masks have disappeared
and gladiolas make swords
that fight loneliness
paper, markers, crayons
scattered dolls, books, and trinkets
their creative Spain
wheat.
it’s my favorite Spanish word
learned in studies
to present the idea of hay
for Halloween
for me?
wheat beer,
an entire liter.
we walked across town
in search of the path
that would lead our girls
to a view of 2000 years of history
we were interrupted
by clients who thought
1.5 liters of beer
could never be enough
we walked across town,
our children in tow
and this is my Spain
as pure as anything,
the real beer,
the Pilsner to top it off,
and the warmth we swam an ocean for–
our kids’ words intermingled
like love in a basket
Trigo
wheat
it’s what makes us
who we are
Gibraltar New Year
British colonial Spain
i think it makes sense
You can’t predict this. That your day will begin before dawn and end later than most people in America would consider working. Hell, in Spain, too, though they sure as hell don’t mind hiring me to work that late!
There was no way of knowing, before I came here, how much homework my daughters would have. How intimidating and complex it could be, while I sit with my translate app ready to look up the English version of words like slither, spinal, and homonym. How much time this would take out of the exceedingly brief time I have with them each day. How I could lose sleep over how early I need to set the alarm, because what if Mythili fails her science test or Riona doesn’t have a chance to read aloud to me or Isabella can’t retell the story of Jesus saving all and bringing his followers to the kingdom of heaven when she’s never heard these stories in English to compare them to??
This isn’t my singular problem. I have come up with a new theory (yet again) about Spain. Since I spend most of my day not with my family but with Spaniards, I hear all kinds of stories and details about their culture. Students commonly spend 4-5 hours a night completing homework, and parents often take classes themselves, for professional development, French, English, you name it. Not because they’re looking forward to a salary increase, mind you. Because they want to learn. Week nights are essential to their incremental increase of knowledge.
Studying and working so intensely, especially between the days of Monday through Thursday, are as much a part of this culture as sacred meal times, siesta, and family-only weekends. Yes, they may live for vacations, but they work their asses off in between times so that they can enjoy them!
So when I had a few clients tonight mention to me that next Thursday is (yet another) fiesta, and “will you be working?” I almost answered no. But I’m just too damn American. I want to say, “You do realize that if I don’t work, I don’t get paid, right? And that I have a family?” But I just tell them, “Yes, I’m working,” to which they respond with, “OK… well it is a holiday, so we’ll call you next Wednesday to let you know if we’re taking a trip or not.”
It’s almost laughable! I can’t imagine planning a trip the day before I take it! Just like I can’t imagine allowing Isabella to put off her religion homework till Sunday night, or letting Mythili get by with just a 7 on her lengua exam (that will never happen again!), or allowing Riona to skip out on circling all the letters her teacher wants her to focus on enunciating this week (though this is not required).
I couldn’t have predicted how complicated our lives would be here. The impossibility of presumptions that I could have made, most of which would have been untrue, would have made a long tail that followed me across the sea and would have been chopped slowly away with each new day. Fortunately, I was too busy giving up my previous life one heartbreak at a time before boarding that plane, so I didn’t have any time to predict anything at all. And that is why I am still able to set my alarm for the exact right minute and suck the marrow out of every brief moment of life that does not involve a frenzied cycle across town, trying to explain an overly-litigate society to Spaniards whose schools don’t have proper fire alarms, or translating food wheels for a seven-year-old. Instead, I can look forward to next week’s fiesta in Benidorm, a trip I planned weeks ago, have already booked and paid for, and beats out all predictions–impossible to make–about how intensely I would love my vacations!!
there is no guidebook
for an expat family’s life
lonely, abandoned
because i can’t say no
five weekdays i work past nine
predawn morn with my girls
small mountains pounded by wind
for a million more years
than our Rockies,
we listen to the persistent slap
of waves coming in,
smashing into slate,
bubbling up along the beach,
a Mediterranean breeze
no competition
for howling Fourteeners’ gales
just like in Colorado,
only shrubbery will grow here,
yet it persists
beneath a blistering sun
that has taken a vacation day,
just as we do now
instead, sprinkles of rain
mock our first steps,
and we discover fluffy carrascos
and giant yucca-like palm bushes,
a chaparral setting with
soil colorado, tinted red,
the roots of our state
along the shores of this sea
we have a car
but are now so accustomed
to walking
that it sits in front of our building
we move across town,
the streets as familiar
as the smiles on their faces.
we order beer, wine,
and a baklava-like mirengue-topped
pastry that tastes like s’mores
and is gobbled up in two minutes
they stand in front of the circus sign
and we make our way across the bridge,
Reina Victoria in our back pocket,
coupons ready
for the first time we witness
the financial crisis
that weighs heavily on
the drooping blue tents,
kids as young as five performing,
throwing in camels, pythons,
and even Monster High,
holding up a sign at the end,
¡Viva El Circo!
while two-thirds of the seats
are vacuous reminders
of where people are
on a Saturday night
best. circus. ever.
is what my girls say,
never complaining once
about the long walk home
but all i can hear,
all i can see
as we move along rain-washed sidewalks,
their tiles as slippery as death,
is the American song,
“Unbreak My Heart”
whose Spanish rendition
and brightly-lit acrobatic act
brought tears to my eyes
the words
though they didn’t belong
the seats
though mostly empty
trampled out the desperation
that sits unspotlighted
in the back of every
slightly drooping circus tent
Yes, I trust the world. Back home, I don’t lock my car, don’t even have a key to my house, and leave valuable items in plain view at my desk at school, anything from cases of Girl Scout cookies to my Smartphone. My general attitude about life is, most people can be trusted, and would rather not deal with the hassle of stealing. And overall, most people are good.
Constantly I’m admonished for this. “But what if…” fill in the blank with horror stories. It’s all I ever hear. Horror stories from personal experiences, media tales, and the like. “All it takes is one person,” I often hear. It’s true. All it takes is one person to be a shithead and steal my stuff, or to be psychotic and kidnap and murder a ten-year-old girl, but how many millions of us are there? I mean, BILLIONS? Do we need to constantly think that we will cross paths with these horror stories?
The ironic thing is, I have actually had things stolen from me. I had two bicycle tires stolen right off my bike when I was in high school. The bike was locked, but the tires weren’t. Right during the middle of the school day even! And our house in Denver, when I was fifteen, was broken into one night while we were gone, and many items were stolen, most importantly the charm bracelets whose charms my sister and I had collected each year at Christmas (such a bullshit thing to steal, not even worth much!). When I think back to both of those incidents in my life, things were not good for me or my family. We were having many problems, and sending out endless negative vibes.
So why do I still trust people? Why do I always think, It’s not going to happen to me? Because ever since I put that thought in my head, it doesn’t. I truly believe that there is some truth in positive thinking, sending thoughts out into the universe, and expecting that things are going to be OK, only to discover that… well, yes, they are going to be OK. I mean, look where I am! I had the rug pulled out from under me two weeks before the school year started in America, and I gave up the chance at a huge salary increase, full benefits, and living like kings in an apartment complex with a pool cheaper than our mortgage, to come to Spain for a salary that’s not even enough to pay for one person’s living expenses, let alone five. But here we are. I trusted in the world, and the world helped me out, giving me a salary comfortable enough for us to live on and enjoy this country.
But that’s not all. Due to the financial crisis, and perhaps the culture here, I have been forewarned by all about the epidemic of thievery. By more than a few people, I was forewarned to not even bring the bicycle, as it would surely be taken, my U-lock no match for the bolt cutters they would have here, that we wouldn’t even be able to leave the bike outside a store while we shopped!
As usual, I decided to go against the grain and bring it anyway (I was already breaking every other sane person’s rules anyway). I brought the bike, and I do lock it everywhere, but I consistently leave the helmet and saddlebag still attached. Everyone has told me to stop doing this, that these items will be stolen, but I just have to disagree.
I was planning on seeing gypsies everywhere I went. Not because I’ve seen a series of ridiculous movies, but because my Spaniards told me this is what I should expect, especially “in this region.” Well I don’t know what a gypsy even looks like, or how sneakily they can creep up and slit open your purse (again, others’ horror stories!), but the only time anyone in Cartagena has approached my Camelbak? It was on the street, yes. I was walking between tutoring appointments and a lady came up behind me and told me my backpack was partially unzipped, and she zipped it up for me!
See what I mean people?
But yesterday takes the cake. We have this little thing called a debit card with every penny of thousands of dollars we brought from America attached to it. I was being a responsible parent and went to the bank yesterday to DEPOSIT money into our account so we could pay the light bill (everything in Spain is completed via direct bank transfer). Well, I somehow forgot to retrieve my card from the ATM, and didn’t notice until about six hours later.
I know, I know… I can hear all the people screaming at me! “What if??”
But that’s just it. In almost the same moment that I noticed my card was missing, I noticed a voice mail on my phone. The lady in the bank had my card and was keeping it safe for me. Of course.
This is not luck. This is not a coincidence. While I have been surrounded by people I know always feeding me horror stories, I have managed to escape almost every tragic moment imaginable. No one has ever smashed a window in my car to take my purse, or steal the iPod I left sitting on the dash, with the keys to the car sitting right next to it (yes, I do that too). Yet these things seem to happen to everyone I know. Why? Because they’re so fucking afraid that they’re going to happen!
I really believe there is some truth to that. Yesterday, when I discovered my card was gone, I called Bruce and told him to check the account. Then I went on with my life and tutored a girl for an hour, not even thinking about it, and Bruce sent a text saying nothing was charged on the account, and did he want me to have him cancel the card? I told him not to. I wasn’t the least bit surprised. It was only a brief panic when I lost the card, not a “the world is ending now” crisis. I knew that everything would be OK, as always, because I trust the world, and the world trusts me, and my place here in it, no matter whose soil I place my trust in.
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