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.