Coming home has been an adjustment but it is nice to be back in America and feel like I truly belong again. Now I understand the word homeland. On Christmas Eve I couldn’t fall asleep. I lay in my bed, wide awake, feeling uneasy—like there was something I was forgetting. I got up, went downstairs, double checked that I had locked the door, poured myself a glass of water, and got back into bed: I still couldn't fall asleep. Everything was quiet both inside and outside the house. It seemed to me like I must have been the only person on my street awake. Then I realized that’s exactly what was wrong—- the quiet! After four months of falling asleep in Barcelona listening to dogs bark, drunks laugh, and my host mother’s sleeping-pill-induced snores, the true and perfect silence of two A.M. on a sleepy little Delaware street was eerie. When I arrived in Barcelona I used to put in ear plugs when I read; now I saw silence differently—as a morbid vacuum where noise should have been—and it creeped me out.
Provincial life does have its advantages, however. For one, it is beautiful. I missed nature while I was abroad. I went for a bike ride with my father the other day and it blew me away. I had forgotten how picturesque the area where I’m from is. It was as though I was pedaling through a Wyeth painting filled with gently rolling hills, barren of their wheat in the wintertime, and little gurgling creeks, still rimmed with early morning ice that the sun was busy thawing away. We rode past deer, squirrels and chipmunks, red tailed hawks, turkey vultures, and plenty of geese. Beyond the wooden fences lining the narrow back roads, horses with thermal blankets covering their flanks stood outside old stone farmhouses stomping and shaking off the cold; sheep grazed languidly on the thin grass that sprouted through farm ponds' muddy banks. And then, of course, there were the neighbors out walking their decidedly American dogs: happy Labradors and energetic golden retrievers with owners who said hello, wished you a happy new year, and smiled. We even biked past an elderly couple who had hitched up their ponies to a little covered wagon and were out for a ride in the brisk mid-morning air. They waved the most enthusiastically of them all.
But it wasn’t until today, shooting sporting clays with special edition red, white, and blue colored shotgun shells, that I was irrevocably convinced that my time in Barcelona is truly over and gone: tonight, when December ends and the fireworks go off, I’m going to pretend it's the fourth of July.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
A Bertrand Russell Quartet:
"One should respect public opinion insofar as is necessary to avoid starvation and keep out of prison, but anything that goes beyond this is voluntary submission to an unnecessary tyranny."
"The time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time."
"I believe in using words, not fists. I believe in my outrage knowing people are living in boxes on the street. I believe in honesty. I believe in a good time. I believe in good food. I believe in sex."
"A happy life must be to a great extent a quiet life, for it is only in an atmosphere of quiet that true joy dare live."
"The time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time."
"I believe in using words, not fists. I believe in my outrage knowing people are living in boxes on the street. I believe in honesty. I believe in a good time. I believe in good food. I believe in sex."
"A happy life must be to a great extent a quiet life, for it is only in an atmosphere of quiet that true joy dare live."
Monday, December 26, 2011
“...I doubt very seriously whether anyone will hire me.'
'What do you mean, babe? You're a fine boy with a good education.'
'Employers sense in me a denial of their values.' He rolled over onto his back. 'They fear me. I suspect that they can see that I am forced to function in a century I loathe."
― John Kennedy Toole, A Confederacy of Dunces
'Employers sense in me a denial of their values.' He rolled over onto his back. 'They fear me. I suspect that they can see that I am forced to function in a century I loathe."
― John Kennedy Toole, A Confederacy of Dunces
Friday, December 23, 2011
I didn’t understand how much I had in Barcelona until I had to leave it all.
Over my last supper, I told my host-mother that I had carried my lucky buckeye in my pocket every day since she had given it to me. She laughed and said it was obvious.
“Why?” I asked.
“Hombre,” she said, “because you’re very lucky.”
I asked why and she counted off four reasons on four stubby brown fingers.
1. “You’re always smiling.”
2. “You like what you study.”
3. “You got a chance to travel and see the world at an age when you were young enough for it to change you.”
4. “Your parents clearly love you a ton.”
I thought about it and realized that she was completely right, even if she had forgotten to mention my great friends and the fact that I'm damn good looking. I am very, very fortunate and in the most cliched sense, before living abroad I didn't take stock enough in what I had at home.
Then she asked me if I thought she was lucky. I had to think about it for a minute. She was widowed when both her children were young. Every day she visits her senile father in the retirement home she pays for by working overtime and he asks her how her deceased husband is doing. She is cynical and pessimistic when she watches the news; her son often tells her she needs to cheer up.
“Yeah,” I said, “you’re lucky.”
She waited.
“You have two great kids, you have a nice apartment, you like your job, and you still have your father.”
She cocked her head sideways and thought about it. “And I have a grandson,” she said, smiling.
As a goodbye present I gave Pol, her son, a bottle of rum and an alpaca wool hat I bought in Argentina that he had once told me he was jealous of. He was thrilled and tried it on in the bathroom mirror under his bright orange snowboarding goggles.
He opened the rum and poured three glasses. He called to his mom and we all went into the dining room. We looked down at the glasses and swirled our ice and didn’t speak: I was leaving in the morning. Paul shrugged.
“Salud,” he said, and we drank.
Luisa shuddered. “¡Que fuerte!”
Pol and I laughed but she was right, it was strong. After a while we got to winding down and saying bye and I thanked them both for everything they had done for me. Then Pol got to talking about the path of life: el camino de la vida.
“Every single person we meet,” he said, “makes us who we are.”
“I know,” I said.
Later, he came into my room with his FC Barcelona jersey and handed it to me.
“Now you have something from the best fútbol team in the world.”
I put it on and he smiled and so did I. I do not know what he was thinking but I was wondering if I would ever see him again.
“Merry Christmas, Curtis” he said.
“Feliz Navidad, tío.”
That night I stopped by the neighborhood bar, Marc's.
Marc put a beer and a plate of olives down in front of me before I had to ask.
When it came time to leave, “Marc, I go home tomorrow.”
He exhaled. “One last drink on the house?” he asked.
“One last drink,” I said.
He poured himself one, too.
Then I hiked up a mountain to an abandoned fort that is a good place to go if you want to impress a girl. She wore the right shoes this time. It was dark away from the lights of the city and we tripped on stones we couldn’t see as we walked up the broken path. When we got to the bunkers the only other people there were some Spanish teenagers smoking a joint—it was windy and cold and they were having trouble keeping it lit. The two of us sat down where we sat the last time, when the skyline was foreign and the city still unfamiliar. Our legs hung out over the concrete lip of the bunker and all of Barcelona was at our feet. I looked out towards the ocean I couldn’t see in the dark, past neon Christmas lights, and cars like ants with two lit eyes, and so many glowing windows with open blinds: each one the home of a person I would never meet or know but was nonetheless going through the exact same infinitely profound experience of being conscious and alive. I looked past the shadows of skyscrapers and hotels and the twisting spires of the Sagrada Familia. The lights twinkled and turned on the chilled air somewhere between their origin and my eye and everywhere I looked there was a memory. The moon was a crescent, like somebody had delicately carved out the rest.
Our hands were cold in each other’s.
“I’ll miss you,” she said.
I looked out over the city one last time.
“I’ll miss you, too.”
Then we got up and left and stumbled down the unlit hills until we were among the lights, too.
The next morning, from the tarmac and through my little oval window, I watched dawn break. My view was of a muddy field and a chain link fence.
“Why?” I asked.
“Hombre,” she said, “because you’re very lucky.”
I asked why and she counted off four reasons on four stubby brown fingers.
1. “You’re always smiling.”
2. “You like what you study.”
3. “You got a chance to travel and see the world at an age when you were young enough for it to change you.”
4. “Your parents clearly love you a ton.”
I thought about it and realized that she was completely right, even if she had forgotten to mention my great friends and the fact that I'm damn good looking. I am very, very fortunate and in the most cliched sense, before living abroad I didn't take stock enough in what I had at home.
Then she asked me if I thought she was lucky. I had to think about it for a minute. She was widowed when both her children were young. Every day she visits her senile father in the retirement home she pays for by working overtime and he asks her how her deceased husband is doing. She is cynical and pessimistic when she watches the news; her son often tells her she needs to cheer up.
“Yeah,” I said, “you’re lucky.”
She waited.
“You have two great kids, you have a nice apartment, you like your job, and you still have your father.”
She cocked her head sideways and thought about it. “And I have a grandson,” she said, smiling.
As a goodbye present I gave Pol, her son, a bottle of rum and an alpaca wool hat I bought in Argentina that he had once told me he was jealous of. He was thrilled and tried it on in the bathroom mirror under his bright orange snowboarding goggles.
He opened the rum and poured three glasses. He called to his mom and we all went into the dining room. We looked down at the glasses and swirled our ice and didn’t speak: I was leaving in the morning. Paul shrugged.
“Salud,” he said, and we drank.
Luisa shuddered. “¡Que fuerte!”
Pol and I laughed but she was right, it was strong. After a while we got to winding down and saying bye and I thanked them both for everything they had done for me. Then Pol got to talking about the path of life: el camino de la vida.
“Every single person we meet,” he said, “makes us who we are.”
“I know,” I said.
Later, he came into my room with his FC Barcelona jersey and handed it to me.
“Now you have something from the best fútbol team in the world.”
I put it on and he smiled and so did I. I do not know what he was thinking but I was wondering if I would ever see him again.
“Merry Christmas, Curtis” he said.
“Feliz Navidad, tío.”
That night I stopped by the neighborhood bar, Marc's.
Marc put a beer and a plate of olives down in front of me before I had to ask.
When it came time to leave, “Marc, I go home tomorrow.”
He exhaled. “One last drink on the house?” he asked.
“One last drink,” I said.
He poured himself one, too.
Then I hiked up a mountain to an abandoned fort that is a good place to go if you want to impress a girl. She wore the right shoes this time. It was dark away from the lights of the city and we tripped on stones we couldn’t see as we walked up the broken path. When we got to the bunkers the only other people there were some Spanish teenagers smoking a joint—it was windy and cold and they were having trouble keeping it lit. The two of us sat down where we sat the last time, when the skyline was foreign and the city still unfamiliar. Our legs hung out over the concrete lip of the bunker and all of Barcelona was at our feet. I looked out towards the ocean I couldn’t see in the dark, past neon Christmas lights, and cars like ants with two lit eyes, and so many glowing windows with open blinds: each one the home of a person I would never meet or know but was nonetheless going through the exact same infinitely profound experience of being conscious and alive. I looked past the shadows of skyscrapers and hotels and the twisting spires of the Sagrada Familia. The lights twinkled and turned on the chilled air somewhere between their origin and my eye and everywhere I looked there was a memory. The moon was a crescent, like somebody had delicately carved out the rest.
Our hands were cold in each other’s.
“I’ll miss you,” she said.
I looked out over the city one last time.
“I’ll miss you, too.”
Then we got up and left and stumbled down the unlit hills until we were among the lights, too.
The next morning, from the tarmac and through my little oval window, I watched dawn break. My view was of a muddy field and a chain link fence.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
A blog makes anybody an author.
Bildungsroman* is a literary genre which tells about the coming of age of a sensitive person who is looking for answers and experience. The genre evolved from folklore tales of a dunce or youngest son going out in the world to seek his fortune. Usually in the beginning of the story there is an emotional loss which makes the protagonist leave on his journey. In a Bildungsroman, the goal is maturity, and the protagonist achieves it gradually and with difficulty. The genre often features a main conflict between the main character and society. Typically, the values of society are gradually accepted by the protagonist and he is ultimately accepted into society – the protagonist's mistakes and disappointments are over.
*see also: Künstlerroman
*see also: Künstlerroman
"If what Billy Pilgrim learned from the Tralfamadorians is true,
that we will all live forever, no matter how dead we may sometimes seem to be, I am not overjoyed. Still--if I am going to spend eternity visiting this moment and that, I'm grateful that so many of those moments are nice."
- Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five.
- Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
I leave Barcelona in a week.
The city has turned cold and windy. Night falls early. The Mediterranean is not immune to winter, it seems.
The streets are lined with Christmas lights and the commuters leave work wearing balaclavas beneath their helmets and idle their mopeds at the corner traffic light, waiting for the incandescent red to turn an incandescent green. They are eager to get home and out of this cold.
I am eager to get home, too. But the thing is-- I don't want to leave here.
I went to a friend's house for dinner the other night. They live with a very pretty, sweet, divorced psychologist named Elena. Her eccentric, unemployed sister, Conchita, and Conchita's rustic, quiet, and wry husband, Miguel, came as well. Miguel had a heavy hand with the wine and then with the cava and before long Conchita and Elena were standing up to sing an ancient Andalusian gypsy ballad about a bull looking at his reflection in a stream by silver moonlight. Their voices were thin and tenuous and as they sang Miguel shut his eyes and tapped his dessert spoon against his champagne flute. It was beautiful in the strange, ephemeral way of all perfect moments that you know memory will inevitably blemish.
Or maybe the blemish is that memory makes them perfect. Maybe it was silly and maybe they were drunk and maybe their voices were neither thin nor tenuous but simply bad.
Then they were done singing and I was still clapping and laughing and smiling when they asked me to sing a folk song from my country.
But I didn't know any... oh, well, there was that one, but...
And my memory is strong. Strong enough that I will not remember a winter that came late to Spain: no, it was all warm sunny days on the beach, traveling Europe, and four months of a guiltily pleasurable utter lack of responsibility for which I will receive academic credit. But my memory is not strong enough to erase the two minutes it took my voice to crack through Take Me Out to the Ball Game while three Spaniards watched with the solemn respect they felt due of an anthem they couldn't understand.
And it never will be.
The streets are lined with Christmas lights and the commuters leave work wearing balaclavas beneath their helmets and idle their mopeds at the corner traffic light, waiting for the incandescent red to turn an incandescent green. They are eager to get home and out of this cold.
I am eager to get home, too. But the thing is-- I don't want to leave here.
I went to a friend's house for dinner the other night. They live with a very pretty, sweet, divorced psychologist named Elena. Her eccentric, unemployed sister, Conchita, and Conchita's rustic, quiet, and wry husband, Miguel, came as well. Miguel had a heavy hand with the wine and then with the cava and before long Conchita and Elena were standing up to sing an ancient Andalusian gypsy ballad about a bull looking at his reflection in a stream by silver moonlight. Their voices were thin and tenuous and as they sang Miguel shut his eyes and tapped his dessert spoon against his champagne flute. It was beautiful in the strange, ephemeral way of all perfect moments that you know memory will inevitably blemish.
Or maybe the blemish is that memory makes them perfect. Maybe it was silly and maybe they were drunk and maybe their voices were neither thin nor tenuous but simply bad.
Then they were done singing and I was still clapping and laughing and smiling when they asked me to sing a folk song from my country.
But I didn't know any... oh, well, there was that one, but...
And my memory is strong. Strong enough that I will not remember a winter that came late to Spain: no, it was all warm sunny days on the beach, traveling Europe, and four months of a guiltily pleasurable utter lack of responsibility for which I will receive academic credit. But my memory is not strong enough to erase the two minutes it took my voice to crack through Take Me Out to the Ball Game while three Spaniards watched with the solemn respect they felt due of an anthem they couldn't understand.
And it never will be.
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