There isn’t much that separates us

The public health clinic was teeming with people. Where was she?

“Over here!” My friend waved me over to a corner of the waiting room. She rushed to explain her health problem, pointing to various body parts while keeping an eye on the door where she was to go as soon as her number was called.

My breathless mind tried to keep up with her Arabic. I was still drumming up passable Spanish vocabulary when her number was called.

We squeezed around an old shopping cart piled high with unsupervised medical supplies and stepped into the consultation room.

“What is the problem?”

I took a deep breath and launched into an unrehearsed explanation. Interpreting between two foreign languages is always a workout for me, and not a flattering one.

The lady at the desk was silent until I paused. Then she said, “You both realize that I’m a nurse, not a doctor, right?”

Actually, no. I had never been beyond the door in this particular public health clinic.

“Look, the only thing I can do is test and see if she still has the infection.” She handed my friend one of those flimsy plastic cups we use at children’s parties for juice or Jell-O. “Urinate in here and bring it back to me.”

Apparently dismissed, we squeezed around the shopping cart and wandered around the building in search of restrooms. Misplaced people were milling everywhere in a warm, concrete facility that smelled of metal and sweat.

We eventually found the almost unmarked restroom, nestled between consultation rooms. Then back down the long hallway we went, my friend trying to hide her cup of pee in a plastic bag she’d dug out of her purse. “There wasn’t any paper in there to wrap the cup,” she said. “I don’t want everyone here to see it.”

We wiggled around the overflowing shopping cart again. The nurse stretched on a pair of gloves, stuck a testing strip into the urine, and told us to wait outside. My friend turned and left, still holding her cup.

“Uh… can she throw away the urine?” I asked.

While I was still verifying this with the nurse-not-doctor, my friend lost her way and, unable to read, ended up in the men’s restroom. There was an unsettled man waiting outside when I arrived on the scene. “This is for men,” he said in Arabic when my friend emerged.

We found seats in the waiting room. As much as I love to people-watch, it was hard to look around without feeling absolutely hopeless. Did anyone in the healthcare system really care about these people?

As we waited, the lady next to us asked if her number was on the screen yet. She couldn’t read; she could only hear the tone and see the digits move without understanding what they meant. I looked at her tiny slip of paper, the kind of ticket you get while waiting in line for olives at the market. It was hard to see that wisp of green-blue and not see my own personalized number on a freshly printed ticket from the private health clinic across the street. My initials followed by 524. Always the same. Always announced over the speaker while I sat in the air-conditioned waiting room.

Her number was 254. The number on the screen was 272. “It’s past,” I explained. By a good half hour, likely. She walked up to the desk and was sent to get another number and start the process again.

Meanwhile, my friend and I were called back into the consultation room. The overflowing shopping cart had been removed and this time we could walk in without yoga posing our way through the doorway.

The nurse told me, “Tell her that she still has an infection, but she needs to finish the week of antibiotics she got yesterday.”

Oh.

That was a piece of information I had been missing. My friend had apparently just been to the emergency room the day before, but wasn’t satisfied with the lingering pain from the infection. As if one dose of antibiotics should have removed her aching like magic.

It was hard to look at the nurse sitting at her desk and not feel absolutely hopeless for her. Was this what she dealt with day after day? Confused immigrants expecting or even demanding immediate fixes without understanding her role as a nurse, not a doctor or a magician?

My friend and I walked toward home. She pulled me into a North African store and bought a bag of fresh figs: big, purple, and sweet. On the street again, she handed me the bag. “I got these for you because you helped me today.”

We sat on the front steps of my apartment building until the hopelessness of the morning faded with chatter and laughter. Deep down, there isn’t as much that separates us as we sometimes imagine.

Part six: Melancholy and sweet

Click to read: Part one: A palace and a hostel, Part two: A stolen sandwich and art, Part three: Relationship advice and edible puzzles, Part four: Tanneries and street food, and Part five: Friends and ferries

Melancholy and sweet. Those words describe the days following our return from North Africa. We knew our time together was winding down, and we were determined to make the most of it.

At the beach, we walked along the shore until we were among a scruff of bushes and leftover seaweed. We spread our towel in a promising spot, but then had to scramble back to avoid a soaking.

Next, we hiked a horse trail up the side of a cliff. The view of the town and the blue sea beyond was startling and we stopped to drink in the view… and let me catch my out-of-shape breath. From there, we joined a greenhouse tour with a group of German students. Some of them were in the eye-rolling stage and received lectures from our tour guide. J’s mind was brimming with questions, I could tell. But it wasn’t until we had munched our way through samples of tomatoes and cucumbers drizzled with olive oil that he was able to corner the guide and ask his questions.

The next morning, we toured Almería’s Alcazaba (Arab fortress) with two teammates.

On Saturday, we puttered around the center, cleaning and hanging out, then slipping over to my neighbor’s barber shop for J to get a trim.

That evening, my teammates hosted a “romantic date for two” in their living room. To dress up or not to dress up? Not to. That’s what we decided, knowing we would be most comfortable “as is.” So we arrived at the front door, barefoot and the day’s leftover sweat still clinging to our clothes.

A smoldering incense stick, music, games, discussion questions, and a massive charcuterie board. We took a few moments to orient ourselves.

“Message us when you’re ready for tea!” And then they closed the door and left us alone.

There were so many options that we hardly knew where to start. We sampled this and then that and then the other things. We paired foods, discussing the flavors and textures. Yes, for a long while our conversation revolved around food, but only because we were both enjoying the experience so much.

We played Dutch Blitz. I won, but he was such a good sport about it that it wasn’t even fun to gloat. We put a puzzle together and talked until we were yawning, or, in J’s case, until long after we were yawning. J managed to walk me home, even with drooping eyelids.

We spent Sunday morning walking around town and looking for murals and other interesting sights. J had the sermon for our team service. I don’t remember how we spent all of our time that day; I just was aware that it was passing too quickly.

Monday was our last day together. We took the bus up the mountain to the springs, spread our blanket, and sat on the thinly-covered knobby ground. We talked, played Qwirkle, and stuck our feet in the chilly stream. I managed to hike partway up the side of the mountain with him, but petered out and parked myself on a nice rock while he ran the rest of the way up. Yes, ran. When he returned, we meandered among the busy beehives we found there and managed not to get stung.

After a stroll through a sprawling Spanish town, we eventually caught the bus back to Mytown just in time to join teammates for a steaming plate of couscous that hit the spot exactly.

A few hours, a walk, and a couple of park benches later, we ate our last supper together and J washed the dishes for the very last time.

Then it was time to go.

We stood shivering in the chilly night air until the bus driver beckoned. It was over. For now.

But like J wrote the next day: “…we have accumulated some good memories and have many more to make.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

My new winter coat

As I fingered my winter coat, I noticed the excellent quality of the fabric and stitching. The bus was bouncing through roundabouts; still, it was worth risking motion sickness to do a quick google search of the brand.

I wasn’t wrong. My coat was excellent quality.

But by now you’re probably wondering why I hadn’t figured this out before. After all, hadn’t I been the one to buy the coat in the first place? Well, yes, but I bought it in the same place I buy most of my clothing: a thrift shop.

It was exactly what I wanted–just a bit long, sturdy, warm but not too warm for Spanish winters, a hood, pockets, and dark. And that hole in the pocket wouldn’t take more than 2 minutes to mend and that dog hair would wash out because, yes, it was even washable too. And who besides me would notice that scuff on the cuff?

Besides, I was past due to replace the $5 coat I had picked up at a second-hand market in North Africa seven years ago. So I bought this new coat for $12 plus tax and brought it back to Spain with me, where I was just discovering that Goodwill had offered quite a steal.

As we bounced along, I felt rather pleased with myself. And as other winter coats brushed past me, I felt even more pleased with myself. Doubtless, I had the nicest coat on board the bus.

Yes, there was a rush of pride as I forgot how surprised I had just been to find myself the owner of something of quality. I mentally classified myself with the elite. My classy coat may not have been a luxury brand, but was subtly luxurious, nonetheless. I sat up straighter.

And then I looked down at the skirt I was wearing and it occurred to me that it was pilling from overuse. And the sneakers poking out the bottom were smudged from all of the streets they had walked with me. Hmm. Was I the first to notice the incongruous quality of my clothing?

And then I wanted to laugh. Who cared? Who really cared? Let the world scratch their heads if they wanted to. I planned to enjoy both worlds even if I ended up looking like a walking thrift store.

At my stop, I hopped off the bus feeling like a million dollars.

Birthday reflections

Welcome to the world, Della Grace. You are wanted. You are loved, you little imago Dei, you. I’m so excited to be your aunt and to share your little world.

And you joined the family string of November birthdays. Happy birthday Della, Zayne, Joanna, Alex, and Bennett… and me.

Zayne’s word for all candles is “happy-to-you.” Alex and Bennett love to sing happy birthday. In August they got stuck on singing to “Clarkie” and continued singing to “Clarkie” well after Clark’s birthday.

So now there is one more of us in this crush of birthdays. One more life to celebrate, and do we ever celebrate you, Della!

As I think about another year, I want to face it head on–to throw my arms around it and laugh. I am not naïve enough to believe that the power of positive thinking will let me skip my share of heartache along the way. But I don’t want pain to keep me from the delight of another day, another opportunity to live well.

Happy birthday to us, Della, Zayne, Joanna, Alex, and Bennett. 🙂

Photo credit: K.K.

Blooming and growing

Less than a month ago, I was driving a winding road through trees that were just changing color. As I drove, golden leaves sprinkled my car, catching the afternoon sunlight.

My chest ached like something was trying to get out. Or in. The beauty of the moment was so sharp it physically hurt.

I knew I was leaving this beauty–the golden leaves and dry cornfields–for a different world with a different beauty. I was in between seasons of life again.

Despite the busyness of an Illinois summer, my family managed to make quite a few memories. I became “Isha” to three of my nephews. Exclamations of “Isha” were usually accompanied by sparkling eyes and an equally sparkly grins. Well, except that rough day during potty-training when Alex said wistfully, “Bye-bye, Isha.”

My oldest niece decided to pray for a “good husband” for me. When did this little fluffy blondie get so big? Every time I visited their house, her little sister Joanna asked me to “pick stones.” She has a fondness for all things little and finds remarkable traits in the unremarkable. I love that about her.

When feeling particularly independent, some of us would quote Camden, “Camden do it self!”

Zayne called a tiny Fisher Price slide a “wee.” We spent our last moments together on our backs, wildly kicking the air like we were running and then dissolving into giggles much to the amused consternation of the other adults in the house.

Nettie came over to me after church to tell me that her new little cousin, Boone, “–is like a tiny pea!” She squeezed the tips of her thumbs and index fingers to make a tiny dot as if to indicate Boone’s unnatural smallness.

Boone was small, although not quite that small. Just small enough to snuggle and smell like a new baby.

I read stories to ones who are learning to read for themselves. I had them read to me too. They were excited when Grandma brought home The Pancake Pie from the library (one of the best children’s books ever!).

There were days I just wanted to squeeze them tight because they were so cute–like when Dylan pointed out the “-ole” in his sock. There were also days when I was relieved when everyone went home and the house stilled. Oh, we made lots of memories, not just the littles but the “bigs” too. And I return to Spain with a full heart.

It’s time for another season. This season includes a time of not feeling well. I spend more hours than I would like in bed or curled around a hot water bottle, as my body fights the bacteria in my system. But seasons don’t last forever, and the drier seasons often make room for us to dig our roots deeper as we search for water and nutrients.

Besides, I heard recently that one doesn’t have to bloom to be growing.

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