go [never] I will practice how to say “ouch” and “you’re hurting me” in Arabic beforehand. When I finally emerged I was terrified, scraped, bruised and clean.
Part one of my trip did capitalize on its opportunity to redeem itself on Sunday.
I went with my host to visit his family about an hour cab ride outside of Marrakech. What a lucky guy to have such a loving family. His grandmothers were absolutely adorable [grandparents can be adorable, right?] and his parents were warm and welcoming, so proud of their home and their children. We threw formalities aside easily enough and I went straight to feeling like an insider for the day. After three suffocating days in the city, it was reviving to be in the countryside.
welcome tea <3.
olive pulp. moroccan olive oil is orgasmic. fer serious.
this does the atlas range no justice.
moroccan make-up.
henna par-tay.
like playing in the mud--only way better.
“The Holiday”
You can walk the length of Taghazout in no more than five minutes. The restaurants boast nearly identical menus. There is no alcohol available, despite the town being overrun with foreigners, and much of the food on the shelves in the stores has expired. Here you buy your dinner fresh, which means selecting your fish and chickens live or nearly so and allowing the experts kill and prepare the carcass in front of you. There is not a single ice cream shop that exists. There is thankfully, however, a readily available and abundant supply of peanut M&Ms.
Coming from Marrakech, Taghazout was an oasis and I fell in love when the first bit of sunshine hit my vitamin d-deficient face. I arrived mid-afternoon and proceeded to wander around lost for thirty minutes. In order to hide my confusion I snapped pictures, though I think eventually all the stuff I was carrying gave away my act. Eventually, bogged down by two backpacks and the wrong trekking shoes, I accepted my inability to navigate this new place and locate Africa Extrem. I gave in to help when a non-threatening surfer type asked [in English] if I needed somewhere to stay. [You can always trust a surfer, right?]
forever a beach baby. ::le sigh::
Phone calls were made and ESP messages were sent. Manager Younes picked me up and dropped me off at the hostel where I was warmly welcome by three Spaniards. I was offered vegetarian tajine, which I hungrily accepted—“You’re certain this is vegetarian, right?” [Happiness had reached an all-time high. Dry tears streamed down my face.]
tea time is all the time.
At Africa Extrem, I found myself surrounded by travelers like myself, which made it hard to break off and enter the blood-curdling world of solo travel in Morocco once again. In fact, I became so comfortable there, that I cancelled my other non-existent plans and bummed around the beach for the rest of my trip. [Oops?]
i dig on monocles.
my star student.
new friends. from all ovaa tha mothafahkin' planet. credit: tom
camels: not just for the desert anymore. credit: tom
My first few days surfing were spent splashing around in the whitewater [though never without a wearing a shit-eating grin], though by my last day I was making [a teeny tiny itsy bitsy] bit of progress and regretted not showing up to my “holiday” portion of the trip at the start. Turns out that despite the frigid waters of the north-ish Atlantic, that surfing was the most fun I’ve had at the beach since I was eleven playing “over/under” with Mia and Lily.
the most important rule? make your "wetty" look good.
Since returning to Spain, I’ve demonstrated to my students how to stand up on a surfboard nearly slipping to the ground as I did so. [So help me if I'm not the first person ever to demonstrate brilliance in some sort of surf/hoop combination.] I’ve perfected my roundhouse kick so that next time I see Tom and Sean I can give them both a shin to the face—at the same time. I have come to believe whole-heartedly in upping my cool factor to eleven by ending all words with “-y/-ies”, to hell if it doesn’t make sense: “I’m going to cook up some garbanzies for the dinny in my sunnies,” [or something]. I have become more confident in my use of words such as “toyed”, “keen”, “frothing” and “pumping”, though admittedly they are dropped out of context. [Looks like learning Australian is going to take time.] My M&M snacking habit has intensified by ten-fold and shows no signs of being abated in the near future. I’ve been bit by the travel bug again and am starting to pursue future trips and plans post-Spain.
I miss the beach more than ever, but am glad to be safely home in a familiar world of “vale”s and “venga”s.
welcome home, maddy.
[Someone tell me why my captions in edit mode are way prettier than when previewed and published. OCD tendencies rearing their ugly heads again...]
thanksgiving: the best holiday in the WHOLE WIDE WORLD.
In 2009 I was foolishly head-over-heels in “like” with my boyfriend. So seriously that I opted to spend my “all-time most favorite holiday ever” with his family instead of mine. The Tuesday before Thanksgiving I was thrilled as I packed my things and thought about the adventure I was about to have. Even by Wednesday I was only partially regretting my decision as we ran errands in the cold of Connecticut for unfamiliar foods and I was introduced to an alien family in a house that was not my own. But when I awoke Thanksgiving morning to find that the mother of the house had stuffed Tom Turkey with the dressing I had so painstakingly made vegetarian, I was ready to throw change and adventure out the window and seek out a one-way plane ticket back to Dulles that would have me home for our 3:00 meal. Talk about a lesson learned: you don’t mess with family days and you definitely don’t mess with tradition.
This year, in Spain, I admittedly had my concerns. Living abroad in a country that not only doesn’t celebrate Thanksgiving, but also doesn’t even know what it is? All the while being a vegetarian who doesn’t even celebrate it “properly”?
“Good grief,” I thought. “I’m totally eff-bombing screwed.” [Yes, I actually think things like “eff-bombing”.]
But as we went around the table last Thursday*, the group of American, Canadian and European auxiliares that I have come to call my friends here, sharing what we were thankful for, I realized that despite the absence of my own family and fireplace, a bottomless mimosa, the Macy’s Day Parade and American football, somehow I still felt right at home.
Like so many other auxiliares, I came to Spain two months ago completely alone: without friends, without family, without language, without culture. My mom didn’t even let me bring along a stuffed elephant pillow because she said I would look like a child. [Pffft. Thanks Ma!] Having had a similar experience this summer, I was mostly numb to culture shock that many experienced upon arrival. However, recognizing the sentimental girl in me, I braced myself for a bout of homesickness come the cold weather and holiday season.
Fortunately, after last Friday, I’ve realized that my future “non-traditional” holiday experiences don’t always have to match my 2009 mistake. On Friday, as I sat around looking at all of my new friends, I realized that even after a short period, Murcia had already become my home, and that all of these people who I sat sharing dinner with were an integral part of my life here. They were the only ones in the world who could relate to my recent experience. They, who had shared in my excitement, my happiness, my loneliness and my frustrations over the past two months; they, more than any friends or family back home, truly understood how I was feeling and just how grateful I was to have people to share Thanksgiving with.
And at some point it dawned on me that they felt the same way. [Oh gosh warm fuzzy holiday cheer…here we go!] That this small group of individuals who I’ve come to rely on for so much in my everyday life—comfort, compassion, friendship, support and occasionally llaollao or vegetables from the market, things that my friends and family cannot contribute to on a daily scale from thousands of miles away—relied on me for the same things. That they have come to trust me as I trust them and that in some brilliant way the circumstances of our lives in Spain have also allowed us to develop a certain reliance and dependence on one another much as my own family would back home.
So as the holiday season ploughs forward and more advent calendar chocolates are consumed, I raise my metaphorical glass in a toast to family, in whatever form you may find them.
*Late post, I KNOW.
ten things i learned in panama.
1. A few bugs in your cereal are nothing to worry about.
If you wake up one morning and find that seemingly overnight your tightly packed bag of sugar has miraculously been penetrated by a colony of ants and has since become their new breeding ground, it’s probably time to cut your losses and toss it; however, if you find the a couple of them crawling on and around your $7 box of Froot Loops, you can breathe a sigh of relief and reach for the milk. So literally applied to food in Panama, this idea can also be aptly transferred to representing lifestyle changes that I forced myself to make while living in Bocas.
Let’s face it: I’m a total control freak. Perhaps not so intensely as some people, but I admit that I frequently find it hard to keep from berating the Subway sandwich maker as he/she so carelessly crafts what could be a perfectly delicious lunch. […and that’s just one illustration!] In traveling to Panama though, I quickly found that I didn’t have the time or energy to freak out over everything: noisy sleeping situations, lost shoes, constantly being sweaty, the same spatula being used on the vegetables and [gasp!] chicken on the grill and began to see the “big picture”. Whenever I felt my internal frustrations nearing eruption I would take a deep breath and remind myself that I lived in a tropical paradise—a very clear step up from the misery of the desk job I previously held.*
2. Trust yourself, take care of yourself and have faith in the universe.
When you’re adventuring thousands of miles from any sort of familiarity, these are three rules to live by. Take care of yourself by eating fruits and vegetables even if they cost more than fried patacones, wear sunscreen, get some sleep every once in a while and try not to be a total jack*ss while out drinking or you might land yourself in an underfunded hospital or foreign jail—wahoo?! As a solo traveler, you’re all you’ve got! [She exclaimed.] Despite all the friends you’re making, when your body or mind takes a spill, you can’t necessarily assume you and your friends will still be traveling the same path and that they’ll able to run to the store for that Gatorade or Cipro that you desperately need.
When at home, keep a focus on revitalizing yourself through nutritious food, adequate sleep and EXERCISE. I let work run me into the ground, which is easy to do in the DC area. So caught up in my financial needs, I completely disregarded that my body and brain were calling out for attention. If your inner voice throws up a red flag, don’t let these cries go unanswered.
Additionally, let universal energies and that nagging feeling in your gut tag team as your guide. Maybe your body isn’t calling out for exercise, but you feel compelled to capitalize on an opportunity that crosses your path.
DO IT.
Whatever it is, do it.** Since quitting my job I’ve become a big believer in the universe sending us messages, but we have to be open to these messages and ready to receive them. I had felt the pull in the past, but it wasn’t until May when I received a metaphorical smack in the face that I really started listening and appreciating what I was being told to do.
3. Scuba divers have more fun than normal people.
This one is really quite simple: scuba diving is fahhhking awesome. There’s a whole entire world beneath the sea just waiting to be explored and discovered, and if you dig at all on nature, it’s a world you definitely don’t want to miss. With that said, the people who seem drawn to diving are perhaps a bit competitive and sometimes quite arrogant, but overall total gems—they seem to share an appreciation for life and learning and seek to inspire others to find that same passion in the underwater world. Think of diving and divers as the six-year-old backyard explorers—totally giddy on the discovery of a new secret hideout.
4. Love as hard as you can.
Months ago a friend told me that this is what life’s about: loving as hard as you can with the time that you are given. Since that conversation, the phrase has struck a chord in my life and inspired me to love with my whole heart, everyone, every place, everything, all of the time. And so far on this path I have found that staying present and opening one’s self to experience brings contentedness, which in turn facilitates happiness. [Talk about a mouthful.]
I quit my job and moved to Panama [and now Spain] with the intention of seeking knowledge and on a path of self-discovery. I wanted to learn whom I was when stripped of the comforts of home: my family, my friends, my things, my language. I had found at home that on my darkest days [or even merely gloomy days] I sought comfort and happiness in the wrong places, namely other people, and I hoped that this move would be the first step in learning to rely on myself.
In a town full of travelers it is easy to remain distant from people—making lots of acquaintances, but less often true friends. And sometimes the transient nature of Bocas muddled my understanding of relationships and friendships—I felt that every time I started to develop something with another human being, that person would move on to his or her next destination. This was beneficial in helping me along my own path, though quite honestly was also exhausting. Though I started to rely on myself for smiles, I frequently found that I had my guard up, wanting to avoid the hurt of losing another person I cared about.
Then I started spending time with a Bocas local, Alex. In the beginning I found it difficult to allowing him to share in my life; I was focused on the future—my inevitable flight home on September 21st marked the expiration date on my life in Bocas—and didn’t want to become absorbed in another at such a selfish point in my life. However, spending time with him helped to refocus this original consideration. My days in Panama were limited; why would I waste even a single minute outside of living in bliss if I didn’t have to?
And with that I allowed myself to love more than I had in my first weeks there: the people, the island, the food, the lifestyle—everything became richer, more colorful, more spectacular than it had before. He helped me open my eyes to a Bocas I had failed to see previously—through the eyes of a local, someone who knew and could share with me the ins and outs of my then home, instead of a backpacker who was merely passing through.
In theory, this one is easy. In practice?—Perhaps not. I’m not saying I get it quite right all the time, but taking a few deep breaths every so often and reopening myself to loving energies has definitely allowed me to stay present in this goal.
5. Dance as if no one is watching.
As a silly Gringa in a Latino country I couldn’t hope to impress many on the dance floor with my general lack of grace [and comparative lack of curves]; however, I didn’t let that stop me from dancing all over town, alcohol induced or not. Furthermore, regardless of my barely functioning knowledge of the national language, I didn’t let the inability to roll my “R”s or properly use the subjunctive stop me from trying to communicate in the local language.
Initially I was apprehensive having forgotten the vast majority of Spanish I learned during the eight years I studied it. [Did I sleep through my entire high school and college education?...Possibly.] Most intimidating was facing the relentless teasing from my then boyfriend*** and his family, who were fluent in not one, not two, but three languages.
But faced with the dilemma of potentially acting like a fool and embarrassing myself or regretting never having tried, thoughts of my future in Spain started creeping up and I realized I had to start somewhere. Driven by happiness [and sometimes booze] I dove into the language head first, learning some key Panamanian phrases and body parts…none of which serve me any purpose here in Spain seeing as no one is Panamanian and I don’t have a boyfriend. But that is clearly not the point…
6. There is no such thing as a nomadic packrat.
I have the clear markings of a future packrat [though am in complete denial]. I claim that I can throw things out, and I do the occasional major overhaul when the clutter becomes too much, but for the most part, I like saving “things”: books, articles, clothes, ticket stubs; anything that I associate with a particular memory.
But even if I were the offspring of Chuck Norris, Hulk Hogan and the Jolly Green Giant [yes, all three], or a super-mutant human-sized ant, it would still be impractical [though great exercise] to lug around a growing pile of “things” with me everywhere I traveled.****
For the first time in Panama, the impossibility of holding onto EVERYTHING was more than apparent. I left clothes, bed sheets, books and even many of my precious hula hoops in Bocas, and surprisingly, I don’t miss them [okay, maybe I miss the hula hoops].
7. Every place has its beauties and its faults.
Beach-bumming it full-time in a tropical paradise is what most people dream of [I know I did]: I was minutes from uninterrupted stretches of white sand and crystal clear water, wore a swimsuit to work, woke up to the most amazing fruit smoothies and coffee and was rarely seen without a flower in my hair.
During my time abroad however, life wasn’t entirely papayas and mangos. I rode a roller coaster of emotional extremes, frequently trigged by my constant inner battle of being present, content and therefore able to seize the amazing opportunities I was faced with everyday, while simultaneously fighting a constant frustration with those elements of life and Panamanian culture that I did not appreciate or understand.
While this lesson is not so much to say I didn’t fully appreciate Panama—trust me, I did. It’s only to say that Washington DC isn’t quite so bad as I once made it out to be. It has its hidden gems just like any place on earth, though having spent twenty-some odd years there, I was numb to the brilliance of the place I called home. It took being thousands of miles away for a few months, finding another place worthy of being “home”, to re-fall in love with everything DC has to offer.
8. There are few things that can’t be solved by a day spent on the beach, a yoga class and lunch with SBK or passion fruit pie.
Find outlets for stress before you hit your breaking point. When you’re surrounded by exotic beauty, this isn’t hard to do, but is sometimes more difficult in a concrete jungle of schedules, deadlines and voicemail. Whether it’s a cup of tea, a new lipstick, a manicure/pedicure or a McDonald’s Big Mac, allow yourself to indulge when you’re having a particularly rainy day. Don’t let any of these things become crutches to your daily or even weekly well-being, but if calling out sick and going to yoga class and lunch with one of your best friends is the only fix to whatever your ailment—this is one of those times where you definitely shouldn’t feel guilty about faking it.
9. When you walk and bike everywhere, you don’t have to deny yourself…ever.
Despite an ever-growing fear that I was packing on the pounds in Panama, I miraculously ended up losing weight. Surprised at this upon returning to the states, it dawned on me [Eureka!] that while I loaded up on carbohydrates and ate a pack of peanut M&Ms or a cup of ice cream drowned in sprinkles almost every day, I was also exercising nearly non-stop. Welcome to the wonderful world of NOT HAVING A CAR. Forced to rely on these things we call legs, I’ve developed a new love for movement and who’d have thought it—my body too!
10. Order off the menu.
This lesson is an extremely important one and was unfortunately, in my case, not realized until my OCD tendencies and control issues were quieted back on my home turf [where I was thankful to be able to order whatever I wanted however I wanted—amurukuh: fahk yah].
According to my own studies, statistics show that redesigning something on the menu to fit your needs or wants causes your meal to end up sucking 100% of the time. [To put it bluntly…] Assuming you are a gambler, you might enjoy partaking in so risky a game. However, as a strict vegetarian with a lack of patience, I quite often found myself nearing a temper tantrum when presented with my lunch of lettuce-stuffed enchiladas or cabbage-filled vegetable sushi.
Order what’s offered and suck it up if it’s not exactly what you’re in the mood for. There’s a reason that something gets put on the menu—it’s a dish that is prepared well and tastes properly. Be adventurous in your decision-making, just leave your creative juices to building sand castles.
*Note: Though surprisingly successful, this tactic did not always work as I still resent being charged the “gringa” price for boat rides all summer despite my residency on the island.
**Note: This does not include accepting rides from strangers, cliff-diving into shallow water or participating in any other completely idiotic and life-threatening activities.
***Note: Furthering my confidence, this same wonderful boyfriend told me I was a terrible dancer [except when I had a hula hoop in hand]. Pffft.
****Note: On my Christmas list this year is a bag under an Undetectable Extension Charm. Preferably beaded just like Hermione’s, but I’ll take what I can get.
goodbye dc, hello paradise.
When it comes to technical writing—essays, analytical pieces, research papers—I’m remarkably confident in my ability to “wow” the reader with logical thought, cohesive writing and exceptional organization. For some reason, however, when asked to write a creative piece [such as a blog, for example] that confidence and gusto walks straight at the door and leaves me with a rambling, wandering piece, where by the end of my writing session I can barely remember what point I was trying to make [assuming I even had one at all].
I’ve struggled for almost a week now with how exactly to introduce myself to the world of blogging, wanting to develop a first post that captured the essence of my theme and my being in a playful and clever way. After days of stress and struggle, however, I’ve come to the conclusion that it is just not going to happen quite as I had initially envisioned. I’m not so proficient a writer that I have the ability to captivate my audience if I’m not, in that moment, feeling inspired myself. Fortunately, after a Sunday afternoon spent totally blissed out in DC, I’ve rediscovered that happiness that made me decide to start a blog—this blog—in the first place.
After a long day of cleaning my room: organizing closets, throwing away unnecessary memories, packing up storage bins and doing laundry—I was ready for a much needed nap… instead, I went with my friend Anna and her dog Lola down to Malcolm X [Meridian Hill] Park in DC for the weekly Sunday afternoon drum circle.
MXP [as the park is lovingly called by regular attendees] is, for lack of a more sophisticated term, a truly magical place. [So magical, in fact, that I sometimes find pure joy and emotion inhibits my ability to express the vibrancy and happiness that pervades the park and drum circle participants appropriately in words. Fortunately, the Washingtonian captured its quintessence in this article.]
The park is an organism that comes to life around 3 PM, peaking around 6:30, when its rumbling heartbeat can be heard from the street as the sounds of drums and whistles reverberate off of surrounding buildings. While the drummers are the engine driving the machine, also adding fuel to the fire are the other participants: the barefooted bohemians who arrive with yoga mats, hula hoops, art supplies and slacklines in tow. A first-time observer will quickly realize that the event is a mixing bowl of cultures, personalities and quirks, tied together by a common thread of love and an interest in making new friends and sharing knowledge. There is a certain warmth present in the people there, best understood through experience. Attend with an open mind and an open heart and there’s a good chance you’ll leave having tried hula hooping, juggling or acroyoga and even, perhaps, starred in a low-budget movie or music video. It is this apparent ability to approach strangers to be greeted with a warm smile and handshake or and an immediate invitation to come and take part in whatever they happen to be doing that brings me back week after week after week: it’s drum circle love.
Being at the drum circle fills me with comfort, with love and happiness and fullness that reminds me just how essential being able to connect with people is to my own wellbeing. Hula hooping? Reading? Cooking? Climbing?—all of these activities have contributed to how I’ve come to see myself. But at the core, it’s not these hobbies themselves that fill my heart with radiating joy, most often it’s the people I meet through my interest in these things, the friendships that are facilitated, the lives that I touch and the contributions these people make to how I understand myself, that put a smile on my face.
I’ve spent years now daydreaming of travel—seeing the world and learning through experience. After working hard for the past year, behind a desk at a company that was like a vacuum for positive energy, I finally feel that mentally, emotionally and financially it is my time to embark on an adventure. And while leaving all of my friends and family in the DMV will be bittersweet, for once I am not worried about “missed opportunities” at home. Because the drum circle serves as a reminder that the world is filled with amazing people, I just have to be open to share love when I encounter them.
So here’s to seizing opportunities, treasuring human interactions, and seeking out inspiration, enlightenment and passion in whatever form they make take in my travels throughout the world.
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