Rhapsody in Blue

It´s a beautiful day. Perfect.

The sky is a pure blue. No breaks or blends or clouds. Just an endless expanse of blueness.

It seems as if the palm trees have been strategically positioned by God (or man playing Him) to flutter their fronds against the sky.

If it weren´t for the shadows, the Spanish-tiled roofs would seem two-dimensional.

The colors here are so crisp.

Terracotta houses and white villas. Candy apple red geraniums nestled in vivid greenery. Flowers painted bright pink or orange or snow white.

The swimming pool water sparkles like undulating glass.

The southern coast of Spain is tropical desert.
Tufts of tough-looking brush dot the rocky sand dunes. Hills of powdered heat.

On a rock nearby sits a dull gray sandpiper. He looks much like a pencil smudge on an otherwise colorful canvas. But his song is clear and piercing.
And if sound had color, his song would be purple and gold....rising into the endless blue.

Finding "The Charlotte"

I know I´ve been writing a lot about what I´ve seen here, but not so much about the reasons why I came.
The first few weeks were a mix of frustration and intrigue. I fluctuated between a sense of adventure and loneliness.
Finally, I´m coming to terms with the fact that this trip did not bring the instant and lasting gratification I´d originally though it would.
I came here hoping to find my destiny... the final piece to the Who-is-Faith? puzzle.
It´s not here.

But during a conversation with my significant other, something that was said struck me. I can´t remember who said it, but it was something like "the search [for self-actualization] continues."

"It´s like finding The Charlotte!" I blurted.

In the movie National Treasure, Nicolas Cage´s character is a historian and treasure hunter. He´d devoted his whole life to finding a particular caché of hidden treasure, as had his father and grandfather before him. They had been chasing clue after clue, but the biggest clue yet, passed down from generation to generation was a man´s dying words. "The secret lies with Charlotte."
This launched Cage into a long and expensive venture to find "Charlotte". When he finally found it [Charlotte was a boat], the treasure wasn´t there...as he had expected. Instead, he found yet another clue.
Spain is my "Charlotte".

I didn´t find my niche here as I had expected. Instead I´m uncovering clues as to who I really am and what I am meant to do.
They can be summarized as follows:

1. I need people. I love sharing experiences with others. Whatever I end up doing, wherever it is, I don´t want to go alone.
2. I respect those who enjoy "roughing it", but I have no desire to do so myself. I enjoy...want...need the finer things in life (like a/c). I don´t have to feel guilty about that either.
3. I have to find a way to make a difference in the world (as cliched as this may sound). I want to feel like what I´m doing will have a lasting, positive effect on the lives of others. Other people´s desire for what I have to offer fuels my desire to give it.

Now, I can take these back with me... my clues... these pieces to the puzzle and continue my search for the biggest treasure of all.
Exactly what that is...I´ve yet to find out.

A Long Night´s Journey Into Day

...continued from "Independent´s Day"
(if you haven´t read that one, read it first)

In the dim lamplight, I read. Turning the pages softly so as not to disturb Nancy, but I needn´t have bothered. There´s no way she could really be sleeping under the circumstances. Our hostal room faced the street, a popular busy paseo in the center of Madrid. The walls of the building, which had seemed dense enough from the outside, did absolutely nothing to filter the noise.
It was half past 1 am and the streets were more crowded than they had been during the day. The more conservative tourists had retired to their hotel rooms (as we had done) and had been replaced with a mix of nightlife-loving internationals and natives. Bright lights, copious amount of cerveza and the promise of good times lifted their spirits and their voices. Conversations rose from the streets and entered our room unhindered.
I gave up trying to read and switched off the lamp. It had started to overheat the already uncomfortably warm quarters anyway.

I tried to find a comfortable position for my head, but the pillow, which felt just like a thick sofa cushion, was resistant. A whole hour passed as I lay eyes open, wondering just how easy it might be for an intruder to climb from balcony to balcony and enter the open patio door in our bathroom I dared not close it. The open door was our only source of ventilation. Opening the door behind my bed would only let in more noise, as if this were even possible. But it was too hot to sleep...and too loud.
You see, I´m already a light sleeper. Turning on a light or opening a door is enough to bring me all the way out of REM. Even before becoming a mother, it´s been like that. But tonight was different. Sleep couldn´t get a grip on me. The riotous sounds from the street prevented it.

The hours crawled by, punctuated by new noises. Motorcycles revved by, horns honked and curious knocks and bumps mixed with half-shouted conversations. Occasionally, bellows of raucous laughter echoed in the air.

I wanted to scream, but somebody outside was doing it for me.

That´s when I knew that not taking the time to look for a nicer hotel with quiet, elegant rooms had been a mistake... one I would pay for over and over again...all night.
Dawn came and finally, the noise died down. I could hardly believe that I´d been awake the entire night. I forced myself into fitful sleep around 7:00 am. We´d have to get up at 8:30 in order to catch the train to Toledo.

It was only after my eyes were closed that I began to see.

I only took up one small corner of the world. I existed in a tiny room in a hostal in Madrid. My sleepless night was luxurious compared to that of the homeless mother beneath me on the street. It was paled in comparison to those of the defeated and abused in war-ravaged countries like Iraq and Afghanistan. My fear shrank in the shadow of the terror so many others faced each night.
My experience was only a mild inconvenience in an otherwise fortunate existence. As the sun peered through the window and sleep let me go, I steeled myself up for another glorious, beautiful day. Another adventure.

Ain´t that a beach!

Last Friday, we traveled down south to the coast of Spain. The 5 hour trip took a grueling 8 hours. In the mini-van, along with piles of luggage, bicycles and other sporting equipment were one chatty father, one slightly frazzled mother, an Ecuadorian housekeeper, three bickering children, one long haired-hamster...and me.
And if you want to know why I don´t even want to talk about it, you do the math (I teach English).
Sancti Petri is a vacation getaway right outside of the seaside city of Cádiz. It´s known for it´s long stretches of sandy beaches, rolling green golf courses, resort-style vacation homes and 5-star hotels. The Antuñano´s recently purchased a 4 bedroom townhouse within a bike-ride of the beach.
Now, I must say, I enjoy lounging around as much as the next person, but I´ve made a startling (to me) discovery.

Days spent at the beach are little more than an exercise in covert vanity.

Right now, I´m at the beach, sitting on a rough-hewn red & yellow towel (colors of Spain) right on the bull´s face. The sun is having a staring contest with this part of the world. The sun is winning. It´s a wonder my book hasn´t burst into flames in my hand.
Scantily clad people parade up and down the shore pretending to ignore the sunbathers who are pretending to ignore them. They all want to be watched.
Why else would a person prance around half naked in the blazing hot sun?
Ocean winds armed with handfuls of sand beat on my sizzling skin. The sharp grains burrow into every available crevice, particularly those dampened with perspiration.
The backs of my knees, my ears, hair and the tiny rivulet trickling down my chest are coated with sand. Even the gum in my mouth is a bit gritty.
Of the few things in life that I hate (aside from roaches and trashcans with no bag) are...
1. Sweating
2. Being dirty
3. Intense direct sunlight

Days at the beach are a combination of all of these things multiplied by screaming, undisciplined children and raised to the 5th power by the guilt of not enjoying it.

It´s endlessly ironic how the same people who regard the dark-skin with such disdain (mild as it may be), spend countless hours begging the sun to darken their own skin.
I´m begging the sun to stop. It´s not listening.
Oh well.

Aint that a beach.

Ridin' Dirty

Just as I topped the hill I saw it; the bright, green bus pulling into the stop. I broke into a jog, flip-flops slapping the concrete.
I reached the back of the bus just as the driver opened the door and stepped out into the sun. A gust of conditioned air blew out behind him, but was quickly swallowed by the insistent July heat.
The driver walked right past the waiting travelers without so much as a nod. He headed straight for the Centro Commercial, lighting a cigarette he had no chance of finishing before reaching the store's automatic doors.
Disgusted by the driver's insolence, the dusty heat and myself for having run halfway to the bus stop for nothing, I propped myself up against a partially-shaded post and prepared myself to wait until the driver felt like coming back to continue his route.
Six grueling minutes passed. The sun beat down relentlessly. To my surprise, I heard laughter as two women bearing multiple grocery bags chatted cheerfully with each other. The long white head-wraps and shapeless dresses told me that they were Muslim. The harsh sounding language they spoke was softened by their shared smiles and laughter. I was so busy trying to make out their conversation (in spite of the fact that I know absolutely NO Arabic), that I almost didn't notice the driver's reluctant return.
I boarded the bus, dropping a handful of coins, not bothering to wait for my receipt. The driver lurched off without waiting for any of us to sit down. Our relationship would be temporary and loveless.

The bus rocked and rumbled its way through the streets of Pozuelo.
Immediately following a symphony of squeaks, groans and hydraulic releases, indicating that the bus was stopping to let on (or off) another round of passengers, I was struck full-force by a pungent odor. It was the unmistakable scent of high-must...the kind which can only be achieved by sweating until soaked, drying out in the sun, then sleeping in a dumpster (repeat cycle 2-3 times without changing clothes). I turned around to find the origin.
Behind me stood a presumably foreign man, crisped several shades beyond black by years in the sun. The air around him (and me) became thick with funk. I practiced shallow breathing and turned my attention to the scenes sliding past my window.

The streets were lined with life-sized wind-up cars, parallel parked so close together that bumpers kissed. I wondered how the owners hoped to maneuver their way out into traffic without hitting the neighboring cars. By the looks of some of the bumpers, this was not a concern for anyone but me. A scattering of shoppers and white-collar workers rushed to their respective appointments. Yet others sat lounging at cafes laughing, smoking and sipping like they were being paid to do it.

Meanwhile, the man behind me continued stinking with the tenacity of an Olympian...as if he had finally made it to Beijing and his country was depending on him to bring home the gold, thereby bringing hope and promise to its struggling economy.
Thinking of it this way helped me endure the bitter burning in the back of my throat.

I went back to staring out the window. A few moments later, there was a noticeable unburdening of the air as the man found a seat further behind me. The remainder of the trip was comparatively uneventful.

We arrived, in tact, at the Metro station. It promised to be a veritable buffet of people-watching opportunities. I'd better get my notebook ready. But first, I needed to get some fresh, subway station air.

Independent's Day

For the Independence Day weekend, Nancy (a fellow language assistant from North Carolina) and I had planned to take the night train to Barcelona, sight-see all day Saturday, rent a room, explore some more on Sunday and then return to Madrid by night-train...arriving early Monday morning.

So much for our plans.

When we met up at the Chamartin station early Friday evening, the train to Barcelona was sold out.
The million-dollar question..."what do we do now?"

Since coming to Madrid, I've become a lot more flexible about things. Normally, I'm a stresser. I live by a fairly tight scheduled (my days portioned out by class periods with each section of the day assigned before I get out of bed). Too many changes to the schedule leave me annoyed and tense.

But here, I've adopted a much more casual persona, one which comes easily to a person suddenly (if temporarily) liberated from obligations and responsibilities.

Nancy mentioned the idea of going to Toledo.

"Yes," I said with resignation, "we'll just go to Toledo tomorrow."

Within seconds, we had agreed to buy tickets to Toledo, find a room in Madrid for the night and go out to dinner to celebrate the 4th of July. It was indeed an "Independence Day" for me. I exulted in the freedom to do only and exactly what I wanted. The thought was almost a spiritual experience. My world was alive with the sound of music.

As we chatted on the Metro, tossing possibilities into the plot of our would-be adventure, the evening in Madrid stretched out before us, glamorous and inviting.

But, at the Atoche Renfe station, the music faded away. Our spirits were deflated. It seemed like Madrid had withdrawn her invitation.

Signage in the station was sparse, directions were unclear, lines frustratingly long, and our elementary Spanish insufficient. We had stood in 3 customer service lines, spoken with two security guards and struggled with 3 ticket machines before laying hands on our billetes to

Toledo.

Two hours of our glamorous evening had passed. The strap of my messenger bag, stuffed with books, clothes and necessities for the weekend, dug mercilessly into my shoulder and collarbone. We had yet to find a room for the night.

Yet somehow, we emerged from the train station with American resolve. After all, we had gotten tickets. We would conquer this city!

The search was on for a hostel. Cities like Madrid are liberally sprinkled with them. Students, travelers on a budget and, according to John Irving's Until I Find You, single-mother tattoo artists, seek out the sparsely-furnished lodgings. They're cheap. We'd just have to find one that was "okay".

The first featured an ambiguously homeless man sitting near the doorway, listening to a portable cd player. The sidewalk was peppered with other colorful characters. Nancy and I had not come to a complete stop before lurching off in the opposite direction.

Around the corner from the police station, facing a cobblestone square near the Reina Sofia Museum, we found the Hostal Buelta.

The surroundings seemed safe enough. Tourists and natives sipped wine or coffee at outdoor cafes situated in the courtyard. We went in. The lobby was small, but clean. Marble tile floors led to a simple registration desk behind which sat a man who looked to me like he could be Ukrainian.

He spoke only Spanish.

We asked about vacancy and prices and if we could see the room (Nancy read that we should do this in Rick Steve's Guide to Spain). We climbed two flights of stairs and peered down the dim, narrow halls. Finally, we found #218 and wriggled the key in the door. The door swung open revealing...almost nothing. Nancy found the light switch and two fluorescent tubes flickered overhead. The room looked like something out of a National Geographic documentary. Two narrow beds, a few rickety-looking nightstands, a wardrobe, a mustard-yellow lamp, and a 17 inch tv attached to the wall. That's all.

I checked the bathroom. There was a pedestal sink and a shower, separated from the bedroom by a sliding door. But there was something missing...the toilet. I looked again. Surely I had just overlooked it. Nope. No toilet.

Tired of walking, and ready to begin our glorious evening, we rented the room.

We changed clothes for the evening, deciding we'd just ask the East European Spaniard about the toilet on the way out.

It wasn't long before my fellow independent and I found ourselves winding through the narrow streets of Madrid (which, unlike American alleys, are well-lit and fairly busy). Vendors rearranged their colorful wares, music wafted out of open windows, openly affectionate couples clutched each other, pausing in doorways (or right in front of me) for an uncomfortably long session of pda.

A pitcher of sangria later, we sat outside of a cafe, listening to the sonorous moans of an accordion, fanning away cigarette smoke and street vendors. *sigh* Ah...Madrid.

Our conversation reached a lull. My thoughts turned to the very idea of the independence being celebrated with bbq and firecrackers back home. By definition, independence is the condition of being politically free & self-governing. It is not to mean that I am exonerated from ALL responsibility, but rather that I HAVE the responsibility...and right...to govern myself.

How can I take full advantage of my independence?

I start by doing, seeing, exploring, tasting, experiencing and reflecting...like I'm doing right now. Hoping to become a better governor of myself.

Nancy and I topped off our evening by having dinner at an Indian Restaurant (very American, eh?). We returned to the hostel. Our night out had been something short of glamorous, but every bit independent.

But the night wasn't over yet. I had no idea what a long one it would be.

The "real" Madrid

Notes from Madrid

It's official.
I suck.

I haven't been writing about my adventures.
Why? (good question).
Because I've been too busy having them.
I mean, seriously, back-to-back.
So, here I'm going to give you the Cliff notes. I promise to fill in the details later.

• Saturday - Palacio Real de Madrid (the Royal Palace). Talk about opulence. I've never seen such extravagant decor in my life. Madrid is hot as (insert expletive here). I now have some serious tan lines. I got lost on the way home. I cried.
• Sunday - Bullfight at Las Ventas. Spain wins the Eurocup. I've never seen a city rejoice like that. Got kicked off the metrobus. Cried again. Took me 2 hours to get home.
• Monday - My relationship hits some turbulence. Too tired to explore.
• Tuesday - Shopping in Sol (got a skirt & sandals for 5 euros!). Saw a variety of street performers. Got hit on...again. Met up with my host family in town. A fight ensues. A walk through the Old Madrid cools everybody off. Tapas with los abuelos (the grandparents).
• Wednesday - Bad start to the day. Really beginning to understand Augustin. Fed up with the 4-yr old. Headache cured by mystery medicine. Visit to the "Egypt's Sunken Treasures" exhibit. My possible return to Spain in '09?

Check in for updates. Your comments are what keep me writing.

I want (Yo quiero)...

This post will not be like the others. It's more of a stream of consciousness sort of thing. It's definitely more for me than for you, although you are welcome to tune in.

Right now...
I want to go home. Get on a plane...be on board only long enough to watch a commercial-free sitcom or a BBC documentary and have some ginger ale and peanuts...then be met at the airport by people who love me (and speak fluent English).

I want to lay on the couch with a bowl of Fruity Pebbles with the box stationed nearby for easy refills.
I want to watch Colbert Report.
I want to go to sleep at a normal hour (say 11 or 12 o'clock) without the aid of sleeping pills.
I want to turn on the air conditioning AND the ceiling fan. I want to NEED the blankets piled on my bed.
I want to have dreams that don't involve ants.
I want my first conscious thought to be something besides "God, Please!" as the 4-year old's resonant cries of "Mamita! Mamita!"stab into my dreams.

I want to wake up without feeling groggy.

I want something besides bread and coffee for breakfast.
I want to read the newspaper, watch the news, have a casual conversation, do my laundry or ask for directions without the aid of a dictionary (correction, I don't want to have to ask for directions at all).
I want the doorknob to be on the right hand side of the door, where it's supposed to be, not in the middle of it.
I want to plug in whatever I want.
I want cell phone service.
I want to use my cash or card without trying to calculate how much it is in euros.
I want 1 euro to equal 1 dollar.
I want to conjugate verbs when I speak, without thinking about it.
I want a hug.
I want to hug people I care about.

I want to feel wanted everywhere I go.

I want to be understood.

I want to understand.

I want to be grateful.

I want to recognize, every moment, what a fantastic opportunity it is to be here.

I want to learn the language.

I want to have tapas and wine.

I want to take more pictures.

I want to take the Metro, just pick a random stop and walk around.
I want to read in the park.
I want to watch the openly affectionate people there.
I want to play tennis with Augustin.
I want to touch the walls of a 16th century building.
I want to see the Prado Museum & the Reina Sophia Museum.
I want to write about everything and everybody.
I want to see more of the world.
I want to remember this time forever.
I want to live this life.

Ant Matrix

It's a leisurely Thursday afternoon and I'm watching the ants scurrying around the patio. There are way too many ants here...it's re- d*mn -diculous. According to my calculations (takes out expensive graphing calculator), the ratio of ants to humans in Spain is roughly 196,374 to 1.
Some of the 196,374 assigned to me live outside, but a good number of them wander into the house to check up on me...make sure I'm still doing my job.
See, the truth is that this country (perhaps even the whole world) is actually controlled by ants. It's like The Matrix.
These creatures are "raising" humans to supply their food. They let us live in houses, have jobs, have children, etc, as long as we continue to prepare food and waste it...leaving it around for them to eat.
They know that, if we were to become aware of our true purpose, we would stage an uprising and destroy them...and inevitably...ourselves.
I think the ants out here know that I've uncovered the secret of human existence.
They're watching me.
....and waiting for me to toss out the orange peels from my 3rd glass of sangria.

Hot chocolate

After leaving the monastery in El Escorial, I decided to wander around the village, maybe find a little outdoor cafe to sit down and people-watch. I was walking along the tree-lined sidewalk when I glanced across the street and saw two men working a hot chocolate and churros stand. They were motioning for me to come over. Probably just trying to get some business, I thought. Who wants hot chocolate in the middle of the day in the summer? Eh...Spaniards.

I crossed the street.
"Hola." The lanky, bald one grinned at me.
"Hello." I waited. There was a strange pause.
Now both of them were smiling. They looked at each other, then back at me.
Well? I thought. What?
"I'm sorry, I don't have any euros yet."
The lanky one spoke again, but it was too fast. The words rammed into each other. Halfway through his passionate monologue, I began to concentrate on what he was saying. He was raising his eyebrows. "Tu es muy bonita."
Huh? I think he said I'm pretty.

"Thank you...um...gracias."
The other one began to talk. He rattled off a few sentences, pushing his Spanish-sounding S's through tobacco-stained teeth. I was so busy looking at them, I forgot to translate.
"Oh...no hablo espanol. Soy Americana."
"No espanol?" The lanky one looked slightly incredulous. As his compadre squinted at me, a slick, dark curl fell over his eye. "A little?" he asked. I responded in halting Spanish. "A little, but not much."
The two smiled again.
If I'm so pretty, how 'bout some free hot chocolate? I thought. Tobacco-teeth leaned forward. "Tiene un novio?"
"Novio?" I asked, wracking my brain for the word. Novio...novio. I know I've heard it before.
"A man," he offered.
"Oh!! ...Novio! Boyfriend! Si."
This did not dissuade them at all.
"Donde es?"
"At home, in America," I responded quickly this time. They both kept smiling.

Umm...did they not see that I'm black? It occurred to me that things are different here. I've been reading Maya Angelou's autobiographies. She was hit on by men all over the world...and she says she wasn't even pretty...just different, exotic.
I guess these guys like all kinds of chocolate, huh.

I gave them a once-over. Nope and nope.
Neither of them looked anything like the sculpted Spanish gardener or distinguished expatriate I had imagined having an affair with. (My host family's gardener is a short 126 yr-old man from South America... not sexy).
I politely excused myself and walked away, turning once to toss a half-smile in their general direction.
Give 'em something to talk about tonight at the bar.

El Escorial

Today we drove up to El Escorial (a little town just west of Madrid) to take the children to play with their boats in the pool at their grandparent's house. This was my first chance to go exploring on my own. Don't get me wrong, the Gil de Antunano's are very nice and the children are all little characters of their own, but there's only so much sibling rivalry en espanol I can stand.

El Escorial is a small town nestled along the side of Abanto Mountain in Sierra de Guadarrama. King Phillip II (Felipe Segundo) commissioned the construction of the Real Monasterio de San Lorenzo in 1559. It was finished in 1584. Many of the Spanish kings have since been buried there. Intrigued by the very idea a 16th century architecture, I ventured off alone.

I walked down the steep cobblestown streets of El Escorial (think Charles Dickens' village) towards the monastery. As I descended the wide stone steps into the court, I caught my breath.

Beautiful.

Serene.

I was overcome with an encompassing sense of reverance. Reminded of the palpable presence of God on this earth, I wondered how anyone could doubt it.

I snapped a few pictures, but found myself disappointed. The camera could not capture what my eyes could see. I stood over the Garden of the Friars and stared, hoping to lock the image into my memory.

The bell towers chime the hour. 6 pm.

For a moment, I'm convinced that time doesn't exist at all. There is only now. And this thing we call time is just a rapid succession of nows piling on top of each other. Suddenly I feel stupid for having ever been afraid to live. Whatever it is...is what it was meant to be. What is there to fear?

I am in awe...and at peace.

Yellow light means "go very fast"

What flashed before my eyes was not my life, but it might as well have been. I felt closer to God than I ever had in church (and I´ve felt the spirit move a time or two), but this was a whole ´nother out-of-body experience.

Driving in Madrid...(technically, riding).

No defensive driving class could have prepared me for the Spanish version, which I refer to as offensive driving ... in both senses of the word. The danger of which can be attributed to two main factors.

The first problem is street design. There are no grid-like streets and uniform lanes (apparently this is a foolish American concept). Los calles (streets) and avenidas (avenues) of Madrid curve around each other to form complex circles, veer off into narrow one-way alleys, dip down steep angular slopes directly into oncoming traffic. Sometimes, there are stop signs or traffic lights, but most of them are tucked behind more important signage like "Sexo in Nueva York"* or "Hulk"* billboards.

Fortunately, the street names are clearly marked...if you can manage to escape being blind-sided by a "smart car" before you reach the intersection.

The city should be renamed Labyrinth.

Adding insults to potential injury are the drivers. All of whom appear to have received their driver´s licences at a miltary training facility. The motto is cut off or be cut off, flip off or be flipped off, honk or be honked at. As one driver sped through the intersection, fist pumping out the window, I believe I heard him say (and my Spanish is not that good) something about tu madre. *shrugs*

I am told that, in older cities all over the world, driving can be like this. The streets and buildings were designed hundreds of years ago, before cars and the word "signal"...which clearly has no translation in Spanish. There´s not much anybody can do. What can I say? When in Madrid...do as the Romans (pillage and conquer?)...no, walk.

One thing I know for sure... Red light may or may not mean stop, Green light usually means go, but Yellow light means "go very fast"... all over the world.

Jet Drag

It's after midnight in Madrid and I'm wide awake. I just woke up from a 4 1/2 hour nap, took a tour of the gardens with Augustin (the family's 12 year old son), ate dinner out on the patio, talked with the family about school, Spanish culture, the economy, alligators in America, the president, the difference between watermelons and honeydew, and why Native American's don't like to be called Indians. There was a lot of "Como se dice _______?" And "This is how you say? right?"
All of this was frequently interrupted by the insistent cries and pleas of the 4 yr old daughter, Naieves, who seems to make up for her diminutive size by being excessively loud. Luckily, she's also cute.
I'd probably add something witty here, but my mind is a bit foggy tonight. Not that it matters, apparently I'm absentminded even when I haven't lost 7 hours to time zone change. I managed to forget both my toe socks AND the usb cable for my digi cam. AND I just discovered that the $29 usb kit I bought at the airport is not compatible with my camera. (expletive).

I guess I better try to go to bed. This jet lag has me draggin'.


Sidenote: Little Naieves just sneaked past me into the kitchen. I paid her no mind. But when I looked, I see a little form squatted down, pouring milk into a sippy cup....and all over the floor. I rushed over to clean up the mess. Before I thought the words, I heard myself. "Cuidado mija". She replied in one continuous string of mezzo-soprano Spanish. I understood the words, "want", "tea", "with milk". Maybe this Spanish thing won't be so hard after all.

It was a dark and stormy night...

I’m sitting at my computer wondering “how exactly does one pack for 6 weeks in another country?” I play through the mental inventory of my closets… scroll down my virtual list of recent purchases. Do I have everything? (Now THERE’S a metaphysical question). And the answer, both physical and theoretical, is No.

I don’t even know what all I need. Maybe I already have everything I’ll need, my optimistic subconscious suggests. But the probability of this is low. And being that I am relatively Aristotelian by nature, making most decisions based on logic, eenie meenie miney mo, or the weather (it’s all science, right?), I find it much more sensible to believe that I will wake up mid-flight, blurting out something random like “Sh**! My toe socks!” Which will startle the temporarily quiet toddler sitting next to me into a fit of I’m-being-tortured-by-the-taliban screams. His mother will glare menacingly at me, as will everyone else on the plane…and I’ll find myself dropped off in Iceland, with no toe socks.
See? Logic.

A flash of lightning interrupts my scientific calculations. I jump up to search for the Burberry umbrella my brother (who must think I have other name brand accessories to go with it) gave me for Mother’s day. Tossing it into one of the gaping suitcases, I am satisfied that I have officially begun packing. Now, all I have to do is put some clothes in there with it. I’ve heard that many Europeans are very liberal, but I’m sure they’d appreciate me wearing a little more than an umbrella.
I better go find my toe socks.