view from uphill ride
my city backed by mountains
night ends in laughter
Cycle of Life
view from uphill ride
my city backed by mountains
night ends in laughter
biking
Mythili’s Eighth
breakfast tray in bed
craves the words more than the dolls
can’t believe she’s eight
wash, treat, cut, and style
nine euros, Spanish freedom
tangle-free curls bounce
café con leche
warm enough to sit outside
a gift of a date
Hello Kitty wrap
princess receives surprise gift
art set opens warmth
one hour together
my time with them so precious
color in our dreams
pedal click in, out
first forget purse, then helmet
next will lose my mind
home to hot shower
never mind the broken door
day is wrapped in love
Every Day is a New Day
I ride home through day three of rain-soaked streets, a three hour gap of impertinent design in my impossible-to-manage schedule. Should I be enjoying this time, sifting through chapters of the book I’ve been trying to listen to for three months, with never enough time to complete it? Should I be watching television, feeding myself on Spanish versions of family board games or documentaries on subjects I can barely understand in English?
Here I sit, finding solace in the words I write. On Monday, I did something unfathomable–I missed a class!! This is pretty much one of the greatest fears of my life: to not show up to work, to be absent, tardy, or incompetent at what I do. How could I have missed yet another change to my schedule? I had iPhone calendar ready, in hand on Monday morning, and it promised me that I didn’t have to return to school that day.
The old saying, every day is a new day, has a new meaning for me in this space I fit myself into. I am, perhaps more than anyone I know, a person whose life is embedded with routines. There is a reason I love teaching, and it’s not just reaching out to students and summers off. It is the consistency of the same routine day in and day out, both in the schedules of my classes and the way that I set up a classroom–begin first with a warmup, engage the students, write things out for them under the document camera, cycle through the room to check for understanding, call on students who may not know the answer and pry it out of them. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
Also: rising at 4:18 each day. My solitary breakfasts of checking on my University of Phoenix classes, sipping hot tea, and making some smart-ass comment on Facebook. Then pulling on layers of cycling gear, packing up my saddlebag, and enjoying that ride across town, where I could change clothes and keep my bike inside my pod, its seat, helmet, and chains protected from the evils of nature and society. Seeing the same familiar faces of colleagues, chatting about the stupid Broncos game or asking me what would work best for this lesson today. Going to the same six classes, planning for the next day, then cycling home, to arrive at the same time as my daughters, and to be able to enjoy every moment of their fit-pitching, homework-groaning, shower-whining fights, their I-love-yous, hugs, and snuggling up on the couch at bed time reading stories. Bed time for me two hours later, after writing, reading, chatting with friends, relaxing in my recliner and piling high mint chocolate chip ice cream to top off the simplicity of my everyday life.
It’s so funny how the mundane routine of life could be desirable. On top of everything else I have had to adjust to in Spain, I think my schedule will bear down on me more than the words I think I’ll never learn, the cultural nuances I’ll miss, and the absence of adequate teaching tools (chalk dust is embedded in my fingerprints). While I only work twelve hours a week at the school, the times vary each day, and are constantly being switched around, cancelled, or augmented. No matter how many times I’ve copied the printed calendar into my iPhone, I can guarantee I’ve missed at least one change. I never quite know if I will see my girls off to school or be able to meet them at the last siren. And at the school? I attend twelve different classes every week, have to work with seven different teachers, have no time to plan anything in advance with any of them, and must walk into each classroom not knowing a single name of any student (all of whom are together all day, sit next to their best friends, and have been in the same class together for years). So when the teachers step out or simply do not care about classroom management? I can’t call out José or Patricia and tell them, in words they will understand, to be respectful and pay attention. I am just a substitute to them, swirling around in a world of chaos.
And to top off the inconsistency of that, my tutoring schedule varies with such extremes that I have become the worst clockwatcher of all time. I even bought a watch!! Working five to six hours every evening, with random gaps between, I have actually had to make a calendar for Bruce to know when to fix dinner every night (there are some things I will NOT let go, and one is dinner with my family). I have to rush between tutoring appointments to the extent that it is no longer possible to walk; I must carry my bike up and down the six flights of stairs all day and all night long. I rush between four or five clients a day, trying to plan activities for preschoolers, fifty-year-old men, mostly-fluent adults, and apathetic teenagers.
When I arrive home some time between 9:30 and 9:45 each night, I wish I could stay up late, relax, watch a movie and know that I can sleep in the next day. But I can’t. I have to rise before dawn each morning to work with the girls on their homework, learning the Spanish words I will never need to use, such as the parts of a snail, the inner ear, or synonyms.
How is it that I am only working forty hours a week? It feels like sixty. The loneliness of such an oppressive schedule chokes me, as I can never talk to anyone back home during the week, since they are all just rising right when I begin my second cycle of work. Here in Spain, every day is a new day, literally. I never know just where I need to be, whose class I might lose control over, or exactly the right materials to bring with me as I pedal across town. All I can hope is that I will learn to adjust to this as I have adjusted to everything else that I have flipped upside down during the past six months of my life.
The Clouds of a Crisis
the clouds move in
on our long walk across town,
the bike ride’s end
tagging along my subconscious
their cacophony emanates
through slick crosswalks
and cart-pulling passersby
as we make our way into
the theatre where they will become
the stage presences
they’ve only seen in pictures
after the show my colleague announces,
heavy accent and all,
It’s raining men,
and his prim-and-proper appearance,
his paisley umbrella,
fit in a warm spot
at the bottom of my heart
i teach one class (solo today),
the chart comparing schools
in Spain to America
too dense to ever fit
within the bounds of
a chalk-dust ridden
minuscule version of education
the rides home, back out,
home, back out, cause waves
of daily inconsistency that
pour out of the sky,
bearing down on the heaviness
of my home across the sea
my country sits divided
on a fence i cannot fathom,
these moments of
familiarity and love
bursting through
the clouds of a crisis
none of my countrymen can understand
in darkness,
on rain-slick tiled side streets,
i make my final pedal,
capture your words on the screen,
and wonder when we can
relinquish the rain
Unpredictability
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!!
Trust the World
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.
Average Speed of Satisfaction
Today I had my first real bike ride since arriving in Spain. Yes, I have ridden my bike almost every day, but riding around this city is merely to save a few minutes of time, not for enjoyment. There are so many crosswalks to have to stop at, and the bike paths are on sidewalks full of pedestrians who refuse to get out of the way and almost seem to pride themselves, instead, on getting IN the way, so it’s not a fast-paced, Cherry-Creek-Bike-Path kind of experience. Not to mention if you ride on the side of the road you have to constantly slow down and look behind you as you pull around whatever random car that is double-parked in front of you.
I have come across a few “back roads” to get from one side of the city to the other in half the time, and I began my morning ride on one today, then riding along the harbor and heading towards the closest beach. It was a bit of a climb, and I wanted to take a back road, but missed it, and was stopping to check the map on my iPhone when two guys on mountain bikes cycled past me. Everyone here who has a bike has a mountain bike or a foldable bike. Today I learned why.
Though they were in front of me, I finally got to use my favorite cycling term of all time, “On your left!” as we pedaled up the hill (though I’m sure they didn’t understand my American-accented Spanish version of this phrase). Of course the two men on mountain bikes couldn’t keep pace with me!!
I reached the crest of the hill and stopped to take a few photos of the harbor, the mountains, and the Mediterranean. Not exactly the same views as home, but I think I’ll survive. 🙂
At last, just after the beach and having to ride through two tunnels (very frightening, as they were just wide enough for two cars, but as usual, anywhere outside of this city has ZERO traffic), I saw the back road I’d wanted to take that led to the top of the mountain bearing a castle… It was full of gravel two inches thick, and a passel of mountain biking men were making their way up the trail. It was the first moment in my bike-life where I was disappointed with my Fuji. Access denied!
Nevertheless, I continued down the main road, hoping to gather some other great views, only to be disappointed again by a fuel refinery whose smoke filled a large cove and choked me as I pedaled uphill.
Despite these two small disappointments, I felt amazing. Rather than averaging the Cartagena-city-limits speed of 8 mph, I was at least able to come out of my morning with a 13-mph (hey, I said mountains, remember??) average speed of satisfaction. I could actually feel my muscles tightening, my quads pulling themselves into a gratified smile. How could I have put this ride off for so long??? Oh wait… I was trying to adjust to this insane schedule they have here of staying up late and getting up just before work.
Well… they can put the girl in Spain, but they can’t take the Colorado out of the girl. I think it’s time to start setting my alarm so I can brighten my day with the beauty of actual cycling.
Average Speed of Satisfaction
Today I had my first real bike ride since arriving in Spain. Yes, I have ridden my bike almost every day, but riding around this city is merely to save a few minutes of time, not for enjoyment. There are so many crosswalks to have to stop at, and the bike paths are on sidewalks full of pedestrians who refuse to get out of the way and almost seem to pride themselves, instead, on getting IN the way, so it’s not a fast-paced, Cherry-Creek-Bike-Path kind of experience. Not to mention if you ride on the side of the road you have to constantly slow down and look behind you as you pull around whatever random car that is double-parked in front of you.
I have come across a few “back roads” to get from one side of the city to the other in half the time, and I began my morning ride on one today, then riding along the harbor and heading towards the closest beach. It was a bit of a climb, and I wanted to take a back road, but missed it, and was stopping to check the map on my iPhone when two guys on mountain bikes cycled past me. Everyone here who has a bike has a mountain bike or a foldable bike. Today I learned why.
Though they were in front of me, I finally got to use my favorite cycling term of all time, “On your left!” as we pedaled up the hill (though I’m sure they didn’t understand my American-accented Spanish version of this phrase). Of course the two men on mountain bikes couldn’t keep pace with me!!
I reached the crest of the hill and stopped to take a few photos of the harbor, the mountains, and the Mediterranean. Not exactly the same views as home, but I think I’ll survive. 🙂
At last, just after the beach and having to ride through two tunnels (very frightening, as they were just wide enough for two cars, but as usual, anywhere outside of this city has ZERO traffic), I saw the back road I’d wanted to take that led to the top of the mountain bearing a castle… It was full of gravel two inches thick, and a passel of mountain biking men were making their way up the trail. It was the first moment in my bike-life where I was disappointed with my Fuji. Access denied!
Nevertheless, I continued down the main road, hoping to gather some other great views, only to be disappointed again by a fuel refinery whose smoke filled a large cove and choked me as I pedaled uphill.
Despite these two small disappointments, I felt amazing. Rather than averaging the Cartagena-city-limits speed of 8 mph, I was at least able to come out of my morning with a 13-mph (hey, I said mountains, remember??) average speed of satisfaction. I could actually feel my muscles tightening, my quads pulling themselves into a gratified smile. How could I have put this ride off for so long??? Oh wait… I was trying to adjust to this insane schedule they have here of staying up late and getting up just before work.
Well… they can put the girl in Spain, but they can’t take the Colorado out of the girl. I think it’s time to start setting my alarm so I can brighten my day with the beauty of actual cycling.
Coffee and Cigarettes
Spanish homes are spotless. Mothers put on special aprons to clean and everyone has a mop set like in a restaurant. They may have round-the-house clothing styles such as sweats and workout shirts, but they will never wear these things in public. I have seen them actually change clothes to run downstairs to the grocery store at the bottom of their building! How strange they must think I am, showing up at their doorsteps clad in bike shorts, clip-in shoes, a cycling jersey and a helmet in hand. No wonder I get wide-eyed looks wherever I go. I’m sure they just put their surprise aside and say to themselves, “Those crazy Americans.”
Perhaps they’re right. We are a bit crazy, or at least I’m a bit crazy. Not so sure anyone I know would drag a family across the sea for a year in Spain, but I’m pretty positive there’s not a crazy enough person on the planet to ALSO drag her bicycle with her!!
I thought for sure that everyone here would walk everywhere, and that the public transportation system would be awesome, much more effective than in the United States. I am disappointed to announce that both beliefs are untrue. Spaniards walk. Hell, there are crosswalks every five seconds, and all cars obey them if a pedestrian is present (Boulder! I’m living in Boulder, a dream come true!!). But Spaniards walk two blocks to the closest market or cafe, and then they either drive (most of them have cars) or sit patiently for the bus to take them the rest of the one mile if they have to go any further than that. I have no idea how they have the patience to wait for a bus that takes them nowhere. The bus system here is completely ineffective. To get from my apartment to the center of the city, where anything and everything happens, it is an easy two-mile walk (or cycle!), or I can wait, pay 1,20€, and take not one, but TWO buses. Why would anyone in their right mind choose to wait and pay for a bus when walking is much better for the body?
Speaking of bodies, Spaniards are beautiful people. I have seen more attractive people here than just about anywhere else. And of course they’re all skinny. To go along with my original beliefs, I’d always assumed they were thin from having to walk everywhere. But that’s not it. Not in the least.
After a month of having to choke on the constant smell of tobacco, adjust to the Spanish siesta schedule where we have to wait from 7:30 till 3:00 to eat? I have finally come up with the reason Spaniards are so thin: coffee and cigarettes. They live for their cafes, and for the outdoor seating which affords them the ability to smoke at all hours of the day. Even the teachers smoke!! Ugh! I’ve never seen so many smokers in all my life.
I guess we all have our demons. Mine is a bicycle I can’t live without, theirs are appearances on every occasion (even an errand) and needing tobacco to make it between meals. No matter how we choose to make it through the day, I think we can all look at each other and say, “Vale. No pasa nada.”
Our Latest Spain Adventure
With handlebars barely within her reach, a bike seat that doesn’t allow her feet to touch the ground like she’s used to, and hand brakes only (also new), it is a bumpy one-mile ride to the beginning of our latest Spain adventure. Isabella, nine, is anxious to be a part of something here, both with me and the people of this city. She lives to belong.
This is the cheap bicycle we bought for Bruce at Carrefour, the one with crooked handlebars and a pedal that already fell off and is now on somewhat crookedly as well, its bearings stripped after a single repair. We move along side streets until we reach the bike lane, having to stop only a few times for hazard-lit cars whose drivers are greeting friends, delivering fruit, or just not in a hurry.
No one here is ever in a hurry. After a fall and a few precarious turns by Isabella, we are ten minutes late to the park. However, as cyclists of all ages continue to stream in, it becomes clear to me, once again, that this is not America. There is no liability form to sign, no registration fee, no separate event for kids and adults. And there is certainly no reason we should begin on time!
After another twenty-five minutes of waiting, we begin, five hundred or more, to stream out of the park. We fill the street with trailers, tagalongs, training wheels, baby bike seats, and a speed slow enough to walk. North to the first roundabout, over to the main Alameda, where we move along the palm trees toward the harbor, our safety enforced by neon-green uniformed policemen who stand at each corner. “It’s like being in a parade, just like the one last night!” Isabella announces, reminiscing the 11:00 p.m. march across town of people dressed in B.C.E. Roman and Carthagenian robes, kilts, skins, helmets, and furs. (Yes, I said 11 PM, where every age from little Roman toga-bearing babies and seventy-year-old crowned queens lit up the streets with their drums and song).
I am a cyclist. I have ridden three thousand miles in eight months, regularly ride my bike twenty-five miles to and from work each day, and have participated in a cycling event that took me over two mountain passes in the depths of the San Juans. But I certainly have never seen anything like this.
Like a slow-motion mob, we “ride” across town, weaving in and out of kids ranging in age from two to seventy (kind of like the parade!). There is no finish line, no lineup of booths promoting muscle milk or the latest carbon bike, no giant banners bragging about sponsorship. There are freestyle cyclists showing off, juegos tadicionales like hopskotch and jump rope, and all the families in Cartagena, gathered here at the city center to cycle their way to a sacred Saturday of family time.
I watch my daughter, who has mastered control of her handlebars, who leads me along what she calls “the Italian street” into and out of narrow “alleys”, who rides in circles with the other kids on the concrete at the center of a park, who asks to ride the long way home. We weave in and out of pedestrians, meander along the bike path past all the now-dispersed cyclists, and make our way back.
She has completed her first cycling event. I have completed my first cycling event in Spain. In our latest Spain adventure, where nothing is the same and everything is the same, we arrive home, unscathed, barely sweating, eight miles behind us, and all the miles ahead of us paved in love, in beauty, in the connectedness of belonging to a culture that cherishes their children far more than riding a bike over two mountain passes.
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