A Chinchilla-Sized Enclosure

“Write tonight and make it wacky.”

That was one of my reminders for today.

Sometimes with writing, I leave words just to brew in this tepid digital stew. Jumbled ideas slapped on paper, a far delineation from clear beginning, body, and end. Although full of verbs and adjectives, backed by exhilaration of storytelling, it ultimately is an empty space, a void of failed interconnectedness. I guess you could call it “pages of opportunity” if you wanted to be optimistic about it. But it’s just messy if we are keeping it real.

I find storytelling invigorating but other times I find it tedious to make something sensical. I find it as tedious as watching over the eggs I leave to boil. I drop a few in the pot and then they sizzle and shimmy and shake around for a bit. I leave the kitchen to do other things, neglecting them, losing interest, leaving them to jostle without surveillance. My roommate turns the stove off for me again for the third time this week. Too much time has passed and they are overcooked, their insides don’t have their pretty yellow yolk anymore. Instead their insides are gray and nearly powdered. Tasteless.

But I eat them anyway.

So I suppose I’ll write this anyway too.

I become lazy with the pruning process of writing. You’re telling me I have to build this garden and water it too?!? Ridiculous. The stories I want to share aren't as accessible as you think. They are all scattered around me, preserved by different mediums. Some I have written in no chronological order in a brown journal I keep beside my makeup bag, others I wrote inside the journal I like less than the first. Some stories exist inside stamped letters to my friend Ally who lives in Hawaii now, most are random notes on my phone with little direction or potential, some live in the walls of my roommate Madison’s room, faintly surviving in between the nooks and crannies of the dim fairy lights that adorn her headboard. And I fear most of them bounced out of my ears and onto the earth when I concussed myself with a low hanging tree branch above a bench at a children’s park.

But most of my stories lived and died inside breath that dissipated. They were told to strangers or friends and then laid to rest afterwards. It’s not like the content isn’t there, they exist somewhere. But they were conceived, shared, and then they went on a long vacation somewhere far away. They have like a European amount of PTO, so who knows when they’ll come back. I know you have to save slices of what is good, so you can share it for the people you love when they get to the party. But maybe there isn’t enough to go around. Maybe the cake goes bad by the time you arrive. Maybe the cake actually sucked to begin with and I’m sparing you from disappointment.

What’s up with all these food metaphors? 

I have to condense these tales a bit whilst avoiding the dilution of them. I could give you the gist. I could cut to the moral, highlight the lesson, embolden the “a-ha” moment. But the truth is I don’t feel like writing about how I’ve changed and learned stuff all the time. All I know is that I know nothing about nothing. Maybe the solution is this: If I write a book (about nothing) then I have endless opportunities to mutter and blab and switch topics and return back to another, so I won’t feel so pressed for space here on this blog. I should write a book. A stranger I met in Belgium told me that too. I consider her a good friend now. Hey Esmé!

Enough of the foreplay. Here's what I wanted to say.

I never really felt guilty about not being wowed by common attractions in foreign places. On the same hand I don’t roll my eyes at Athenian ruins or bat a hand at the Roman colosseum, either. I see them, I take it in, sometimes I indulge in the very human thing of photographing myself beside them, but I promise you I don’t contort myself tiny little airplane seats to go see them either. 

I am learning to take up more space. Not emotionally. I mean this in a very physical and very literal way. I am 5 foot 10. I hate twin beds. My femur bones are longer than these 29 inch airplane spaces. I’m so tired of contorting to cross my legs beneath a bistro chair. Sitting should not feel like an enclosure. You wouldn’t put a chinchilla in a hamster cage would you? How cruel. I don’t know why the first analogy that came to mind was rodents. But rodents big and small deserve proper enclosures. I’m a big stretcher and an even bigger sloucher. One time this fugly British guy at a hostel in Edinburgh said I sit like a prawn. I carry that comment with me like a trophy. 

So no, I don’t suffer the hamster cage of row 7 seat B to see the Brussels Atomium, or the Acropolis, nor to wish upon the overpopulated Trevi Fountain.

I travel to sit beneath different canopies of green, to be shaded by them while I slump into the ground beneath me, dampening my clothes on the parts of my body that sink the deepest into the soil; butt, elbows, heels. When I am in a beautiful place, I often shut my eyes. When it is warm and the sky is blue and the ground is soft, I can’t help but fall quiet and make my world dim. I know I should keep them open, but it's habit. I often watched my dad lull himself to sleep when we would sit under the foliage on the deck, or in Idaho when he would nestle himself into the divet of two rocks after a long hike, cross his hands over his chest and say he was “just resting his eyes''. It makes sense to stare out at a stretched and windy mountain range, at a glowing horizon, at glimmering water, for hours on end. It’s tranquil. But I cannot help but shut my eyes and take a small snooze instead.

But when I muster the strength to look around amidst the peace I have found, I see some wonderful things. The other day in Greece I saw a feathered green friend chirping on the branches above me. I don't think I have ever seen a green bird in a public park before. “Green monk parakeet”, it was called. I think it’s neat to survey different species of winged creatures camouflaging in different patterns of leaves. I can’t identify nearly any of them by name, but I have a friend named Everett that can. He also can recall the Latin names of plant species and insects even. I wish I was that connected to the earth, or nerdy even.

I like to travel to different places so I can watch people living life in their own cute little ways. I like to see the cluster of Germans sitting atop a picnic blanket swapping fruit and bites of sandwiches while stretched out beneath a chestnut tree. When I go to places away from home, I like to find out what color each country picked for their postal services. I’ve noticed yellow is a popular choice. I travel to watch different characters assume their perch on public benches, like temporary royalty they sit. I get a crack out of seeing people squeal while balancing their way across a slackline in the park. I like watching people and their dogs cross the street, trotting in unison. I enjoy watching kids get out of soccer practice, seeing twenty rowdy kids in their youth small jerseys spill out onto the sidewalk with their backpacks slung over one shoulder. Their fingers are typically dusty with chip residue and their cheeks flushed from activity. They listen to one another wide-eyed, their mouths open preparing to respond eagerly. Some have gaps where adult teeth will soon fill. I like seeing couples too, walking hand in hand. I like when one sings loudly to embarrass the other. I don’t care so much for the overly affectionate type. Especially those that make out tongue and all in the airport at 7am…what the hell is that about? A hug and peck will do.

If I could pick another nationality I think it would be Italian. Or Greek…probably somewhere in South America actually. I like wherever they respect women and treat them well. Or where they value life over work. I’m in. But I gotta say, I’m happy to be an American girl too. 

And when I arrive home from a journey, and my plantar fasciitis throbs and my heart sings, I find that where I live feels just a bit cozier. I settle into the Cantabrian grooves just a smidge deeper. My friends send a message in our group chat that they'll be at the beach, and in pairs and triples we meet one another there. We plop next to a Spanish couple that take topless beaches to a new, and very affectionate, level. Anna shares her orange and extra pair of underwear with me because ironically I forgot to pack my bathing suit to Playa de los Bikinis. Ella takes everyones ice cream orders. We talk about all the books we are reading and I am wowed by the lot of friends I have made here. We share our visions of how to fill our lives with fun, we commiserate on our language barrier struggles, and we sort dates for the soonest we can go hiking together. I know I ought to hang out with more Spanish folk in Spain, but this lot of girls are so good. As the Southern saying goes: if it ain’t broke don’t fix it.

The other day we decided to have a picnic. However, none of us coordinated what we were bringing. Between the nine of us, we ended up with about a dozen cookies, five baguettes, two boxes of wine, and some wilted green grapes to spread atop a splintered wooden table. It was the most incredible sunset, with streaks of white hanging from the pink and orange tinted sky. Hoards of families and friends tossed around a soccer ball and watched the waves slowly break on the rocky shore.

We laughed so much. Eva and I chased each other in between trees. Some joined our shenanigans but not everyone. Playing just felt so right, so I really didn't understand the aversion. I don’t ever want to become unaccustomed to cartwheels or hide-and-seek. I want to hold handstands and shriek loudly when I’m nearly tagged. I think it’s the little choices we make for ourselves that keep us closer to child-likeness. Racing against each other for fun, not for sport. Dancing to be goofy, not just at the club. Luis, a practicing clown and the fiance of my dear friend Libertad, said to me the other day that he wishes he could always respond the way he wanted to. To blow a raspberry and groan when he is bored of someone trying to sell him something, or pull down the skin on his cheeks with both hands when he is wholly shocked. I love these visuals. It is childlike to respond so earnestly. Impulsive and absurdly honest.

I say kudos to absurdity. There is no real merit in blending in. I used to feel conscious about sticking out while living abroad. I dressed the way the Dutch dressed while living in the Netherlands and I tried to walk the relaxed pace of the Spanish while living in Spain. (I can’t, I have too much haste). But I recognize now that sticking out is such a fun spice to carry. I'm turmeric, saffron, I am the spice that that you know of but don't always see on shelves. I’m not from here but we share a neighborhood so isn’t that so fun for the both of us?!?

I think I’ll ache a little when my time in beautiful Cantabria comes to a close. I sit now on my hamster sized bed, next to the jasmine incense stick that burns, shedding ash onto my desk. I look at my developed film photos haphazardly taped up on my door. The Talking Heads play on the speaker behind my head, scoring my bedroom atmosphere. Dirty sheets from this weekend’s house guest tumble around in the washer and echo through the hallway. I write to you now cross legged, with a sweet tinge of glee, grateful to be enjoying life this intensely.