Monday, December 8, 2008

free fall

"All growth is a leap in the dark, a spontaneous unpremeditated act without benefit of experience."
Henry Miller

Twenty minutes running along the port and up the hill and I slowed to a walk. That same pain in my knee, subtle, persistent, consistent, taking over. I just wanted to run and all I needed was my own two legs, but sometimes, I don’t have control over even them. It was still dark outside, but morning rush-hour was already beginning, head-lights shining in the darkness. I stopped and waited for a stream of cars to pass before crossing the street. In the early morning grey, it’s especially difficult to trust one’s own eyes and I thought of the hypothetical speeding car I would not see and certainly if I did not see it, it would not see me. And there was the hypothetical collision and hypothetical end…
But as luck would have it, I’m still conscious, alive, aware of the fact that anything could happen at any moment- Making plans, even short-term, provides us merely with a comfortable illusion. In spite of this, I have been trying to come up with my own plan in order to find comfort in the illusion that life is not free-fall. But each time I try to act, I’m suddenly seized by a sensation, “NO! I am not ready! I don’t know enough. I’m not strong enough, not grown-up enough.” Little by little, I’m learning how to respond to myself,
“You will never be ready!” Get over it. Either take a giant leap in the dark, or go home, get married to a nice Jewish boy, have children, convince yourself of a five-year-plan, a ten-year-plan and forget all the rest, forget changing the world and get comfortable… But what I know with more certainty than anything is the alternative to the leap without benefit of experience offers no greater comfort. Unpremeditated knee injuries, accidents, natural disasters, “La Crise”, will have the final say.
I turned around and walked down the hill back to my apartment and the sky had turned from grey to pink, framing the multi-leveled backdrop of Marseille. Blue and white Christmas lights glittered cold and lonely against the sky reminding me of how holiday season felt when I was not alone, though I couldn’t think of what I was being reminded of specifically. When are we truly not alone? Perhaps not so much when we are surrounded by people, but rather, when we have faith in our illusions. Or faith in even less than our illusions… Believing in something we cannot see. Believing in our own ability to persist in the absence of certainty and preparation for what we are about to take on.

Sunday, November 16, 2008

turning in a new direction

The sun hangs low in the sky for most of the late fall days, just about at eye level, forming pedestrians in the narrow street into silhouettes, obscuring everything. Walking forward into brightness, unable to see the sidewalk ahead, I wonder how much the late autumn sun is a symbol for my emotions. A friend recently pointed out to me, that when you settle into your life in one city, to find adventure in that city, you have to seek it out. However, when you’re always moving transiently from place to place, in each city, it’s adventure that seeks you out. The adventure is always welcome… But there comes a point when I long for tranquility and these experiences seem to be on the verge of short-circuiting my ability to feel.
I’ve felt rather aware of my mortality lately, I suppose because I’ve been raging from day to day in cities by the sea that revitalize my conscience but fail to provide me with a proper income or any certain future plans. I’m burning away my savings and to distract me from the reason in my head softly whispering “responsibility”, I’ve been breathing the air of the present so thick my lungs will almost burst. On trains, in motor-cars on busses, zooming back and forth from the French Alps to Barcelona and back home again to Marseille, the kind of jet-set lifestyle one would expect of the wealthy, and in exchange I can’t afford to buy myself a decent sweater, deodorant, a light-bulb to replace the dark corner in my room.
What it all comes down to is I think that I’m happy. Fundamentally so, though rationality or society tells me I ought not to be. I’m working almost for free but I think I love my job… If I don’t think too much, I love it. In the end, what is it all for? Nothing I suppose. In the end, “this too shall pass,” says the ring on my finger in Hebrew I’ve been wearing continuously for the past five years. I wonder about this phrase and this concept and wonder if I’ve only come to embody it so much because I carried it around with me everywhere. When I lose my thoughts or sense, I look down and there it is. “This too shall pass.” If I’m sad, I try to have patience. If I’m happy, I try to soak up the day to day fully and not lose this precious now by planning the future… But I don’t know now… I think it’s time I got a new phrase… Something less existential and more inspiring… Something like, "What you can do, or dream you can do, begin it! / Boldness has genius, power and magic in it." (Goethe) I don’t regret a moment of my life and my experiences, but now I think I ought to make a shift from the passively absorbing my surroundings to actively creating them.
And here I am writing anyway. Writers are such slackers… Sitting back, observing, then thinking we’re being active by writing about what we witness.

Monday, November 3, 2008

what is a smile?

My neighbor across the street is at the piano again. His window is closed and the sound of a melody in a minor key only faintly mingles in the air with the leftover rain dripping from drainage pipes. Clean white balloon clouds are moving quickly over a clean deep sky, and I like to stand at my window and watch the clouds mobilize until I think I can feel the motion of the earth. Until I feel like my apartment building, my street and I are moving and the clouds are standing still. The same way I like to stand and watch the luggage belt at the airport until I am dizzy.
One of those empty, beautiful nights in which I feel nothing, but think that I ought to. What is it? Saturday? Sunday? It really makes no difference to me. Either way, I feel like staying in tonight. Maybe with a glass of wine.
Standing outside my friend’s vintage clothing store before returning home earlier this evening, I struck up a conversation with another loiterer. Or he struck one up with me. He was tall and handsome, well dressed with a sort of unfocussed energy that gave him away to be quite young. Twenty or so. Women, he wanted to know about women. How are women in the States? Are there a lot of them and are they sexy? Then his next question was about balloons. “Are there a lot of balloons in New York?” I looked at him, puzzled and so I suppose he thought I didn’t understand the word ballon. So he took out his cell phone, where he had several photos stored and showed me. He scrolled through multiple pictures of balloon arrangements. Balloons for birthdays, weddings, openings… bar mitzvahs?... balloons that look like flowers, like people, like clouds and telephones.
“You see this is what I do.” He said, “And I want to go to New York. Do you think I can?” I told him I didn’t see why not. “New York est dur,” I warned.
“Do you want to study in the States?” I asked.
“No, I don’t need to study for my job. You see, I just make balloons.” Again he showed me his cell phone and scrolled through more photos, balloons in swimming pools, on rooftops, tied to motorbikes. “I see.” I said.
A woman standing near us on the sidewalk, whom I knew from having encountered her many times in the neighborhood interrupted, “Do you have a cigarette?” She held open an empty cigarette packet waiting. “No, I’m sorry.” I said, “I only have rolling papers,” said the balloon youth. The woman’s voice changed to a sort of high-pitched whining, “S’il vou plaît s’il vous plaît s’il vous plaît…” We turned our backs and headed into the vintage shop where we tried on some giant sunglasses and winter hats with fur earflaps. A few minutes later, I drifted out of the store and headed home, pulling my regular French exit without saying goodbye. Saying goodbye can be such a hassle, especially when you have to kiss everyone on the cheek two times. A French exit is much easier than a French goodbye.
On the street, a man asked me for some change, which I didn’t have. Reflected to myself that I do however currently have a roof over my head at night and life could be much harder than mine. Another street bum passing turned to me and said, “Tu dois sourrir. A smile is much nicer.” What is a smile anyway? Is it something we do when we are happy, or the greatest way to cope with pain?

Wednesday, October 29, 2008

Honest Bull Sh**

Pelting rain in Marseille turns the sidewalks dark and reflective, forms lakes in the holes where the workmen are drilling, makes a whole city of people fond of the sun sleepy and listless. Bundled up in my room with chills running down my spine and the sound of the rain on the window pains wishing I could figure out how to work the heater... Marveling at the tremendous extent to which life seems to imitate art and still fails to be as meaningful.
I've been killing time on Youtube and came across a trailor for the the television show "Dr. House" to a song by Zazie, "Je suis un homme". The strangest things put me in a philosophical state or move me to tears. The deeply effected expression in Dr. House's eyes along with the music make me understand how much I have in common with Dr. House... Our lives are dramatic and we are in the spotlight playing the dramatic role... The whole world is watching us and waiting with baited breath to see how we will eventually win each of our battles, each victory bringing us closer to immortality and ultimate meaning.
Of course I don't really believe any of this. The return to reality from this three minute illusion lasting almost the length of the trailor gives me a sudden need to let go of the temporary belief that the past has a meaning and the future is going somewhere. So I have a good cry on a rainy day in Marseille, alone in my room in front of a televsion trailor.
The fact is, at this time in the ever fluctuating progression of my life, the only thing I believe in fully is the present. I don't believe in faith anymore so I believe what I think i can see, hear, touch, taste, breath.
And yet, I still have a sense of time, at this time, I only believe in the present, I said... Yet I feel somehow there is some sense beyond the five principle senses. There is a definite sixth sense that is more than marks humanity put on a clock... That is time. I don't so much fear it's passing now, as have a subtle faith (though I don't base anything on faith) that time will continuously make life better. Even when it's worse, I will be stronger, more durable, more resilient with each passing hardship... Or should I say, with each passing challenge... I don't believe in hardship either. There are only challenges to be overcome... In the meantime, due to unflickering faith in the present I must remember to be aware of the journey.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JGV0PvAnUjA

Sunday, September 28, 2008

avec la musique vien l'espoire

At the present moment, the scene is too sweet to be real and the elation I feel due to it’s beauty is only vaguely hampered by the fact that it’s surreal nature is reminding me of neon bright moments in a David Lynch film that cause the audience to feel disconcerted and question how quickly the situation will decline, like the yellow tulips in “Blue Velvet”. It’s just after three o’clock on an early fall Sunday afternoon in Marseille. The weekend was rainy, mocking the sunny weather citizens of the city with coat-and-jacket temperatures and wind. But today the sun has come out and all that remains of the rain is a refreshing cool. The sky is clear and bright, but for a few white puffy clouds. I’ve just finished hanging my laundry to dry in the floor-to-ceiling window of my antique fourth story apartment. Standing in the window, I can hear birds chirping, and in the apartment just across the street someone is practicing classical piano with the windows open. The sound is clear and flawless. So flawless that after several minutes listening, I establish that it is actually a recording… Wait a moment… No, in fact it is not a recording. The pianist has switched styles to something more along the lines of jazz and is now joined by a female vocalist. She has a clean, flawless, alto voice carrying with it the passion in the song she’s singing. Whatever is going on over there, I wish I were a part of it.
I am still searching to make music a bigger part of me, to play an instrument, to sing, to be the music and not just stand by and listen to it. Thus far I have only succeeded in becoming a groupie to every solid musician I hear.
I’ve had moments where I felt the honored guest, but still I was nothing but a groupie. I went out for some beers a couple of weeks ago with two of the members of the Clair de Lune Trio at a bar near Place Jean Jaurès. In a somewhat secluded corner of the bar I sat between the guitarist and the violinist as they played a mad rendition of a Django Reinhardt song. This was the conclusion of an anxious day. I was sick with a head cold or an allergy and I was frustrated with flakey restaurant managers who lead me on and never gave me a job. I was just on the border of a decision to leave Marseille and go somewhere more secure when these musicians called me at midnight to join them for a drink. Avec la musique vien l’espoire… And due to the hope that accompanied the music that night, I assertively decided to stay. When I express my desire to be more of a musician, every good musician I meet reminds me what kind of hard work that will take…
I suppose the problem is, it’s difficult to pursue a new activity with the kind of gusto I’d like to dive into music when other necessities of living are not yet in place… Such as job… But over the past week, I’ve failed to be extraordinarily stressed about my tragic financial situation. I’m a young American woman profiting from the present with the Marseille sun and the Mediterranean Sea… In a few days, I’m sure I’ll be hit by another wave of anxiety but for now ça va.
Last night more music. Electronic night at Marsatac, the big out door music festival for the young and hip held each year in Marseille. After two hours of handing out fliers advertising another concert in front of the venue, I went in with a small group of people I’d been working with. I promptly lost them all and walking alone, took in the energy of the evening. When I started to get cold, I went to a tent where musicians were playing, and though I’d never heard of them, I pushed my way to front center and danced.
As late afternoon turns to early evening, the sound of a tap dancer has joined the pianist and the singer. The sun is slowly withdrawing from my window and I’m beginning to feel chilly… Fragments of momentary loneliness, wishing for someone closer to keep me warm, but for now I’ll put on a sweater and keep listening to the music being wrung out of the city through the early autumn night.

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

chapt 1 in the quest for a visa

First try, I walked to the Castellane neighborhood, big and clean and wealthy, from my apartment near Noaille, wild and dirty and dangerous, in search of the U.S. consulate. There, a security guard behind a huge metal gate told me I had to call for an appointment. He gave me the phone number, and I called from a pay phone around the corner. No answer, so I left a voice message though the recording told me I shouldn’t expect a call back for calls regarding visas. I stopped for a coffee and to read the paper in this new neighborhood before returning home. Second try, I called the Marseille consulate from home, where a woman answered and played dumb. She said they didn’t deal with visas there and that I’d have to call the consulate in Paris. Third try, I called Paris, where another woman played dumb and told me that because I am in Marseille, I should call the consulate in Marseille. Fourth try, I called the consulate in Marseille again with the news that the Paris consulate sent me back to them. After much questioning, the woman on the line told me that in fact, the U.S. consulates in France know nothing about the laws for obtaining a French work visa and that I should go to the Prefecteur. I hung up the phone and put the Prefecteur off for another day. I’d been warned this would be a painful process.
My love for this country is unrequited. My heart has attached itself to memories of moments recently passed, gazing at the cerulean blue of the ocean and jagged mountains in the distance, blending in with the untamed landscape bordering a wild, lazy city. But today I feel this country doesn’t particularly want me here, or simply doesn’t care enough to clarify itself. Rotten really, and typical.
Of all days the weather could choose to be nasty, of course it’s chosen this one. The sky is swollen with the intention of rain and the need to detoxify itself on us below or explode, causing the common question of the faceless dreary day pedestrians concerning when the clouds will shatter under the increasing water pressure to linger in the air.
After reflecting for a while, I’ve changed my mind. This city loves me immensely, the way a teacher loves a student enough to test him and challenge him and push him to the limit to confirm the conviction that he will not quit so easily. But this is far from my limit. I can endure so much more (and will have to if I’m going to pursue this obnoxious quest for a work visa) as long as I abandon that quirk I have of fleeing the moment things get uncomfortable.

Sunday, September 21, 2008

looking for my marsian voice

At first it was a place to sit and look at the stars and now it’s come alive with the energy of the people who breath the air that smells of lavender soap, and baking bread, and piss, who sit at the bar next door from morning to night drinking pastis, singing to themselves and avoiding work. For some reason, I feel something for them. They love this city even more than I do and don’t notice they are unemployed but only that they are free. Is it strange that I fell in love… With a city? In truth, I’ve fallen in love before with other cities, but not like this. And for the life of me I can’t figure out what it is about Marseille that’s captured me. Maybe the deep turquoise of the ocean, rocky beaches, the way the ancient forts and cathedrals, houses with red tiled roofs ascend from the ocean creating uneven steps that turn a shade of gold at sundown. Sure it’s beautiful, but I’ve seen so many extraordinary cities, and in truth, this one lives up to its reputation for being filthy… But maybe that’s in part what I love about it. Similar to when we fall in love with a person their quirks, their flaws, imperfections, become our favorite details.

Friday, August 1, 2008

running on rioja wine

Walked into my apartment and felt my way through the dark to the light-switch in the kitchen. A wind blew the curtains of the open window filling the space with it's temporary coolness and as I stood in the dim living room, I could still feel my heart pumping and the twitch of blood surging to my muscles after running.
Walking back from the English bar after two glasses of rioja and an embarassing loss at trivia, I suddenly had this desire just to run. It has been ages since I last ran but there was something in an unexpected breeze interrupting the August heat that made me want to run. So I took off down the street, passing bars with people still spilling onto the sidewalk. I don't know if they noticed me or not. I meditated on the flip-flopping sound of my sandals clapping on the pavement, flying from the lively nocturnal streets of Malasana to the peaceful, pijo, posh neighborhood of barrio Salamanca, where the streets are wide and perfectly perpendicular and there's hardly a soul out after mid-night. This was not my city. Than what was? I reflected on the streets of Manila, remembering how the tangled roots of the trees along the sidewalk had grown and cracked the pavement creating deep, black crevices. The heat there was heavier than this, with breezes far sparser and stillness more complete. That wasn't my home either, but more than this, and I guess what I'm trying to realize is that home is only inside of me... But I keep on running.
I came to the intersection of a big street and though the light said, "don't walk" the on-coming traffic seemed far enough away for me to make it across, maybe. Oh well, I thought and broke into a sprint. The cars came much faster than I'd expected and just reaching the otherside, I felt a quick rush of adrenaline as the driver of the car closest to me laid his hand on the horn.
Then, on one corner of my quiet neighborhood, stand two benches, and no matter what day of the week I pass them or how vacant the rest of the city seems in summer, there are always people sitting there, sisters having a chat heart-to-heart or lovers exchanging saliva. Tonight there were three men seated on each, each with a laptop in his lap, looking like a mid-night office with no over-head. I smiled at the oddity of the scene as I passed and one of them shouted after, "Hola! Thanks for similing!"
I reached my door, heart pumping, blood rushing to my finger-tips and toes. Farewell, Madrid. Until another time. Yet another city I have to make peace with (but really just have to make peace with myself).

Sunday, June 29, 2008

I took me dancing

I took myself Tango dancing last night, once again disproving a common misconception. Here’s to the solitary observer, breathing the life of the city night, well connected without any friends. I took the Metro to Chueca, walked ten minutes down Fuencaral and road the elevator up to a third-story dive.
At mid-night the place was still fairly empty and only a few dancers took the floor. None of them caught my eye. I stood in the doorway watching for a while, not sure if I would pay the entrance fee and stay. My attention was drawn to a woman on a sofa in the corner, attentively and perfectly applying eye-makeup with one hand while the other held a compact mirror to her face. She wore immense dangling earrings, setting off her long neck. She was almost completely bald, with a few soft patches of hair remaining. It struck me that despite the baldness due to some apparent illness or deficiency, she looked exquisitely healthy and well composed. Her posture was that of a born dancer and her bare shoulders were muscular and dramatic. A man approached her and asked her to dance. She stood with grace and accepted with an inviting smile. She took his hand and pressed her cheek to his and they set off. Whether they were both good at dancing or her composure made him look good as well I wasn’t sure. The woman’s expression was grave and her eyes were deep and black. The man’s showed absolute delight to be dancing with her. When their dances were over, in Tango you dance at least three, she settled back softly on the sofa and started where she had left off with her make-up.
A man passing through the doorway turned to me and said several words in Spanish and caught unaware, I did not understand a one. I instinctively replied, “No hablo español.”
And so I’ve been like this a lot lately, observing but not participating, soaking up, taking in, storing up for one day when I can finally speak again.
***
A few weeks back I went to the courtyard sale of Trash and Treasures at a new friends old apartment. The complex where she once lived, a rustic white building and former inquisition prison, was being shutdown and renovated for one purpose or another, forcing out all the gypsies and artists who had been living there for years. The courtyard was filled with clothing racks and furniture, old junk and valuables, pieces with a once sentimental value. There were jewelry and plants, sports equipment, hula-hoops. You name it, they’ve got it. Come on in and take your pick for a low low price, plus fresh juices made by Nacho and vegan chocolate cake by Alison, a Scottish recipe I think.
A group of us lounged away the afternoon on cushions and hammocks, watching the customers pass, pick through the stuff and find their soul mate of a pair of boots. The Spanish conversations bubbled, the day grew hot, the heat got heavy then the evening came and cooled us comfortably. The flow of customers slowed, someone turned up the music, an eclectic mix of Latin and Spanish and whatever else. Broke out the wine and rolling papers, the drums, maracas and bells, played music and danced until someone had the idea to play dress up. We ran for the clothing racks and threw on some costumes. Anything went but was best if you made it something it wasn’t. I wore an Indian sari and a kneepad for a hat at a stylish tilt. The men went for the women’s clothes, pants with a lace up fly and mini-sweater vests in colored heart patterns, enormous sunglasses and long beaded necklaces. Wearing funny outfits, we beat out a rhythm on a bongo drum and some women in summer dresses tied bells around their ankles and danced.
Eventually I drifted away from the party unnoticed, climbed the old staircase to the third story where I could look down on the courtyard and take in the evening from afar. Sometimes more easily digested that way. Then I looked up to the opposite rooftop silhouetted black against the pale grey sky, and the sliver of a silver-blue moon half hidden by a single translucent cloud.
***
“Bailas tú?” I think that’s what he had said. That must have been what he had said. The Tango dance was beginning to get crowded with more young people. I just sat near the dance floor, observing the dancers… Observing, always observing now… Another man came up and asked me to dance. “Hablas ingles?” I asked because I couldn’t really explain in Spanish why I wasn’t very good at Tango but I was alright enough to try. He turned out to be from Australia. The dance was quite nice and after it was over, I returned to my chair feeling more confidant and belonging than before. The man who had spoken to me in the doorway earlier turned to me and said, “Por fin, tú bailas.” And finally, you dance.

Saturday, June 7, 2008

Tuesday, June 3, 2008

Madrid month blues

And then there are times when I’m afraid of being alone, afraid to stop moving for even a moment. The world is moving around me and I feel like a walking shadow surrounded by human life that I am not a part of. I walk in the streets at a pace that’s hardly transporting me just so I look like a person walking down the street. People pass with their groceries and their friends and lovers and their strange habits. I watch a man produce a jar that most definitely looks like mustard out of a shopping bag, unscrew the lid and take a sip.
I unlock the door of my apartment that’s dimmed with the light of the day and I want to fall asleep forever, disappear because there’s nowhere on earth I can escape this sensation that creeps up from the depths and paralyzes my ability to be or scream or feel. I could absently drink a jar of mustard too or walk around with one shoe on and the refrigerator door still open and my laundry piling up for weeks. The trash needs to be emptied and the dishes need to be washed but all I can do is sit with my legs crossed on the sofa and my eyes focusing unintentionally on a crumb that must have fallen yesterday on the floor, or the day before, or the day before that.
All the dirt seems to be accumulating at a faster pace than I can move to collect it and throw it out the window in a storm of dust and memories and emotional baggage from years and years of regrets I continue to deny I have.
When I sleep at night, my sleep is filled with the hubbub of dreams and the dreams are filled with images of friends whose friendships were deep rooted and solid as steel once. And an unrequited love, which is the best kind really. And I’m longing for a place across the sea that I couldn’t wait to leave because this part of me was a part of me there too and I thought I could leave it behind.

Monday, May 26, 2008

Tricks of the Brain

Et le monde devien plus et plus petit...
I'm on the sidewalk now, giving Javier a kiss on the cheek, then Fernando. The last time, and first time, I saw them we were in Nepal... The beginning of the last time I saw Fernando I was walking alone through the mad maze of Kathmandu rush hour, the day after returning to the city from the trek to the Everest base camp. A bit of a low after the high of the hike... The thrill of reaching the destination, then back to the city and I was thinking, "Now what?" and contemplating eating all the junk food I'd seen in the bakeries of Kathmandu over the day and half since I'd returned from the mountains all at once... Just for the temporary endorphin release caused by chocolate that makes everything feel all right for a moment.
It was as I was considering my chocolate downfall that I started hearing things... Hearing my name carried by the hot and crowded air, the noisy streets of the city. "Hilary," at first startled me and then in doubt, I shrugged my shoulders and theorized all the sounds of the city must have coincidentally shaped my name because as much as I wished it was a friend calling, I was in a foreign country in a foreign city at a foreign time... But there it was again, "Hilary." So I turned subtly so as not to let the tricks my mind was playing on me know that I was falling for them. Just to my right, crammed at the edge of the traffic was a man on a motorcycle with a face mask to protect his lungs from fumes of the traffic. "It's Fernando," he said and then I recognized the way his short black hair stood off the top of his forehead. My friend from Madrid that I met on the small airplane out of Kathmandu to the start-point for the Everest base-camp hike. "Hop on," he said, or something like it, so I did and we rode very slowly, hardly moving any, if at all, with the chaos of traffic, cars and bicycles, people and cows, at a stand-still. Eventually we found it was faster to park the motorcycle and scramble on hands and feet, climbing over bumpers of trucks. Somehow we found Javier, who Fernando had lost before accidentally finding me, and the three of us spent the rest of the day exploring the city and closing the evening with pizza at a popular ex-pat Italian restaurant and a bottle of red wine.
It's the warmth of people like Fernando, Javier and their friends that lead me to Madrid in the first place, and it's thanks to them that I'm living in the apartment I'm living in. Fernando grew up with Ines outside of Madrid and I'm living in Ines's bedroom while she escapes Madrid for the summer.
Ines came back this evening to pick up some of her stuff, and I helped her carry it down to the street where Fernando and Javier were waiting in their truck. Out of the truck they bounced and gave me a kiss. They look smaller than I remember. In Nepal they were the size of the mountains and the monuments... Or maybe it's just memories that play the tricks of the movie screen and render it's subjects larger than life.

Thursday, May 22, 2008

Actually feeling quite at peace with myself, more than usual, more often than usual... I think I’m having much less trouble adjusting to life in Madrid than I’ve had adjusting to cities in the past, and I’m not sure it has anything to do with Madrid. I think it’s me. I’ve faced this adjustment period so often before and every time, no matter how weird, how alienated, lonely, scrambled, bizarre and misshaped I feel, time creates a level of comfort. This knowledge forms a new level of patience with myself not to be perfect and loved, not to have friends for now. Thus, I feel more secure, sure of who I am... Though I couldn’t describe who I am or realize it on any tangible level...

Himalayan Pizza

I logged onto blogger.com to post a new blog tonight and instead of seeing my blog from yesterday, there was a notice that my blog has been removed temporarily for review and is suspected of violating the terms of blogger.com. At first, I was shocked, annoyed and frustrated, but within a few seconds, a curiosity and satisfaction settled in and I wondered how I managed to offend someone so much, and who. I felt that under the circumstances, my very own blog would become as provocative and popular as previously banned books. However, after a little investigation, I discovered my blog was being reviewed due to the possibility of it’s containing spam, which is apparently an inconvenient mistake made with anyone’s blog quite often. To expose a little secret, I haven’t really any idea what spam is, except for the mysterious canned meat by the same name invented in America sometime in the late 1930s due to limited resources, and still made today for God knows what reason.
I tasted Spam only once, and felt it wasn’t as bad as I had expected, but I probably wouldn’t give it a second try. It was back in November en route to the Everest base camp when I joined a group of six other Americans and eleven Nepali staff who cooked our meals. Our meals were usually very good and once or twice, I went to help out in the kitchen, which was a large tent with some camping stoves, to try to get some of the credit for the wonderful food though I was always asked just to cut the vegetables. One night, after a longer day of hiking than usual, the kitchen staff rewarded us by making a pizza for dinner. Himalayan yak cheese and Spam pizza. After six hours of hiking mostly uphill, over 14,000 feet above sea level, turning down some pizza isn’t done, so I tried the Spam. As I said, it wasn’t as bad as I’d imagined, and I was so cozy in the big tent huddled next to my fellow mountaineers at a small fold-up table by the light of lanterns and candlelight.
I am sure that within the next few days, my first entry will be found Spam free and re-posted. This entry, however, is all about Spam.

Monday, May 19, 2008

Madrid, and then?

That's the curse of being human isn't it? Never really satisfied and never fulfilled fully in a present state? Tomorrow, quit smoking, less drinking, start running, stop eating five pints of ice-cream then throwing them up. Tomorrow, when I'm 20, 30, 40, when I leave this town that's gotten boring. When I live somewhere long enough to feel at home. Or am I the only one?
Monday night, beginning of my third week in Madrid and the thrill of getting to my destination is wearing off. I'd been traveling since October. Well, depending how I choose to look at it, traveling since August 2006. Then, a few months back I found myself stranded in Copenhagen with zero visibility to the path ahead and dead burnt out on travel. Returning to the place I grew up wasn't an option because that feels farther from home than anywhere in the world, so all I had to do was choose a place and commit. That place I eventually settled on was Madrid, Spain.
Six cities, two and a half months, 1650 miles or 2650 km later I am finally in this city I'd been dreaming of. The first moment of my arrival I felt I had come home. Through a series of coincidences or fate, I landed a lovely apartment in a lovely part of town and as soon as I arrived in Madrid, I headed to a place I could call my own more than any other place in the last seven months. There's a door here I can close when I want to be alone, and my own bed, or mattress on the floor. Regardless, it feels like mine.
Now, just over two weeks after my arrival, already getting restless in a settled state minus the benefits of real friends, connections, traditions, already wanting to look forward to future travel. I wanted to settle and now I want to be on the move. I thought I could be a more whole, complete, self-accepting person once I gave myself the chance to settle in. But so much for that. The only consistent state I've found is the state of procrastination. Tomorrow, I'll be a better person. Tomorrow, I'll feel comfortable in my own skin no matter where I go. "Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow" and no matter how many adventures I have, the petty pace of life finds me, commuting in the metro, cooking dinner every night at home, in my sleep on my mattress on the floor.