Off the Record

You usually cannot see the definitive line between the horizon and the sea here, but today, for some reason, the water is an impenetrable blue and the sky, a satiny white. I saw a short bus full of elderly people on their way back to the home from the supermarket and, as they looked at me, I wondered if they were envious of my youth. As I sat stuck in Mr. Gloppy's Molasses Swamp™ with my little blue gingerbread Candyland™ man, I wondered how a 4-year-old could be so good at a game that involves pure luck. I never realized my life was so much about you until today when I went away and came back again even when I didn't want to stay or know what to say.

Went to a market today. Bought some underwear. Some pants. Some presents for Otis, Libster and Krasure. And I saw a man selling ziploc bags of garlic out of a duffle bag. Probably the most ridiculous thing I've seen since I've been here. It even tops the hideous prostitutes. And the fake boobs on the beach. Then I saw a cute boy, who is the 4th I've seen in 2 months. He was carrying a bag full of water bottles and trailed a soccer team of kids about 13 or 14. We met eyes (well, he met my sunglasses) and passed each other, only to turn back at the same time to check the other out a second time. It was like a Warren Beatty film.

Thank you, Buster, for the Grow a Boyfriend™ who "never snores, never looks at your credit card bills, never argues, always agrees, always shuts up, doesn't chew with his mouth open and doesn't look at you like you're your [sic] nuts when you buy another pair of shoes," and who grows 600% his original size. Also, Buster, thank you for the sticker that reads, "Don't Mess With Texas."

This isn't the first time this has happened; I can recall feeling these emotions, thinking these thoughts and doing these things numerous times before in similar situations. I live (unhappily) in a city for a few months. I am lonely. I am bored. I wish to go home. Then, as soon as I am about to leave, I either find someone or some place or something in myself that makes me want to stay. When I started college, I didn't start to have fun until I broke up with my boyfriend. By that time it was early April, with only 6 weeks of school left. Some of the best 6 weeks of my life. In Geneva I wasn't happy until about 2 months in, when I finally learned the city and its wonders and the awesomeness of living in such a rich country. Now here, in Spain, with three weeks left (can you f'in believe it?), I've met someone (a 22-year-old girl who works at the bakery and speaks perfect English) who I think would have been a major asset in getting me acquainted to this lifestyle earlier on. Why do the very best things happen toward the end? Is it because you're looking forward to the finale and you feel you've got nothing left to lose? Is it because your mind is freer with your sights set on home and you're more open to different things? This happens to me probably twice a year, but I figure it must mean something. Perhaps this time it's a sign that I should come back here. I could be the nanny every summer until little Oscar can drive a car and Inés can pay her own house insurance. Not a bad idea...

He laughed a little too much for her tastes, but, because he was the only one who was willing to sleep next to her at night, she tolerated the giggles as much as she could. His ears were small and his smile reached from one to the other. While walking to work last year, a ball from the St. Joseph's Academy for Boys flew over the fence and got him right in the face, breaking his nose in three places and leaving it slightly bent to the left. He usually tells the story as a "4th grade kickball accident," which it was, but he's embarrassed to admit that he fell victim to a 9-year-old Catholic boy with a name like Thomas O'Leary or Matthew Luke Jameson or George Weatherbaum. The dark hair that sat in a mop on his head was so distributed throughout the rest of his body and his deep blue eyes never failed to light up when he laughed a little too much for her tastes.

It has taken Zero 7's CD "The Garden," conversations with several wise or hilarious or intelligent or caring (or all of the above) people, intense readings of The New Yorker, long hours at the beach, one-on-one time with my tree in a rock and the shedding of 10 pounds, but something recently clicked inside me after struggling with the concept of happiness for several weeks. Yes, yes, it's all clearer now, that meaning of happiness; the feeling of warm woolen mittens and snow satin sashes, and snowballs that sit on my nose and bees that sting when the dog bites.

What: Caga Tio Workshop. When: December 9th. Where: Wherever I'm living. Have you ever wanted to learn more about the Spanish/Catalan culture? Eat the food? Learn the songs and the traditions? Well now you can! All you need to bring is an open mind, your own log and a mild tolerance for the word "shit" to be submerged into the surreal world of one stubborn piece of wood--Caga Tio! It not only poops out candy, but you get to whack it and yell at it until it does! With this step-by-step process created by yours truly, you will discover the songs, the history and the absolute absurdity of this ancient Catalan custom. *Eats, cervezas and decorating supplies will be provided.

Today I showed the Spanish people the true American in me. In congratulating them for last night's ultimate win and series sweep, I wore my Cardinals t-shirt (circa 1982) to the bar I frequent in the evenings. I'm sure no one knew what the hell a red shirt with a white scribble on it meant, but, if someone had said something to me, they would have promptly received a kiss, a handshake, a slap on the ass and a high-five. All in that order. I have watched several professional sports games since arriving in España, and the one that struck me the most was basketball. Why do the Spanish play basketball? Shouldn't they be chasing bulls or throwing tomatoes or flamenco dancing or producing crazy artists? They're short. And they're short-tempered. They're not fit to play basketball. Unless it's against the Serbs, who suffered greatly in their loss to the gazpacho heads on Sunday. As mentioned in an earlier post, the fans of these sports are there only to watch the games or matches--not for the Build-A-Bears or the virtual reality games or the food or drink or gift shops or socialization. It's really a beautiful thing. As is a Cardinals win.

While nearly furious with Oscar for not eating his pear last Friday, he made me laugh in a way I haven't laughed in a very long while. He tried to push the pear piece onto his fork, but it wouldn't get on. He tried to pick it up with his hand only to find it fell right out. Getting frustrated, he looked up at me with those eyes (oh, those eyes!), eyebrows slightly turned upward and lips pouted out and said, "It's slippy!" Hearing a child who is primarily programmed for the Spanish language say the non-existent word "slippy" made my day. No, my week. Actually, it made my month.

And, yes, for all nine years there'd been restraint. There'd been no asking to be told, no asking for promises that the truth was what she heard. There'd been no asking about the girl, how she'd dressed, her voice, her face, and if she only sat there talking, no more than that. For all nine years, there had been silence in their ordinary exchanges, in conversation, in making love, in weekend walks and summer trips abroad. For all nine years, love had been there, and more than just a comforter, too intense for that. It woudn't be a shock, nor even a surprise. He expected no more of her than what she'd given him, and she would choose her moment to say that she must go. He would understand; she would not have to tell him. The best that love could do was not enough, and he would know that also. --William Trevor's "The Room"