Home Sweet Home

The apartment is only two blocks down from my old dorm. I walked there quickly and arrived just as a little old lady was teetering up to the door. I buzzed the intercom, and the old lady asked me where I was going. The woman on the intercom answered at the same time, so I told them both that I was there to look at the apartment. The old lady lets me in, telling me that it's her apartment, that her daughter is the one who I just spoke with. Except for the Castilian accent, this woman is my grandmother. They would be the same height, and there's something in her eyes that reminds me of Nanny. I tell her that, much later, after having accepted the apartment and spoken with them for a while. She smiles and asks if my grandmother had to work a lot, too; I tell her that she was one of the most energetic and lively people I knew. Later she touches my arm and says, "You're like family already to me." Her daughter dismisses our conspiratorial whispering with a brusque "He doesn't need any more family, you silly old woman." Her mother looks at her defiantly. "Maybe he does."

Maybe I do, maybe I don't. We signed a piece of paper saying that I had forked over so much money as a deposit on the apartment, and I left whistling. This afternoon I go pick up my keys and begin my final trek to the apartment where we will spend our Spanish year. After inspecting a tad more thoroughly, I called my roommate Cathy and warned her that one of the rooms is in reality a grown-up closet and the other is enormous; we're going to have to work out a deal with that. Other than that minor problem, the apartment is nice, cozy, cute. Grasp the subtle adjectives at work here: all of these are words that should make it sound small. I live in a petite apartment.

My friend Guadalupe called yesterday, all giddy with excitement over her wedding in mid-June. Her wedding preparations have thus far included going to the Balearic Islands for her bachelorette party and sunning herself at her family's condo in southern beaches of Spain. I, in turn, told of searching for apartments and sleeping on a hastily-made cot on my friends' floors. But the lure of Spain still triumphs. We talked for a long time, and I realized how much I have missed our hour-long Syracuse chats. She lived in the same city, but since she was poor and we both were lazy, it was easier to call each other. She told me her wedding dress was ready and that it's gorgeous; she's a sneaky Spaniard, though, and won't tell anyone about it or let anyone see it but her mother and sister.

But I digress. There's an apartment to decorate, and IKEA waits for no man.

Flathunting

I lie through my teeth and tell the woman on the phone that I'm a university professor, here in Madrid on sabbatical. I have a lot of money, but am currently without a job. I am rich. I need a flat. These are the things I let her think, things that I casually let drop. I am willing to pay a deposit. I am a nice foreigner. My hopes begin to fly high after disastrous days of searching for apartments with no luck.

My friends, who until now had provided me with very sound advice, told me to walk along the streets and look for FOR RENT signs, and then ask the doorman if he can provide me with any information. Some doorman aren't very friendly, and some apartments aren't worth the effort expended to speak to the grumpy doorman; none of this is information that you know, however, upon approaching said doorman. My first day looking for apartments, I was discouraged and my feet ached. Yesterday I began my search somewhat later in the day, resolved to not get bogged down in mires of disappointment; although nothing came out of all the places I called, I felt much more refreshed. iPedro crooned only the happiest of songs to me as I walked along the street, and the want ads in my hand disappeared, no longer important, as an afternoon shower began to fall about Madrid. The sun was still shining. Rainbows splashed up at me as people went streaming by. Suddenly, being in Madrid wasn't as daunting as it had been for the past few days, nor so deathly serious. I'll find an apartment. My phone, even though I do believe that I hate it, serves its function -- for the time being. I must confess, after my Zen Buddhist philosophy on buying a phone, that I'm considering having it kidnapped and "dealt with."

In approximately 1.5 hours I check out my first apartment, which I'm deeply considering taking after a very perfunctory and very quick run-through. I really don't feel up to another day of pretend looking. I'd much rather be in my apartment buying fun stuff than looking for one, waiting for my adventures in Spain to truly begin. So right now I'm putting on my best outfit, my oh-so academic glasses, and placing a red pen behind my ear: the professor on the prowl for his Spanish dwelling.

A Philosophy of Phones

The woman next to me in the phone store kept staring at me, expecting me to answer her desperate pleas for conversation. "What about this weather? It's crazy, huh?" Although the weather was clearly not as crazy as this woman, I humored her for as long as I could before finally deciding that getting a phone wasn't worth standing in line with her. I politely excused myself. My first day in Madrid was filled with these everyday kinds of occurrences. I felt it during the hour-long subway ride into town, where there was ample time to think over my new life, even as my hiking backpack slowly forced my spine into an unholy and agonizing curve. Wasn't the metro supposed to be so much more exotic than this? Why don't the people seem quite as vastly different from my cultural perspective as before?

It is amazing to think that my perspective on Spain has changed so much. Sometime, after years of being idolized in my head, it had gained this other-worldly touch that perhaps it doesn't really have. And this isn't a bad thing: it was comforting to see familiar landmarks, to hear old friends' voices again, to have people ask me for directions. Perhaps that's what I'm stuck on, this idea that Spain no longer feels like this foreign country for me. It feels like somewhere I understand.

In part, at least. Some of this is first-day exhilaration talking. There will be nasty Spain days, of that I am certain. Even as I stepped out of the metro into my old neighborhood for the first time in two years, a wave of fear rolled over me. Am I really doing the right thing? Should I have stayed home? These questions, much like my incessant search for the perfect mobile telephone today, may likely be rhetorical; they mull over past and future as if they were things I could now change. The mobile phone remains unbought because I hesitated too long over a phone with a camera (lots of euros) versus the phone without it (not a lot of euros). But see, it's not whether I choose the perfect phone, because either one of them will accomplish its primary function, it's all the future possibilities and scenarios I imagine as I think of having one phone as opposed to having the other. Will I regret it? Am I really doing the right thing by spending this money? Don't these questions sound similar? See the connection between my phone preoccupations and my much-larger Spain issues?

Buy the phone. Make the trip. Do the deed. Ridiculously carpe diem, I know.

Atlanta

The day before I leave for Madrid, I sit in my aunt's home in Atlanta putting the finishing touches on my luggage. After deep soul-searching, I picked only the necessities of life (guns & jewelry) to take with me. I travel with a rather light hiking backpack, the largest suitcase in North America, and a backpack to house my little laptop. I am ready for my voyage, Mr. DeMille.

Being in Valdosta was wonderful, if somewhat disasterous. Faced with one week to renew relationships and hand out proper goodbyes, I found myself bounced between friends and family somewhat uncomfortably and without the ability to keep up with my own schedule. I began to overbook dates with friends in frenzied anticipation of having to say goodbye. If I schedule lunch with her, I still have time to catch the 7:00 movie with him, right? My parents didn't feel as if they got their proper goodbye -- my mother called me this morning to make sure that I hadn't "forgotten about them." In the end however, faced with the inevitable movement of time, all goodbyes were made, however hastily so.

Tomorrow is the big day. My luggage trembles with excitement.

What Else Is There?

the necessities of life

For Thought

Denise is unable to decide on her favorite artist, insisting that her compilation CDs are all she ever listens to. I corner her with the following scenario: Your house is burning down, but you have time to run in and grab one CD. Your compilation CDs, which you kept under the bed, have already gone up in flames. Which CD do you choose? What CD most represents who you are? After much bargaining, she concluded that it would have to be something somewhat peaceful. It's a hard decision. What CD would you save?

Relaxation

I've been lazily meandering my way about town these past few days, visiting with old friends and learning street names again. Around the house, I fixed my parents' computer by installing more RAM and, after a day of their internet dialup connection, regally ordered broadband to be installed by tomorrow. I've also been somewhat unsteadily unpacking my belongings and trying to decide what can be taken with me to Spain, an arduous process since return dates are quite uncertain. Do I take winter coats, even as summer temperatures are only now beginning to peak? Do I take my gamecube? Silly questions, but a pound of luggage less is a welcome comfort at this point.

My friend and Spanish host Alberto called me yesterday to figure out when I would arrive. He's knee-deep in Law exams, but was graciously willing to share his one-room dorm to me as I search for a Spanish flat without Cathy. I figured that since I'll be in Spain on the 25th, I could look for a room to have by the 1st of June, a time when most people move in and out of their apartments. Cathy, who will arrive on the 8th of June, was in full concurrence, so I have thus been saddled with the responsibility of haggling with grumpy Spanish landlords. My list of Things to Do upon first arrival in Spain are: buy cell phone. Find apartment. The uncertainty of it all is oddly alluring.

I saw Kill Bill 2 with my friend January this past weekend and thoroughly enjoyed the experience. I've been wondering if I, too, can learn how to make someone's heart explode by punching them in the chest with my fingers. Can people really do that? If so, does Jackie Chan know how? There's also a section of the movie where the Bride learns how to punch through wood up close. I practiced yesterday with cardboard boxes, but apparently I need a little more time with the sensei.

Welcomed Back

It took two rather uncomplicated days of driving to reach my southern home, my South Georgian Valdosta. iPedro, in all his expensive glory, safely accompanied me during the trip. I returned to find everything exactly as I had left it; street signs were all the same, all the old neighbors mowing their lawns somewhat obsessively, all restaurants still happily making profit dollahs. A couple of differences: Best Buy beginning its summer move into town, a new mayor (the old one, after a billion years of elected rule over the metropolitan area of Valdosta, unexpectedly died of a heart attack). But the rest, exactly as expected.

I began simultaneously unpacking and packing (an odd concept) today. My father hung about the house, still in his vacation time. When it was time to pick up my car from its physical, he asked me to drive him to the Ford dealership. I had forgotten where it was. I felt horrendously out of place and as Yankee as everyone claims me to be.

Commencement Eve

They call this commencement eve, bringing to mind immediately visions of young grads nestled tight in their beds awaiting the arrival of Santa Cum Laude, bestowing upon them bachelor's and master's degrees printed on shiny, laminated paper. I'm feeling tired and intensely retrospective as I continue to prepare for the end of my Syracuse journey. Tomorrow will most likely be a long, exhausting day as I finally graduate, drop off a cluster of family at the Rochester airport, and finish packing my most prized possessions, including my new iPedro (I love him dearly). Wish me luck.

My Emancipation Proclamation

Seeing the goal inch forward, I feverishly scribbled line after hastily-crafted line onto my laptop computer. Do these ideas make sense? Is this what the professor wanted? My head divided into multiple trains of thought, all with the same destination. The end of this Syracusian chapter of my life pulls into the station. My parents arrived last night to (oh so literally) help me pack my bags to take this (oh so metaphorical) train ride back to the South. I will miss: these friendly alliances forged after two years, my newly-acquired resistance to cold, the silence of snow-heavy streets.

My parents went to dinner with Travis' family tonight. My mother was hilarious as she created and hyperbolicized differences between the South and these strange Northern folk. She imagined they would all have three eyes and breathe underwater. When she saw the bowl of crystal sugar on the table, she opened her eyes wide and said: "See, in the South we have sugar that's so different from this." My father sat quietly, since he had a hard time understanding anyone who spoke; this was fine in turn, since Travis' mother couldn't understand his swampy South Georgia drawl anyway. I translated as best as I could with neutral American, although I demonstrated my clear bias as I leaned into my mother and made fun of northern accents with her. We laughed in conspiratorial delight.

the rest of the clan flies in over the next two days in preparation for my may 9th graduation. My happy heart flutters at the thought of languid southern summers in exchange for the grey chill of the north.

favorite moment today: the warmth of family filling my heart as I drove home, the moon low and red.

Word to the Wise

Tonight Travis, his brother and I went to see the newest Ben Stiller/Jack Black movie Envy. 30 minutes into the movie, after having the annoying spitball boys in front of us kicked out, I realized belatedly that I should have taken my cue with the boys. The movie was terrible; towards the end, I started feeling bad for Ben Stiller as I watched his face crinkle up from trying so hard to emote onscreen. All that acting, and to no avail; the poor script and the horribly misused supporting actors being its primary pitfalls. And Amy Poehler! Now she's ridiculously funny.

In financial news for the day, I am anxiously awaiting new iPod even as I struggle to pull funds together to afford it. I am currently considering thievery, crack harlotry and rapid succession blood donation. I am not above accepting monetary contributions.

May Showers

The snow clouds have finally blown away and the sun comes streaming in through my window. It's actually kind of hot now, although I am not going to mutter one word of complaint for fear of cosmic karma coming through to reap her justice. I'm finishing the monthly changes for the website right now... I'm planning on changing things up to keep everything fresh just about every month.

My bank account suffered a serious blow to the head today as I gave in to societal pressure and purchased a charming baby boy iPod. We know it's a boy because it's coming swaddled in a blue iSkin, so as to distinguish it from the millions of clones out there. It better be darling, and unique, since my children's children will be paying for this dear piece of machinery. Of course, I officially have justified every penny spent: it will be useful for travel times (coming sooner and sooner), I won't have to carry any CDs or CD player to Spain, I'll be the baddest mofo on my Spanish block... but seriously, Apple's got quite the racket going on.

Latest spam: all my student emails complaining about their final grades. Delete.