The force of destiny

I've just gotten home from the movies--The Reader this time. The silence of my apartment is delicately broken by Grieg's "I Love You," and now footsteps, maybe Robert or Paul, and my loud and clumsy typing. It was raining when I got out of the movie, like it has been all day, but I felt like it should be raining after a film like that. I'm feeling very somber because of it. 

It's quiet for a Saturday night. I walked down Carrer de l'Or and passed la Plaça del Diamant and saw that there was no one there, probably because of the dreary weather. I love the walk back from Verdi Park--past la Plaça de la Virreina and then la Plaça del Diamant until I can see where my little block is born, out of the intersection where there's a bookstore, a falafel place and a music bar called Calexico. The sequence never gets old. I walked up the stairs of my apartment and felt a big calm, something that I was able to maintain until I entered the chaos of my room. There's papers scattered everywhere, clothes hung over the furniture, post-its stuck on the walls, dishes on the bookcase. I ought to study but I'd rather just clean up the clutter. At least make the bed.

If I hadn't heard Catalan coming back from the theater I might have forgotten where I was. Sitting in my room listening to classical music I've created a similar effect of placelessness, if I'm bold enough to make up my own word. It's just got me feeling so odd that I'm going back to Chicago in two months, and I'm not sure I've done everything I've wanted to do, and I don't know if it ever would have been possible, anyway. But there's so much more to see. 

Everything began quite simply, laying on a bed in the Hotel Ayre, just arrived from North America, making a first phone call from the hotel phone to a friend in Valencia, thinking I can't believe it. Somehow, seven months have passed and all I have left as concrete evidence of that initial uncertainty, nervousness, excitement is the comb that I took from the hotel bathroom. The logo has faded completely. It was a purple 'a' on a clear comb but now it's just a clear comb. I guess that people have made metaphors out of these kinds of things before. 

Caprese extra

Tonight was my third meal in La Piadina, a hidden treasure in Gràcia off of Plaça de la Virreina that serves Italian flatbread filled with cheeses, meats, vegetables--in short, all of the ingredients that constitute one of my greatest pleasures, especially at 10 PM. I wish that I had a photo, because I'm left flustered when I attempt to describe the feel of the place. 

In any case, it turns out that I don't have much to write, because it seems that it was an almost entirely perfect night--piadinas, walking around in Gràcia, having tea and baklawa, and enjoying the company of some of my closest friends. It's always easier for me to complain on this thing, anyway.

What I wanted to say, though, was that I heard "Mad World" playing in La Piadina for the second time. It's a sad song, but it's also very comforting, mixed in with a montage of memories from high school. As it was playing, I realized how much I'm going to miss this place in three months. Despite the stress, the culture shock, the uncertainty, I've never been so consistently at ease, sipping tea with pine nuts in a Syrian restaurant or laughing too hard at Raïm and completely relishing the warm presence of the people who make me forget whatever unpleasant experiences I've had here. Grand Rapids, Chicago, Buenos Aires, and now Barcelona--it's more or less true that life is a succession of people saying goodbye. 

I still have three months, though, and I think that things will only continue to get better. (Re: The Beatles--I won't apologize.)

A parade, a perturbation

I am sitting in my room during the awkward gap between my afternoon classes. It is a time that should be reserved for studying at the library, and yet I have returned home to hang up my washed linens and write about my day, a day which began with loud drumming and the smell of horse manure--the tell-tale signs of a parade below my living room window. Inevitably, I was the unappreciative foreigner who had to clumsily navigate my way through crowds of schoolchildren and enthusiastic neighbors, unable to stop and admire the band because I had a train to catch. My shoes are still sticky from the countless pieces of hard candy that fell victim to the soles of my sneakers. I wanted to pick some up for the road, but then I saw what the horses had left behind and remembered that it was quite unsanitary to be eating candy that had been thrown onto the streets.

I had a práctica in my class at the Autonomous University today. The assigned reading was in English, something that often happens in International Relations courses. I had read the text three times and highlighted in multiple colors, which I thought would guarantee a star performance during the in-class discussion. All of my thoughts about the text, though, had been formulated in English, and by the time I mentally translated them into a statement that would sound half articulate in Spanish, the professor had moved onto the next question. I felt useless and defeated, having done so much work beforehand and, when the moment of truth came, having decided not to participate. 

There is something about speaking up in this class, though, that makes my heart race and my face turn red. It's not so much the language issue anymore (aside from my translation challenges today). The class is given in Spanish, a language that I have few problems speaking after living here for 6 months. Catalan presents more difficulties, but I use it enough to have at least a shaky confidence in my communication abilities. To be honest, it's the students sitting all around me who comprise the principal cause of my intimidation. I don't see the same kind of respect for strange accents and misplaced or mispronounced words that I've enjoyed in some other classes. It's mostly my imagination, I'll admit, but the complete contempt for the Polish professor who leads the Friday class makes the thought of opening my mouth and incorrectly conjugating a verb absolutely terrifying. It's an entirely separate issue that my country is often the subject of extremely critical comments, which is not inherently a bad thing (even if I don't agree) but often cheapens my perspective. 

As I reflected on these concerns during the train ride back to Gràcia, I could only think that these types of situations would be just what constituted the oral component of my Foreign Service exam, and that today, if the discussion was any sort of a test, I had utterly failed. It's hard enough for me to participate in classes at Chicago. I am overwhelmed by the insight of other students and often judge my own comments as having little value. Here, that anxiety is only intensified, made worse by the task of expressing myself in a language that is not my mother tongue. No matter how good I am at Spanish, I will always feel more comfortable speaking English. Today, preparing myself to venture into the debate, I was halted not only by my nervousness in front of the 60+ other students but by trivial linguistic obstacles: "But how would I say 'containment'? 'Mutually exclusive'?" Beyond that, though, I seem to lack the fundamental ability to gauge the dynamic of a conversation and intuit the best places at which to jump in and contribute. It's something that I'll need to learn quickly, as that Foreign Service exam is looming. 

Maybe I should watch more Sean Hannity. He seems to be good at making his opinion known, though I wouldn't categorize his comments as a "contribution" to the debate. They seem to be more of an opportunity for him to trample any kind of rebuttal like an elephant wearing anvils as shoes. 

My love for mini Babybel emmental cheese is too great, my appreciation for heated discourse too little. What's a girl to do?