When you live 30 seconds from the theater

On only one other occasion in my life have I gone to the theater alone, and it wasn't planned. This was last year, when Doc was showing Almodóvar every Wednesday, and I was meeting a guy that I had met at the UChicago Folk Festival. He never showed up. I went in anyway. The film ended up being not one of my favorites. I think that it was La Ley del deseo or something, and the irony of watching it after being stood up was just enough to turn me off.

Really, though, there's something quite therapeutic about going to the movies alone. There's no talking, no passing of chocolate between friends, no "What did you think?" after it's over. You are silent. You are absorbed. 

I opted to see Milk again, and for two hours, I could have been anywhere in the world; all clues to my surroundings disappeared, along with the strangers sitting around me, in the darkness of the theater, all eyes fixed on the screen, not even a hush emitting from the audience. We followed the film with a devotion that I've observed during silent prayer in church. The worst part about seeing a movie alone, though, is when the lights come on. You take your time putting on your coat because there's no one waiting for you. You skip the discussion of "What's next?" because who's going to go to a bar by herself? Still, I liked it, especially after three hours of sleep last night and the nightmare that was my medieval history final--8 essays that I put off all semester.  

In other news, my flatmate, Robert, might be one of my favorite people in the world. 

Feeling like I needed you

During my morning commute to Latinos Progresando in Chicago this summer, I was almost always accompanied by my little iPod mini, something that made taking two buses across town a lot more tolerable. I'm fond of the shuffle setting - there are always songs in my 4 GB portable collection of music that end up surprising me. On the #9 one morning, during the second leg of my journey, Goldfrapp's "A&E" came on. I had put it on my iPod but had never actually given it a listen. The somewhat corny introduction usually caused me to skip it. That morning, though, I let it play for the full duration of 3:18 minutes, and I thought that the way it complemented the cloudless blue sky and hot Chicago sun beaming through the bus windows was enchanting. 

It's kind of a sad song, really, and as I was listening to it while studying in the UAB library one day, looking out at the same blue sky from the second-floor window, now thousands of miles away from Chicago, I had to hold back tears. It's a song that not only reminds me of that summer in Pilsen, but of everything that I miss about home - not just Chicago, but Grand Rapids, too, and all of the places and people that helped raise me. It makes me miss my mom, someone who I was so close to as a child but with whom I've have had a more complicated and sometimes frustrating relationship in recent years. I see kids here being picked up by their parents from school, laughing and eating pa amb xocolata, and I realize that I'll never be in that place again. I remember when my mom used to pick me up after school and how sometimes we'd stop at Kava House to get a giant cookie. I remember how my dad came to my mom's house to take me to school at 7:05 AM every single weekday morning from the time that my parents got divorced until I graduated from high school (about 13 years), and how he would sometimes stop by Kava House beforehand to get me a coffee or spritzer. We usually didn't even talk during those ten minutes in the car. I was always too tired. At the time it all seemed very mundane and routine, but I've romanticized such experiences to an extent such that I can't help stumbling into the hole left by their absence. It's not as if I can't still get coffee with my parents, but that perfect and simple quality about our relationship has transformed into something more difficult to characterize, and I imagine that this process will only speed up as I grow into adulthood. 

I don't know what more to say about it, but I guess that I've always had these feelings, and being in Barcelona has only amplified them. It's ridiculous to be so melodramatic about everything. I suppose that music often has that effect. It brings you back to a memory so vivid and particular that a part of you would simply prefer not to leave.

It's 2:06 PM

 There's really no sense in reserving an entire Saturday for studying if I'm going to wake up at 12 PM and lay in bed until mid-afternoon, sipping bad instant coffee and listening to the NPR 24-hour program stream. Had I really made an effort, I could have gotten up at 9 and spent a relaxing couple of hours wandering the MACBA or CCCB before committing myself to the UB library. 

These days, though, I feel pretty stuck. A visiting professor asked me yesterday at our program dinner "what I did" in Barcelona, and I realized, to my shame, that the answer isn't so far from "absolutely nothing." Had it been "study," I wouldn't be scrambling to finish all of my mandatory reading for my history class. Had it been "museums," I wouldn't be completely unaware of everything that's going on at MNAC and other Bcn cultural staples. Had it been "volunteer," I wouldn't still be making excuses for not getting in touch with Amics de la Gent Gran.

I'm starting to feel a little bit like author David Sedaris in Paris. I see movies. I drink coffee. I walk around with an irritated look on my face, convinced that none of the passers-by understands how I feel, as if I'm somehow oppressed, worthy of being the protagonist of some sort of existentialist novel. Unfortunately, unlike Sedaris, I don't have any book deals, and I'm not old enough to resign myself to bitter creative nonfiction or the life of a chain-smoking expat. 

I'm going to take a shower. I'm going to buy groceries so that I don't have to keep eating PB&J. I'm going to finish my reading. Then, I'm going to plan a lovely Sunday at the museum. 

P.S. If you remember my first post about protests at the Autonomous University, here are some photos of how my colleagues have chosen to focus their efforts against the Bologna Process: click here. 

Would you like cash back?

I returned from Sweden today at about noon to an apartment with no groceries that I could claim as my own. Along with a lack of sustenance was the absence of usable cash in my wallet - only kroner remained. I went to the grocery store hoping to pay with my card and get a twenty as cash back. I needed to add money to my phone, and before I realized that nothing good was showing at Verdi I thought that I would take advantage of the Dia de l'espectador discount and catch a movie. (That Harvey Milk film arrives in just a few days.)

When the final bill came up, I handed over my card and asked the cashier if I could ask for cash. Her response seemed both puzzled and annoyed. 

"Like how?" 

"Um, like a 20 euro bill?" 

"Well, if you gave ME cash, I could give you change."

"No..."

The exchange continued for a few painful seconds. Faced with a long line and a look that said, "you're an idiot," I said never mind and walked away. 

The tradition of asking for cash back, prevalent in the United States, Sweden, and perhaps other countries, is one of my most cherished. It is a clever way to avoid ATM fees and to save oneself from not having cash at a crucial moment. I was dismayed when the cashier insinuated that I expected her to just GIVE me cash, purely out of the kindness of her heart, and realized that this was yet another moment that would add to the pile of evidence attesting to my complete insanity.

I wonder where the U.S. Consul General shops for groceries, and if he has ever asked for cash back.