Part three: Relationship advice and edible puzzles

Click to read: Part one: A palace and a hostel and Part two: A stolen sandwich and art

J and I spent almost a week in Mytown. He stepped into my life and met my people. Yes, I continued to feel the emotional dissonance of my meshing worlds, but assigning a name to the feeling seemed to rob it of its power.

“Does he have money to take care of you?”

My friends and neighbors invited themselves into the particulars of our relationship. They all had advice about where we should live, how soon we should get married and start a family, etc.– but they always expressed their approval of J in the end.

We found park benches to sit on and people-watch. We discussed things we hadn’t thought to discuss on the phone or through emails and messages. Sometimes we didn’t bother to do anything except “be” with each other.

But that’s not all we did. We had British breakfast at the port. And on the beach, I collected broken shells while he went for a jog along the shoreline. A teammate borrowed J for morning bike rides, giving him the chance to burn off some of his morning energy before I even rolled out of bed.

Late one morning, we bussed to a neighboring town’s restaurant where my friend cooks. She gave me a tour of the kitchen, lifting kettle lids and describing everything inside. She heaped our table full of food we hardly made a dent in: chicken with rice, lentils, beef and prune tagine, salads, fries, bread, vegetables, and tall glasses of orange juice. “I was so happy when you said you were coming that I cried,” she told me later. She expressed her appreciation for our visit by making sure that we were taken care of… right down to ordering our pirated taxi ride home.

Restaurant kitchen filled with prepared food

We delivered birthday gifts to my neighbor boys. We went to the market and bought a buffet of olives and other pickled delights. And J chatted with the various Chinese store owners around town. His Mandarin was typically met with surprise and guarded curiosity… or even an expletive.

We spent a warm afternoon volunteering with the Red Cross, entertaining a group of children while the village women studied basic Spanish. The director had brought puzzles for the children, but the puzzles were too advanced for their ages. One little boy leaned into an open puzzle box and scooped the pieces to his mouth, pretending to eat them: “Om! Om!” he said over and over again. The other children weren’t too concerned as long as his appetite didn’t extend to their puzzle. There were some wild moments, some tattle-tale stories, and a mini lesson on forgiveness. A volunteer from another district had brought virtual reality glasses which entertained a few adults and children at a time.

Over the course of the week, we spent a lot of time at the center where J was staying, learning how to bump around in the same kitchen together while on task. J faithfully washed the dishes after our meals; I could probably count on one hand the number of dishes I washed when he was around. Our team met on Sunday and for a few other activities scattered throughout the week.

In the evenings, J would walk me home. And in the mornings, he would usually meet me on my way to the center. In fact, there was rarely a time that I walked that three-minute walk entirely alone. A delighted smile to greet me on the street was one of those small things that made me miss him terribly when he was gone.

And then, on Thursday evening, we finished our laundry, packed our backpacks, and attempted an early bedtime. The next morning, we left for North Africa.

Part two: A stolen sandwich and art

Click to read Part one: A palace and a hostel.

J woke up after the time we had agreed to meet in the lobby. We had planned plenty of time, so I was content to let him sleep off as much jetlag as possible. Besides that, I wasn’t confident which bed was his. With those curtains, what if I reached in and poked the wrong man? I sneaked a snack from our stash in the communal refrigerator and then noticed that the second half of the sandwich was missing. Who would have nabbed a half-eaten sandwich? I wondered, pensive. I passed the time answering messages and chatting with a Lithuanian lady who had broken her phone at the beginning of her two week trip.

Eventually, J came out to the lobby, looking much brighter than the night before, but still sleepy around the edges. He confessed to waking up in the wee hours of the morning to eat the rest of the sandwich. Mystery solved.

The Puerta del Sol was on our way to breakfast and the museum, so we stopped to get our picture taken under the iconic bear. Because I am several inches taller than J, but our families didn’t know how many, we decided to exaggerate our height difference. I stood on my tiptoes and J bent his knees. The camera snapped and with a little cropping, our photo was ready to send.

“Quite the height difference!” commented my sister with a laughing emoji.

“Yes, it’s something to get used to,” I beamed back at her.

“I do believe he comes a little higher than your elbow…”

I guess we’d overdone it. 🙂

Our breakfast was less than remarkable, but the Museo del Prado, the renowned art museum of Madrid, made up for it. We spent the entire morning there, wandering and wandering and still covering just over half before we were too exhausted to continue. I loved enjoying the paintings together, studying them long enough to point out things to each other. Sometimes, we laughed. Sometimes, we stood in awe. Sometimes our wonder was more of the skeptical type. We both agreed that we’d rather fully enjoy a few works of art than see everything at breakneck speed.

We attempted lunch but weren’t hungry enough to justify spending 50+€ on a paella for two. We thanked the hostess and ducked back out on the street where we found a grocery store that sold prepared salads. We took our salads to a grassy boulevard and sat on a bench to eat and bolster ourselves for another tour.

This time, we toured the National Library of Spain. We listened to an audio guide on my phone and after a strange encounter with the guard who seemed reluctant to understand my Spanish until I doubted that I was even speaking it, we toured the rest of the library unbothered.

Back at Retiro Park, we found the glass palace. Then, we sat in the grass and watched the carefree groups of people strolling by until we decided we should meander back for some supper and our hostel. We ate a seafood paella in a corner of a hopping restaurant, growing sleepier as the minutes ticked by. It would be an early bedtime, for sure.

The next morning, we were both up and ready to leave before we had planned to be. Our trip down to Almería was smooth. We traveled from bus to train to bus–two extra buses due to construction on both ends of our journey. We dozed, watched the scenery, and talked, sometimes about those topics that are best talked about in person. Wanna know what we talked about? Too bad. It’s “not your market” as the North Africans say. 😉

A teammate gave us a ride back to Mytown. I sat in the backseat, feeling a measure of something I couldn’t describe. It wasn’t entirely pleasant or unpleasant. So I just sat with it, pondering. We lunched with teammates, unpacked, and I gave J a mini tour of Mytown, introducing him to a piece of my world.

It wasn’t until I was preparing for bed that I was able to label what I was feeling as “emotional dissonance.” I was beyond delighted to show J my world in Spain, but watching my worlds mesh was unsettling. Like the world that had felt so close was being replaced by another world that, in new ways, felt closer.

Part one: A palace and a hostel

It wasn’t cold feet. More like good ol’ butterflies jitterbugging in my belly as I nibbled rice cakes and watched his flight information from my phone. After 5 whole months of communicating, we would finally see each other… and in a completely different capacity than when we had seen each other last.

I wanted to savor the moments without really knowing how.

We had both missed a night of sleep–J on his flight and I on my overnight bus–and here we were, on the point of meeting in the Madrid-Barajas Airport, both sleep-deprived and with questionable hygiene. If we couldn’t like each other like this, we probably wouldn’t like each other for other reasons either.

When his flight arrived, I stood at the arrivals door in a near-panic, only to find that when we were face to face, he was exactly who I knew he would be. No surprises. In fact, the only surprise for both of us was how un-awkward we felt together. Like old friends or comfortable siblings with an extra layer of excitement exactly because we weren’t.

We bumbled around in terminal 4 until we found the right train to downtown. Our Airbnb rooms had canceled on us at some point during the night. So we stood in the middle of the downtown Atocha station, booking the hostel I had been determined to avoid.

Doesn’t the very word “hostel” strike a chord of dread in your heart? It sure did in mine! I imagined a dilapidated row of bunk beds, scummy showers, and an aura of unwelcome free love. J was accommodating to my fears, but our pickings were slim at this point. So a hostel it was. And, (spoiler alert!) it wasn’t at all what I had been picturing.

Since it was still morning and we couldn’t check in to our hostel until the afternoon, we wandered Retiro Park, enjoying nature, street musicians, and even a man reading poetry aloud among bright rose bushes. We sat on a bench to watch people and talk.

In our search for lunch, we walked through the Puerta del Sol, a plaza which just happened to be overflowing with people because of some sort of celebration. We watched red and yellow parachutes descend from the sky like Spanish flags, the parachuters guiding themselves to a giant stage.

At this point, J was drooping with jetlag and I kept a wary eye on him as we pushed through the crowd. We found a place to eat, and, at the server’s recommendations, ordered a plate of cured meats and cheese and pulpo a feira. The octopus was doubtless the best I’d ever tasted and we left the restaurant with enough “umph” to tour the Royal Palace.

platters of octupus and tray with cured meat and cheese

We walked to the end of an impossibly long and stagnant line. After waiting a few minutes, J politely asked the couple in front of us if we were waiting in the right line (at least, I can only assume that’s what he asked, since the conversation happened in Mandarin) and we discovered that indeed we weren’t. After relocating, we were soon granted entrance and wandered through the rooms, gaping at the ornate decor. Palaces are so curious. Do people really want to live amidst so much useless wealth? Or is it only for tourists to come and gape?

We left the palace, luggage in tow–J with his backpack for the entire 3 week visit and me with my equally-heavy backpack for a mere 3 days. We checked in at our hostel. I know I already slipped you the spoiler, but imagine a friendly clerk, a relaxed atmosphere, privacy curtains on each bunk, and all-inclusive bathroom stalls–shower, sink, toilet–with doors that locked! I didn’t even have to put on a brave front.

The rest of the evening was filled with a walk and a talk before we headed back to the hostel for a supper of leftovers, snacks, and a much-needed cup of tea.

Much blessings

This morning, a friend sent a voice message that ended with “Much blessings!”

Her non-native English made me smile; I love the way she talks. “Many blessings” is grammatically correct–my work email even signs off with that–because blessings are individual and countable. Or are they? We count our blessings, the many ways which we are thankful for what God has given us, but can we really count them all?

I’m pondering this on after saying goodbye to visitors who celebrated life with me. We toured an Arab fortress, a cathedral, and a greenhouse. We strolled the beach, picnicked by mountain springs, housecleaned, marketed, and tasted lots of foods. And my favorite parts were the conversations, prayers, and laughter woven through all of it. My friends brought gifts and letters from home. On the board above my desk, hang two letters from a nephew and a niece who are big enough to write in beautiful cursive and sign their letters, “Yours truly” and “Love.”

And this week, I have another visitor–one I’ve been looking forward to seeing since… well, since a long time.

With all of the extra activity infused with normal life and work, I sometimes struggle to keep up. Yet, I am filled, sandwiched here between the goodness that was and the goodness that is to come.

“Much blessings” describes this perfectly, I think.

Some of what’s been happening recently

Trying to have a day of rest

I would sleep all day tomorrow, I decided. After a filled-to-the-brim month, my body was worn out.

Then the instructor from a nearby language school responded to an email that evening, asking to meet at 9 a.m. the next morning. I tried not to panic–“Nine o’clock on my day off!?”–and kept reading the email. “Or 12:00.” I supposed I could drag myself out of bed by then and agreed. But I must have been a little too agreeable because I ended up agreeing to start Spanish class the following Monday, although I hadn’t meant to.

My agreeable mood would be tested yet again. Early in the afternoon, my landlady messaged me. “The grandpa upstairs died. His funeral mass is at 6:30.” The “grandpa upstairs” had always been kind. I hadn’t seen him often, but when I’d stop by to visit, he’d invite me in to sit and chat. I knew his three daughters by sight, but attend his funeral? Why oh why had my landlady told me about it? I could no longer feign ignorance.

I pictured myself tromping into the Spanish funeral mass, outrageously uncatholic. What kind of rituals would they perform? Would I be required to take part? Goodness, what in the world would I wear? My only pair of dress shoes had long since passed their prime. I meticulously de-pilled my black sweater.

“It would be good to go, wouldn’t it? I don’t know your culture very well…” I tried, hoping that my landlady would say that it wasn’t a big deal. I wanted a loophole so I could conveniently lose my nerve.

“Yes, clearly.”

All righty then.

As it turned out, several of the pallbearers wore hoodies and sneakers, and I don’t think people bothered to notice my scruffy dress shoes at all.

Ramadan

All year long, we can pretend that we aren’t so different after all. Then Ramadan starts and suddenly we’re at a fork in the road. I choose one way and my friends choose the other. I catch myself lingering there at the fork, wondering how many want to go that way and how many go because that’s how it’s done.

Yes, Ramadan has a way of waking me up again.

A creep at my elbow

I was meandering to a local shop on a sunny afternoon when a presence at my elbow startled me. The presence wasn’t inclined to pass me. Oh brother. A creep. Adrenaline shot through my veins as decided what to do.

Then he greeted me. And grinned, like the twerp he can be sometimes, when he realized that he had successfully disconcerted me.

Interns.

Breaking the fast with pre-packaged cakes

The call to prayer sounded. Allahu Akbar! Time to break the fast.

Noura, the lady beside me, closed her eyes and whispered a prayer. I sat in my bus seat, still and alert, curious what the Muslims around me would do to break the fast. Or if the cantankerous bus driver would allow them to do anything at all.

“I don’t have anything halal!” The guys in the seat behind me frantically rustled through the plastic bags at their feet.

Ashhadu alla ilaha illallah!

Then they broke the fast with pre-packaged cakes, half dipped in chocolate. Hayya ‘alas-Salah!

After rustling up their own ftur, they began offering cakes to the Muslims around them. A sub-Saharan man declined politely. They threw a package to one of their buddies in the front and he caught it with a crackle. Then across the aisle to another buddy. Last, they peeked through the gap of the seat in front of them.

“Is she North African or Romanian?” they asked each other. My ethnicity was in question. Noura turned to me with a smirk. I smirked back.

“Sister, do you want one?” one asked at last.

I smiled. “No, thank you.”

“She’s a Christian,” said Noura.

And I’d been eating all day.

Photos don’t capture life

For the past 10 days or so, I have been enjoying a dear friend’s visit…and then savoring the lingering memories. Below are some of the photos from our time together. But remember that photos don’t capture life. Not really.

We spend a few wonderful days in rainy Córdoba. We wore plastic bags on our feet to keep out the puddles and streams and broke into delighted gasps whenever the valiant sun peeked through the gray clouds. “It hasn’t rain all this time, and then you came and it rained,” laughed my Cordoban friend when we met for coffee and then an Indian dinner.

arches of mosque-cathedral in Cordoba — Photo credit: M.B.

Back in Almería, we went up the mountain with teammates to watch the sun set, sifted through produce at the market, ate churros and pastries, enjoyed a British breakfast and crashing waves on one the windiest days of the year… and a gorgeous, sunny beach just 24 hours later. We also climbed Almería’s alcazaba and spent an afternoon admiring pottery in the town of Níjar. On her last evening, three of us celebrated Valentine’s Day with cheese fondue.

colorful fruit and vegetable market stall — Photo credit: M.B.

blue sea with blue sky and sailboat — Photo credit: M.B.

Arab fortress wall with city beyond — Photo credit: M.B.

elderly woman painting pottery — Photo credit: M.B.

But we don’t have pictures of those long heart-to-hearts or the laughter that erupted from just being together. Those are the real memories.

A stray in Andalusia

I hefted my bag onto the closest seat as the bus lurched forward, nearly carrying the rest of me and mine down the aisle. But I caught the seat handle just in time and wrestled off my backpack.

It was one of those four seater sections of the bus where two passengers faced another two passengers. The kind of seat I typically avoid because I dislike riding backwards and letting my knees protrude into someone else’s territory. But today, the bus was full and at a quick glance, it didn’t seem like there were many other options.

The woman across from me, knees against mine, watched me curiously. I smiled and decided, given the close quarters, not to mention that I was still getting over the flu. I was trying to subtly clear the cough in my throat when her questions began, each in thick Andalusian. “Where are you from? Where do you live? What’s your name?”

Every time I replied, she broadcasted my answer over her shoulder to an elderly gentleman sitting a row back. He watched me with delight, his eyes peering between the clouds of white which were his head and chin.

“Where do you live in Mytown?”

“Close to Central Market.”

“SHE LIVES CLOSE TO CENTRAL MARKET.”

“Oh, Central Market!”

This was how the interrogation went as I bounced along backwards, feeling both annoyed and amused that everyone on the bus now had access to my personal data. She began to preface questions with my name, dragging my attention away from the window where I was pretending that I had forgotten she was there. I kept my answers to the point, swallowing back the coughing fit that kept swelling in my airway.

“How long have you lived here?”

“Six years.”

“SHE HAS LIVED HERE SIX YEARS.”

“Ah! Six years.”

Andalusians, pleasant as they are, have a way of reducing me to the feeling that I’ve just stepped off the plane. They pick me up like a stray. Under their burning curiosity, I get tongue-tied. Getting tongue-tied leads to falling behind in the conversation. Falling behind is a blow to my confidence, which in turn, makes me appear ignorant and lost. That’s when I try to preserve my fizzling dignity by looking for an escape.

Fast forward to not many days after my backwards bus ride to find a friend and me face to face with three abrupt police officers. This time, curiosity was backed by the authority of the uniform.

“What are you doing here?”

Suddenly, I felt as if I were wandering into territory that was not mine for the wandering. I was three and half blocks from home and I felt like they had found me lost.

“Where are you from? Holland? Russia?”

I had never been stopped by police officers before. I don’t even have a speeding ticket to my name (although, I can’t say I’ve never deserved one). A few questions in, I realized they didn’t believe we had done anything wrong, but they were curious who we were and why we were in this particular neighborhood. Their method was protection by intimidation. Not very effective, but very Andalusian.

Once again, the stray puppy was held up for examination and then sent home. Literally this time.

“Go home. You’ll get robbed here.” As if I didn’t live three and a half blocks away. As if I hadn’t been living three and a half blocks away for three years.

Sometimes, I just want to make a list of all of the things I’ve experienced and survived in life and hand it to the next person who tries to protect my presumed naivete. My list may not be long, but I’m guessing it’s longer than a stray puppy’s.

If I get lung cancer, it’s Spain’s fault

When I walk down the street, more often than not, I find myself walking behind someone with a smoldering cigarette. If I can’t speed around them, I try to get out of their wake but end up bumping into oncoming pedestrians.

Why does this happen so often, you ask? It’s not Murphy’s law, so don’t bother blaming it on him. Actually, it’s because so many Spaniards smoke.

One of the first things I noticed when I returned to Spain this fall was the smells. Cigarette smoke, cologne, cigarette smoke, body odor, cigarette smoke, car fumes, cigarette smoke–oh, and to break it up a little, weed.

I was walking home from the market one morning when a middle-aged lady stopped me and asked for a light. I was curious; did I look like I smoked? Or was it an assumption given my geographical location?

Last week, a group of us huddled in a bus stop, trying to hide from the chilly breeze within the three protective walls. Without warning, two of the ladies lit up, forcing the rest of us to choose between the chill or the fumes. Rude? Well, I’m in Spain and this is how it’s done among the young, old, rich, poor, and everything in between.

Until I start carrying my own tank of purified air, I suppose I will continue inhaling secondary smoke. It’s life here, for better or for worse, and I’m the one who chose to live here. I’m just saying that if I get lung cancer someday, it’s probably Spain’s fault!

My favorite kind of day

It was a balmy day at the beginning of winter that was worthy of short-sleeves. My laundry was hanging in the sunshine on the roof. My spinach and lettuce had dared to show their green little faces on my patio and I was beyond delighted, barely resisting the temptation to make a salad with the tiny sprouts.

My phone rang. “Do you have zucchini? Peppers? Lower the bag and I’ll give you some!”

I held the end of the sturdy string and tossed the bag over the edge of my patio to my neighbor’s kitchen window. She loaded the bag with produce from the abundance in her fridge, and I pulled it up carefully.

And then I was dashing out the door to visit the neighbor around the corner.

My phone rang. “Do you have a roof key?” My downstairs neighbor again. “Can you stay with my boys for five minutes while I take the stroller I’m cleaning up to the roof? It needs to be dry by tomorrow.”

After a bit of scheduling chaos, I continued on my way. I rang my neighbor’s buzzer and waited. Last week, I hadn’t waited long enough, she said, because she had been back in the kitchen with her hands in oily pastry dough and by the time she had washed her hands and put on a headscarf, I was gone.

Today I promised to wait.

A shriek greeted me as the elevator door opened to the third floor. Her three-year-old son, L, was so delighted by my presence that he couldn’t contain himself. “He is flying with happiness,” my friend said. “He isn’t even thinking with his head, just happy.” Yes, that could explain why his feet were in the air more often than his head.

My friend insisted on tea or coffee or something, although I had just stopped by to drop off the container she had sent home with cake the other week. So I stayed for tea, which, as usual, turned into more than just tea.

While she was busy in the kitchen, I hung out with L in the salon. We traveled to other countries. We took naps with boisterous snoring to indicate that we were asleep. I put my head against the couch pillow; he curled up on the floor and pulled the rug over him. SNORE, SNORE. Then he tried to trim my fingernails with a clippers he found on the table. Then: “I have to poop!” And he was gone like a flash and back like a flash. He slipped into my sneakers and clomped around the room in them, giggling. So I grabbed his shoes and balanced them on the tips of my toes.

Just then, his big sister strode into the room. “Shame on you, L!” she said when she saw him in my shoes. But when she saw me in his shoes, she doubled over with giggles.

The tea arrived then, my friend and her husband walking in with laden trays to the sound of our laughter.

Big Sister scooted over beside me when L put his feet near my face and was unceremoniously relocated. But, in the end, L decided he wasn’t hungry after all and hid under the table. We practiced English vocabulary for Big Sister’s Tuesday exam. “Granfodder. Granmudder. Unt. Brudder.”

“I have to go now, but let’s practice tomorrow evening,” I suggested before dashing back to my own building where my downstairs neighbor was waiting for me to bring the roof key so she could air her dripping stroller. I helped haul the boys and stroller to the roof. Little S ran his hand along the bottoms of the clothes dangling on the line as I unpinned them and tossed them into my basket. Baby A crawled across the sunbaked tiles.

I went downstairs to make lunch. The evening would be pleasantly full, but I had a few hours to catch my breath and to realize that this kind of day was really my favorite kind of day.

Leaving, arriving, and the perks of Spain

Leaving Illinois–leaving family, friends, and church community–was hard as usual. Well, maybe even harder than usual. I flip on the electric kettle and wait at the counter’s edge while my Barry’s tea bag floats atop the milk in the bottom of my favorite mug. I’m back in Spain and life in the States feels far away. “Well, here I am. Alone again.”

My bags are unpacked. My house is relatively clean except the random projects strewn around the living room. I live downtown and it just feels so quiet.

Then again…

A neighbor (and her irritating dog) dropped by because I’d promised her chocolate for watching my apartment while I was gone. She apologized over and over again for killing my plants and insisted I take the remaining straggler with me before she killed that one too.

Another neighbor (a new one) dropped by to ask if my apartment was for rent. Umm…

Yet another neighbor dropped by to ask if I could pick up her daughter from school. She caught me during a salad laden with chia seeds. While we were chatting, I felt a seed swelling between my front teeth. I couldn’t subtly pry it out with my tongue, so there it stayed and I punctuated the conversation with seedy smiles.

My neighbor boy dropped by to visit, strewing cookie crumbs across the floor as he made his rounds, examining everything new in the house. “What did you miss most?” his mom asked him. “Her or her toys?” He grinned and looked away. But he pointed at me.

As I was out and about this morning, I decided to make a list of the things I like about being back in Spain. The cons can go without mention this time.

The sunshine!
The accessibility to quality food, especially fresh produce.
Knowing my way around stores.
Having sales tax included in the price.
Living downtown where neighbors pop in and out and almost everything I need is within walking distance.
Good ol’ Spanish directness. (Yes, this can get annoying too, but I’m choosing the positive side today.) This morning, as I was standing at the hardware store counter, another customer plunked a packet of screws on the counter and said they were the wrong size. “How do we know you didn’t take some out?” asked the clerk, eyes narrowing. “There’s a screw of a different class.” Indeed, on a bed of bland screws was a gold-colored one. Where had it come from? There would be no getting around the fact that the package had been tampered with. I felt a giggle bubbling up but tried to swallow it down. Even in customer service, there were no niceties. No frills or lace bordering this conversation.
Amazon packages that arrive rápidamente with or without Prime.
Fast internet.
Cheap phone plans.
The reminder that God is here too.
The variety of people–colors, ages, personalities, nationalities–all piled into my neighborhood.
The late schedule. When I roll out of bed at 8:00, the streets are still pretty quiet, as if I’m not the only one reluctant to get started on the day.
My apartment. Knowing my kitchen–what utensils and pots and pans I have and what is in my fridge because I’m the one who put it there.

That’s all for now. See? I’m already feeling less alone and more… I don’t know… ready.

Photo by John McArthur on Unsplash