Danza Della Vita

This is the month I’m supposed to decide whether or not I will stay in Spain for another year. I’m supposed to know in less than two weeks, and I’m about 85% sure I want to stay.

I’m also in the process of trying to get my degrees validated within the European Union, and I think my mother told my dad about my decision to stay, because he scanned my college diploma and emailed it to me this morning, asking me to tell him why I need it. He obviously knows, but he wants to hear it from me, already knowing that bribing me with offers of Disneyland and Shamu won’t work like they used to.

Then after siesta today I sat in the living room with a bottle of red wine and watched Sleepless in Seattle. It may have been all the talk about magic and signs and love, the way Tom Hanks’ fluffy hair waved in the Seattle wind, how seeing Seattle and New York in the movie made me miss home even more though I’ve never been to Seattle or New York, and it may very well have been the red wine flowing through my veins, because the next thing I knew I found myself crying along with Meg Ryan, missing America, good customer service, my dead dog, and having most people understand me when I say, “Wassup” and “Oprah Winfrey.”

I guess all I’m waiting for is a sign. Something to tell me that I’m making the right choice. It’s normal to think about and miss home when you’re about to make a huge decision like this, right? 

Here’s a few pictures of the Matanza I recently did not see (I went to the farm for the traditional pig-slaughtering feast, but left during the slaughtering and came back at lunchtime for the seafood paella dish only).

I’ll also post pictures of my recent trip to the Mezquita in Córdoba. I hope ya’ll enjoy:

Wilbur.

Seafood paella.

La Mezquita.

Spanish ¨jardín.¨

Saturday night the nine of us got together for our usual weekend botellón, which is the Spanish custom of socializing while getting drunk. We danced around and played drinking games for a few hours, gulping down tinto de veranos (a typical Spanish drink of red wine mixed with citrus-flavored Fanta soda) from glass jars until it was time to go out.

We managed to stumble out and hit the bars well after midnight, mingling with other people from town. One of my friends, we’ll call her Nira, is currently dating FF, who happens to be David’s best friend. Anyhow, we were all hanging out at one of the local bars when FF’s ex-girlfriend walked in. The ex walked up to him and said hello, and they talked for a bit while Nira stood and talked to me a few feet away, pretending to be nonchalant. Eventually FF came back over to Nira and explained the situation to her, although she was already well aware of the ex’s presence.

David and FF seem to have some secret buddy code because suddenly David steered the ex away from our group and they went over to another side of the bar to chat and drink. He was most likely trying to make the situation less awkward by guiding her away from FF since Nira was there, but for some odd reason watching them laugh over drinks made my stomach churn.

Now, it could have been the vast amounts of red wine that I had previously consumed, the fact that I haven’t been able to squeeze out a single well-deserved tear since this past November, and that I might still have baggage from my last relationship - but all of a sudden I started to feel small waves of anger, panic, and frustration. All towards David.

I knew I was being irrational, that I needed to sternly remind myself again that David is not Nathan, and that he’s treated me far better these past few months than Nathan did our entire two years together.

But last night I realized, for the first time, just how deep the emotional wounds from my relationship with Nathan run. I realized that if my old insecurities can come rushing back to me that fast and under such a minuscule circumstance, then I’m still not as far in the healing process as I thought. That David is, in a way, paying for Nathan’s mistakes.

And he shouldn’t have to.

I grabbed my jacket and quietly snuck outside where I took a few deep breaths and tried desperately not to cry. The first time I’ve felt like crying since friggin’ November - and it’s over this? You’ve got to be kidding me.

*****

A few hours later, on our way home from the last bar, David put his arm around me and drunkenly asked, “…when will I ever get to see the real Emma?”

I smiled meekly and asked, “Haven’t you seen the real Emma?”

David removed his arm from around my shoulders, shrugged, and quietly responded, “I don’t know.”

Spain celebrated Carnaval this past weekend. It’s somewhat of a Spanish version of Halloween, except it has religious Catholic roots and the costumes tend to be more joyous and funny; it’s celebrated to symbolize the beginning of Lent and the arrival of Ash Wednesday, but here it’s also used as an excuse for people to dress up and get drunk. The nuns that schooled me would hit me with a ruler if they knew that’s how I began my Lent this year >:)

Anyway, Sports and I scrambled around Saturday afternoon before 2pm siesta (aka before the whole pueblo shuts down for the rest of the weekend) looking for the final accessories to go with our costumes. There are about four Chinese families in town, and each family owns their own general store with very discounted prices. So after looking through two of the Chinese stores, Sports and I went to Moda Beijing, where they have mostly clothes, bras, shoes, purses, etc - exactly what we needed.

I should have been helping Sports look for a pair of hot black pants, but I was too busy trying on the poshest plaid hat ever. I was dancing around in front of a mirror, with the hat on my head, when a Spanish lady in a big fur coat came up to me and asked, “Well, don’t you work here?” Apparently she had been calling me from the back of the store.

Unfortunately for her, I don’t immediately respond to the yells of, “China! China!”

Sports, who happened to be standing right behind me when Fur Lady came over, doubled over with laughter. I politely told Fur Lady in Spanish, “I don’t work here, but I’m pretty sure they do,” and nodded over to the cute Chinese couple that actually own the store.

I really think it’s interesting how people’s perceptions of my ethnicity seem to change with my location.

For example, back in California, I’m Latin American. In Hawai´i, a native woman named Momi thought I was Hapa Haole, or half-Hawaiian. In Belgium, I was mistaken for an Italian. In Paris, I was Spanish. And in Spain, I’m China! China!

I later told my dad about the incident (on Skype), and I watched him laugh his head off, half a world away, for as long as it took me to make a tomato-Gouda cheese sandwich and patiently eat half of it while he continued to tear up and laugh into the camera.

If anyone was going to laugh that hard, it was going to be him. Being part Chinese on my mother’s side, my dad would do things like ask me to read restaurant menus in Mandarin (which I don’t speak) on our occasional trips to Chinatown. When I was learning how to drive, he’d yell, “Open your eyes! Open your eyes!!” while I desperately weaved back and forth through horribly congested traffic near the 101.

Of course, it’s all out of love. Like the time he told me I looked like some anime character because my eyes disappear into my head whenever I laugh; and I responded by telling him I thought he had the cutest chicken legs ever.

According to my sister, he refused to wear shorts for about a month after that :)

I’ve been getting that feeling in my gut - the one where I want to run and run, as hard as I can without stopping until my lungs feel like they’re about to explode. Until my legs feel wonderfully numb and I can feel the blood throbbing in my face and all the thoughts that run through my head are blown up and away into oblivion.

It usually happens when there’s a situation I feel I have little or no control over.

So a few nights ago I skipped yoga and joined a group of people at a game of basketball instead. For the next hour I ran back and forth across the court, cursing, shoving, blocking, jumping, making shots. It wasn’t the same as running my heart out, but I forgot about everything.

About having to be practical. About the college loan that’s steadily draining my savings account. About having to choose between staying here and going back to the States.

I meant to tell David all this. But this morning he asked if he could keep his toothbrush in my bathroom and it made me have a tiny inner freak out which in turn made me feel like running and running even more so I kept my mouth shut. Not that I mind having his toothbrush in my bathroom…

I just felt like chucking it through the window and out into the olive orchards, that’s all.

Because when I’m with him I feel a slight twinge in my gut that may very well be the emotion I have every intention of resisting.

Because I suck at that thing you call “expressing your feelings.” Because he’s told me he’d like it if I stayed close and I don’t know if I can or if I will. Because he’s looked intently at me for what’s seemed like huge stretches of time, only to ask, “Que?” When he knows exactly what.

But hell, I’m not gonna say it.

This is probably where people say things like, “Tell him how you feel, you’ll feel soo much better, blahdy blahdy blahdy…”

But I’m not going to heed to that advice. A self-preservation thing, perhaps.

Or just plain stubbornness? I’ve been accused of that one before.

Anyway, this rant hasn’t made me feel any better about my situation, so I’m going to give up and post this picture where I’m talking to David and probably saying something like, “I’m so posh. Stop making fun of my hat and go get me another beer or ten.”

Hey, at least you get a little lip action this time.

Sometimes I wakeup and miss home. It usually happens on Sunday mornings, when the castle bells echo in through my window, and the only other noises throughout my piso are the soft coughs from my roommate in the other room.

It’s at that moment that I’ll start to miss the little things. Like the sound of my dad working in his garage; the smell of coffee and toothpaste that lingers on his breath when he kisses me good morning. I’ll miss the hammock in the backyard where my sister and I would lay together and talk, legs intertwined and arms behind our heads, our skin glistening with pool water. The 45-minute drives we’d sometimes make just to eat at our favorite hole-in-the-wall Thai food restaurant.

I’ll miss my little brother trying to bribe me into giving him cookies in exchange for ten kisses on my face, or having him blabber on and on about anything on our weekend drives for Oreo ice cream, his thin legs dangling out of the car seat. I’ll even start to miss things like peanut butter and Trader Joe’s and Target and animal-style fries from In-N-Out. Driving along the coast. The canyons. Grey’s Anatomy and Scrubs - hell, just plain television not dubbed in Spanish.

But then I shake it off and remind myself that I am here. In a town that is just as beautiful, if not more. A town that has become a second home to me.

Where the woods are only a 20-minute walk away.

Where I feel at peace, far away from the bustle of city life.

Where the olive orchards are beautifully abundant for miles around.

Where, if you manage to make it out a little bit further, you can find this.

And where I’ve currently fallen in love with this action-loving big slobbery dog (because I have puppy fever dammit and I want one of my own). I also happen to like her owner very much ;)

Ah, España.

How many of us have given up a dream, or ten, in order to do what was most practical? How many times have we been too afraid to do something we really wanted because we weren’t sure what lay ahead - and in the end we abandoned an opportunity in order to go back to the comfort zone, the sure thing?

Five years ago, I was accepted into my first-choice university. Five years ago, my parents told me I couldn’t go. It was too expensive, why can’t I just live at home for two more years and then transfer?

Because I didn’t miss Prom (and yes, I did get asked out) so that I could save the extra money (that would instead go towards my college savings account) for nothing. Because I was told that if I worked hard and saved my earnings I could go to that university.

Because I would be able to start off at the second-year level thanks to all of the A.P. courses I studied for and passed.

Because I’ve already made it this far, and why should I stop now?

In the end, I went. It wasn’t easy. I may have locked myself up in the bathroom and refused to come out until my parents would allow me to go. My father may have crawled into bed, depressed because he couldn’t afford to give me a higher education. My mother may have yelled and accused me of being a selfish girl.

But I eventually came out of the bathroom and my father eventually left his bedroom and we came to an agreement. He would take care of my tuition as long as I found another job in my new town so that I could pay for my books and the cost of living. And we did just that. For two years, he paid for my tuition and I paid for everything else. By my third year, I was working full-time and I paid for half of that year’s tuition. By my fourth year, I had picked up a double major so I took out a loan.

That year, I became the first on both sides of my family to graduate from college. I was no longer an absurd or selfish girl. Instead of finding out through my mom how I was doing, relatives actually started to call and email me themselves. They began asking me for updates on my life; they wanted to know what was next.

What came next was me running off to live in an ungoogleable town in Spain on a meager salary.

“Five bucks you cry on Christmas,” my dad said.

“Go. I’ll pay for your plane ticket. You living there might give me an excuse to come visit and finally see Europe,” my mom smiled.

And it’s been pretty great so far. I’ve been traveling at every given opportunity, sending pictures back home, receiving requests to please go visit Barcelona, to take pictures in front of the Estadio Santiago Bernabeu, and to please send back handsome single Spanish men.

It’s been so great, in fact, that for the past couple months I had considered prolonging my stay. I looked into a few jobs here and there, but nothing came of it. So I decided that if I needed to be practical about my situation and begin considering job options back home in L.A. and San Francisco, I would.

Then last week the Andalusian government offered me my teaching position again for the following year. Another year! They even threw in a raise under the condition that I would work for the same school. I emailed my family right away to let them know the news.

Mom: “The raise is great, but it’s still not very much. If you want to stay, then I ask that you look into continuing your studies, or simply find a better-paying job.”

Dad: “Look at what is most convenient. They’re not paying you enough for you to be able to put aside extra money into your savings. In L.A. though, you have the option of working at [well-known television station] and not only will you make enough money, you’ll have benefits as well.”

Aunt: “You yourself have to decide what is best for your life; but if making the ‘less practical’ choice will serve to make you a better person, why not take such an opportunity? You only have your youth once and it is mostly during this time in your life that you’ll be able to pounce on such an adventure - once you’re married or fully involved in other life projects, you cannot take as many risks.”

Now, whose answer do you think I liked better? Unfortunately, auntie’s not the one who’ll be paying for my plane ticket.

As of now, I have until March to make my decision. If I end up coming home in June, I won’t be bitter. After all, I’ve come this far and I’ve made my dream come true. Prolonging my dream would simply be asking for too much.

So in this case it would be OKAY for me to just be practical.

Then again, I’ve already made it this far…

I was on my way to work today, when I caught sight of a hunched-over old man on the other side of the street, walking in the opposite direction. He looked very intent on getting to his destination, his trembling steps making his grip on the cane even tighter. His only focus was the cobblestone ground, the lifting of a foot, placing it, and repeating with the other.

Then a Spanish girl with big tits (big because she had just popped out a 9 pound baby) walked by and I clearly saw the old man’s life return to him. It swooped in through his gaping mouth and came out of his eyes and his giddy old man chuckle. And you and I both know he wasn’t just thinking about the Spanish girl’s boobs.

And for a while I began to observe my own thoughts. I passed by a produce stand and found myself wondering what kind of men would approach me if my boobs were the size of those cantaloupes. And if they were the size of those clementines?

Then a truck full of pigs drove by and I morbidly wondered how a pig would land if it fell out of the back of the truck. Would it land on its side, squealing while twisting itself upright? What about one of the pigs in the wooden crates? Would the crate break open upon impact, revealing cute little Wilbur as the jamón-hungry Spanish housewives raged upon him with their pitchforks, overly ecstatic about frying Wilbur in a vat of olive oil for their families?

And on my way past the jeweler’s I caught sight of my reflection in the window, and thought to myself, “I wish I had a phat ass. Bigger. Mmmm-hmm.”

Then I adjusted my coat, wrapped my scarf a little tighter, and waved to the nice policeman as I ran into the schoolyard, a whole four minutes late to work.

Good laughs :D