A regret I have was telling myself I would write about my experience in Spain. It has only been three months since I have moved here, but the scope of things I have experienced seems to widen and expand the more I toss words around on paper. And a healthy dose of angst and dread creeps up steadily the longer I linger on the idea of retelling it all. I think it may be just too much to encapsulate. A lot of whimsical little tales and recounting of varied feelings that were felt for the first time. I have sent long-winded letters to friends back in the States sharing what seem to be trilogies of events, each folded piece of notebook paper more verbose than the last. I know these stories are stowed away in a drawer or shelf in their bedrooms that I know well, and there the words stay safe and dry. Then, if the postman so permits, I will receive their stories in exchange. These are my favorite transactions.
But maybe in a blogosphere of sorts, it will always be a smidge more daunting than shipping off a letter to a trusted friend. I think I am still developing my voice as a writer, and maybe my relationship with you as a reader in a platform like this one. How vulnerable is too vulnerable? What is more palatable, journal-like entries or polished anecdotes? Will something I write cement itself into a reality for my way of thinking? The boxes to check are infinite. Trying to wrap up even just the first chunk of time here in a neat bow sounds arduous, but I ought to challenge myself a bit.
I cannot possibly share all the stories created here that have brought me joy. There are far too many. And I must say, as thankful as I am for this adventurous and exciting life I am leading right now, there are nights where I lie awake trying to digest it all. I try to savor these tender, fleeting, and frenzied moments that twiddle about in my head, actively sparring with one another, whether the sun is up or down. I work hard trying to consume them, secure them, before they become a shadowy haze of missing details and lack the ability to be recalled.
Sometimes the calmness of my room becomes a mockery of my sleeplessness. A gentle hum of my fan, once melodic, now jeering. A burning stick of incense beside my pillow emits a genie-like form of smoke that dances above my face, poking fun at my bloodshot eyes. I can do all in my power to prepare for a night of rest, a night with sheets drenched in drool and honk-shews that fill the stale air. But nothing is guaranteed. The events of the day, both conversation and reminiscence of affection are too busy being battered and wrung dry. The next day I will wear sunken eyes, and these memories of mine will sit in the back of my mind, weary and knackered, having been robbed of their enchantment. Perhaps arguably, they’re not all meant to be kept. But I will recruit more to the fleet, and torture them all the same.
There's a guy that lives in Bilbao that I really enjoy. He's smart and attractive and well-read and he likes to link arms with me while we walk around the town. We swap music the other hasn't heard before and talk about stuff we want to do with our lives. The other week, he and I picnicked on the cape of the Cantabrian sea. As I sat beside him, music from the speaker filled my ears and the ground dampened by morning dew seeped through the blanket. My line of sight was split between the twinkling city coast of Sardinero beach and the muted blue water before me. It felt nice to be away from the hubbub and noise. He smiled at me and exclaimed how cool that the moment was “efimero”. I didn’t know the word. And even upon translating it from spanish, I still sought to understand in english. I learned ephemeral just means ‘lasting for a short time’. Where new replaces old. When moments exist and then subsequently cease to. This broke my focus. Sure it’s a grand idea. It’s a grand notion to accept that all exists and passes, then fizzles away into something unretrievable. But this is exactly what I am avoiding: allowing things to render themselves as unretrievable. It is a tail chasing game. And I know I do it to myself.
There is a catch with keeping all of these feelings alive and reachable, harboring them and pruning them so they remain upright. With this garden full of colorful peonies and petunias that have been so diligently curated, weeds and calloused shrubbery grow at a similar pace. The garden blooms with delightful stories full of rare people in ephemeral moments that are seemingly conceived just as they end. Likewise, feelings of inadequacy and shortcomings fester unforgivingly, all the while you run out of water for the garden altogether.
I think I dilute myself sometimes, maybe with guys I am interested in at least. Maybe it is the english teacher in me, but here I definitely speak slower, perhaps a little simpler with people who don’t speak english as their first language. Maybe it’s not keen to alter your communication methods… but if communication is all you have in the beginning, then naturally, you want to protect it. You don’t want your exchanges in english to be hindered and halted by too much slang, too many lofty words or chain linked ideas. I reckon I should keep this practice up with the kids I teach, but what I am learning now is the people my age and above here are seemingly light years ahead of me in my own native language. They eloquently connect ideas together in english that I couldn’t conceive myself. The Dutch somehow know that the Appalachian mountains that run through North Carolina are known as the first and last frontier. I didn't know that. How the hell did he know that? I think this is what makes me feel so bashful, this comparison. I find it tiresome to be fluttering my feet below to keep my head above water, eager to maintain a level that can match theirs. So I bobble a bit below the surface instead, reducing myself.
I think I am worldly but I didn’t know the capital of Vietnam until yesterday. I speak spanish but certainly not enough. I understand a good bit of Dutch but I don't think I'd hold proper conversation. People ask me about American politics but I never deliver. I can’t name my five favorite authors. Maybe it’s something to riot about, the confession of knowing nothing. Maybe it’s not. I think I just want the people I meet here to regard me as more than just silly or kind. I think I want to be remembered as bright. But I guess all I can ask for is to be remembered fondly. I guess I’ll work towards that.
Sometimes I chastise myself for not feeling grateful “enough” amidst all that I am experiencing. I wonder why I still think about things I want to do, want to be, want to see, all the while I am living these exact answers for myself I had just a few months ago. It’s like pining for crumbs when you still have an entire bite left. You push your finger down on the plate to pick up just little remnants of something sweet and sugary, meanwhile you have more than a satisfying mouthful right beneath your nose. I minimize my struggles in this transition because I am in my twenties and “the world is my oyster” and “I have zero responsibilities” and “I’ll never get this time again”. So I conclude it is absurd to complain during a period like this. Of course my friend Ally, the voice of all reason, reminded me that just because we are 22 does not mean we don’t experience discomfort and uneasiness in this period, and it doesn’t necessarily mean all is wonderful because it is filled with opportunity. She is a wise one. I believe Ghandi is a distant cousin of hers.
I ought to give myself more credit. I’ve gotten this far unscathed in a place far different from my own. I’m upright. I’m learning a lot. I’m fed. I understand a meager ounce of spanish bureaucracy. I’m making really special connections. Being far away often illuminates the parts from your home you didnt notice. When living in North Carolina, I don’t think I understood thoroughly how sweet, how rich culture is in southern U.S.
Blehhhh, so sappy.
Yesterday morning I came back to Santander from Vienna while the sun was rising over the northern coast of Spain. It's the rainy season here in northern Spain, but I think everyone deserved this treat of birds-eye beauty and dryness. As we encroached closer and closer on the pueblos of Cantabria, illuminated by a warm orange morning light, I noticed out the window how strange the white caps on the waves looked. It was as if they weren’t crashing onto the shore at all, instead like someone had paused the ocean. The whites of the sea, normally billowy and fluid, had become a still landscape. The crest of the earth appeared to have been dipped in resin to keep its form, stuck in time, perhaps for viewing pleasure. I found it a little eerie. I closed my eyes for the remainder of the flight, with the motionless ocean still in mind. I remembered what my Dutch friend had told me, on brand with typical Dutch directness, reminding me how terrible airplanes are for the environment after I shared the route of my travels in this month. So as I rode in my big white polluting tube in the sky, defiling the ozone and all that encumbers, I dreamt fondly of being still.
I feel so blessed to have a home in the Netherlands. I spent a week with my host family up there and felt restored, clean, rested, and loved on. I get weepy at the idea of it all. Afterwards I trekked towards Cologne, Germany and explored the Christmas markets, became overstimulated by the hundreds of bodies with their glühweins and schnitzels, then hermitted away in two or three different coffee shops. I ventured to Austria too and met up with some friends. There I saw some incredible art and tried authentic Pho for the first time. I found that special. I found it special when the other teachers at my school in San Vicente hugged me tightly and wrote me exactly what to pick up from the pharmacy, translations and all, while I fought a fever the other week. I think it’s cool that my friend from Asturias and I have a collaborative playlist on Spotify, and together we fawn over Haley Heynderickx and Angel Olsen. I think it's groovy that I feel so comfortable with my friends here. We laugh loudly and cuddle often within the bounds of a harshly lit spanish kitchen, with cold linoleum beneath our feet. Cute.
There is a lot of good ultimately. I’ve seen pieces of the earth here where the ocean and rocks kiss and collide like nothing I’ve seen before, purple and yellow sunsets that are surely etched in my brain. I’ve met goofball students that keep me in stitches. I have met handsome guys that find me pretty. When I felt blue, I had people to call on. When I felt elated, I had someone to revel in it with me. I have had moments of triumph, glee, pleasure, and joy.
But there is hurt beside it. These things that happen beyond my control hurt. Some more than others. I want space to mourn my fluffy white dog that I didn’t get to say goodbye to before he passed away this week. I want to think about him without distraction. I want to cry over him and then see a blue sky afterwards, but the chances are it will stay grey. I miss the sun. I wish that I didn’t have to dodge dog shit on the sidewalk like landmines. The piles of poo splay out on the concrete as if they impaled the earths crust, like they were meteorites from space hurling with an aimed trajectory of Santander, Spain. I have never had to visit the bank and phone store so many times in one month. Old men stare at me through their cigarette fog like I'm a 5'10" extra terrestrial. I wish locals were a bit nicer. I wish the cafes here would keep their doors shut when it is 10 degrees Celsius outside and raining. I'm wet often, but cold more.
I just don’t think it is healthy to romanticize everything. Because not everything is great.
Things exist as both beautiful and painful. That’s kind of life’s bargain after all.
Maybe I just crave some grass. Some gentle, moving water that glides through my toes and a weightless blue sky above me. I think I want to toil with a camping coffee-making contraption from REI that is just too nifty you can’t get over it. I want to hold a tiny tin cup and sip on some shitty brew I bought for too cheap. Then I'll enjoy a slow morning outside and nestle into an insulated sleeping bag as warmth surges inside me. I thirst for this exact type of tranquility, one that will quietly consume me. Maybe a place like this is where I can finally digest. Maybe here I'll be able to grieve the memories that have already dissipated, and savor those that still remain.
San Vicente de la Barquera
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