held up in my luxury suite, behind a barricaded door.
I've done it again. I didn't mean to, I swear. I had the best intentions of coming to this place and being a person who does things, and leaving the old me behind. But I couldn't help it. I brought homework to a party.
To be fair, it wasn't really a party so much as a gathering to watch the results of a bet. My friend John had bet that Zarina couldn't eat two whole pizzas in under an hour, and she bet in return that he couldn't eat an entire jar of gherkins in 20 minutes. And the rest of us were just hungry. So really, I brought my revision notes to dinner, which isn't so bad, is it?
Now that exams are over (a day I thought would never come), I've had a lot of free time to think. That is, when I'm not using it to sit on the beach all day with some friends and some tunes and bake and swim and be young and count every beautiful thing under the sun. Most of what I've been pondering is how different this all is to the life I lived in Austin, and what kind of crossover there'll be when I go back. I obviously have let a little bit of my Austin personality bleed into my Valencian life; obviously the reverse will happen upon my return. Which is a good thing.
I suppose I should mention that the most obvious difference between life AV and DV (antes/despues de Valencia) is that I have, surprise of all surprises, managed to survive twenty-one years of this insane, incredible, incredulous life I live. Which, to me, merits a celebration of Bacchanalian proportions, but in Spain, simply means you you're not twenty any more. But wait, oh wait, my friends, until I am back on terra mia. Apparently, I may now order my own margarita, instead of quietly stealing my parents', and having them order new ones.
But in all things non-alcoholic, I think the biggest change has been in my outlook. Needless to say, back home, I was a ball of nervous energy, with places to go! things to do! fun to miss out on! But Spain has definitely taught me to stop and smell the sangria, because life is short, and siestas are shorter. Though you might never see me out on nights before exams, and I might still be hard to coax out of my house, I know now that I will, eventually, leave my little shelter and live a little. I am now, as my brother says, a person who does things. Yeah, I might have brought coursework to a social gathering in Spain. But, in true Spanish style, I left it until the next day anyway. No pasa nada.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
This Is A Ride, Not A Fight
no need to save face, to say goodnight grace; "goodnight, Grace."
Let's set the scene: last football match to be played at the Mestalla. You're sitting with a group of friends, all from various place round the world. Everyone's getting on great, the crowd's friendly and more than tolerant of your terrible Spanish. Your team scores early on, you're feeling good. And then you hear it: that shrill, piercingly nasal tone, that horrid, lazy speech, the general ennui and superiority that it conveys. And you think, "Americans". Which is fine, of course. Not everyone has to love America or its denizens. Unless, of course, you're American yourself.
My friend Paul and I have a running joke that we only have three conversations:
1. Have I dropped Comparative Literature yet (a bit late now, don't you think)?
2. Do I love Peep Show (yes, I finally broke down and watched it. All of it.)?
3. Paul hates America/ Americans.
So color me shocked when, as a gaggle of giggling American girls passed us the other day and I sneered derisively, Paul turned to me and said, "You know, I think you've got me beat when it comes to contempt for Americans". I was literally speechless. I stuttered a bit, tried to grin it off, but for some reason, couldn't. When it comes down to it, he actually had a point.
Let me be clear. I don't hate America, and I don't hate Americans. While I am just as apologetic as any other ex-pat when forced to admit my origin, I am fiercely proud of America, and of many things American. There is something indescribable about the rolling hill country of Texas, the beautiful foliage of New England, the incredible heart of New Orleans, and the calming air of San Francisco, something that touches me and fills me with a longing to hold that earth in my hands again. And a country that produced the likes of Kerouac, Edison, and cotton candy must be doing something right. But, both as a child of immigrants, and as a traveller myself, I don't view America through the same rose-tinted glasses as some of my fellow students abroad, and I don't think that's such a bad thing.
Let's set the scene: last football match to be played at the Mestalla. You're sitting with a group of friends, all from various place round the world. Everyone's getting on great, the crowd's friendly and more than tolerant of your terrible Spanish. Your team scores early on, you're feeling good. And then you hear it: that shrill, piercingly nasal tone, that horrid, lazy speech, the general ennui and superiority that it conveys. And you think, "Americans". Which is fine, of course. Not everyone has to love America or its denizens. Unless, of course, you're American yourself.
My friend Paul and I have a running joke that we only have three conversations:
1. Have I dropped Comparative Literature yet (a bit late now, don't you think)?
2. Do I love Peep Show (yes, I finally broke down and watched it. All of it.)?
3. Paul hates America/ Americans.
So color me shocked when, as a gaggle of giggling American girls passed us the other day and I sneered derisively, Paul turned to me and said, "You know, I think you've got me beat when it comes to contempt for Americans". I was literally speechless. I stuttered a bit, tried to grin it off, but for some reason, couldn't. When it comes down to it, he actually had a point.
Let me be clear. I don't hate America, and I don't hate Americans. While I am just as apologetic as any other ex-pat when forced to admit my origin, I am fiercely proud of America, and of many things American. There is something indescribable about the rolling hill country of Texas, the beautiful foliage of New England, the incredible heart of New Orleans, and the calming air of San Francisco, something that touches me and fills me with a longing to hold that earth in my hands again. And a country that produced the likes of Kerouac, Edison, and cotton candy must be doing something right. But, both as a child of immigrants, and as a traveller myself, I don't view America through the same rose-tinted glasses as some of my fellow students abroad, and I don't think that's such a bad thing.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
She's My Baby, She's My Baby Doll
is she someone I don't know at all; is she someone I've betrayed?
For some unfathomable reason, as a child I was obsessed with the movie The Aristocats. I've never seen the whole movie; most of my knowledge comes from trailer clips or failed attempts to view it, but that does nothing to diminish my love for a movie (almost) entirely about cats. CATS! Clearly, this movie speaks volumes to me. One line in particular has always killed me. We all remember it: the shot where the kittens are stuck and arguing about who gets out first. Marie proposes to go first "because I'm a lady", to which her brothers reply "You're not a lady. You're nothing but a sister!" Pretty much sums me up.
I've been nothing but a sister my whole life. I have one brother, whom I love, and I grew up with him and three other boys who basically treated me like a sister. Things only got worse in school, when I couldn't relate to the mall-dwelling, makeup-spattered, boy-crazy XXs and chose instead to stick to the boys' table. Add to that my post as baby of the American Chirayils, and my role was cemented. In all of my relationships, be they familiar, platonic, or romantic, I am the little sister: sassy, irrational, annoying at times, and generally just ridiculous.
Anyone who is a little sister can tell you, it's not a bad thing. In my case in particular, I love it. Having someone to sit by your side when no one else will play with you, or to give you a hug and threaten to kill that **** who hurt you, or to smack you across the face and call you an idiot when you are one, I think that's the best thing in the world. There are, however, downsides. As my brother has often pointed out, I've never had to do a single thing in my life. Figuring out computers? Sorting out my driver's license? Dealing with the cable company? Forget about it! I've always had it in the back of my mind that I'm not adult enough to mess with these things, someone else who knows more about it will sort it all out for me. Works well enough, until you're in an entirely new country and nothing's worked out for you and the apron string's been cut.
This past week in particular has been hard to go it alone. A friend of mine back home passed away, which was hard enough. I don't deal well with emotions when I'm with my best friends, so I wasn't about to open up to a group of (almost) strangers. As that happened, the stomach flu decided to sock it to me. And I, future doctor that I am, hate admitting sickness, so I decided to carry on like it was no big deal. And then life decided to kick me when I was down, and of course, my purse got stolen. With the entire contents of my life in it. Perfect. Back home, I'd go crying like a little girl into someone's arms, but here, I'm no one's sister. No one feels obliged to listen to me sob and dust off my skinned knees and carry me back home. And you know what? That's ok.
I found out this week that I can do it myself. It's like when you're a kid and you fall down. You don't notice, don't care, until your parents swoop in on you and look you over for scrapes and smother you with attention that you start bawling. If you just get up off your ass and say "SAFE!" instead, you find that knot in the back of your throat dissolving, and you get on with your life. So what, I had a shitty week? We all do. That's life. There's no use crying and carrying on about it, and it's especially pointless to expect others to do it for you. Not that I don't love being Marie. I'll always be everyone's little sister, the one who clowns for the camera and wants to play with your friends and still thinks that opposite day is for real. But I think it's time to grow up just a little bit. It might be time to think about being a lady. But what do I know, I'm nothing but a sister.
For some unfathomable reason, as a child I was obsessed with the movie The Aristocats. I've never seen the whole movie; most of my knowledge comes from trailer clips or failed attempts to view it, but that does nothing to diminish my love for a movie (almost) entirely about cats. CATS! Clearly, this movie speaks volumes to me. One line in particular has always killed me. We all remember it: the shot where the kittens are stuck and arguing about who gets out first. Marie proposes to go first "because I'm a lady", to which her brothers reply "You're not a lady. You're nothing but a sister!" Pretty much sums me up.
I've been nothing but a sister my whole life. I have one brother, whom I love, and I grew up with him and three other boys who basically treated me like a sister. Things only got worse in school, when I couldn't relate to the mall-dwelling, makeup-spattered, boy-crazy XXs and chose instead to stick to the boys' table. Add to that my post as baby of the American Chirayils, and my role was cemented. In all of my relationships, be they familiar, platonic, or romantic, I am the little sister: sassy, irrational, annoying at times, and generally just ridiculous.
Anyone who is a little sister can tell you, it's not a bad thing. In my case in particular, I love it. Having someone to sit by your side when no one else will play with you, or to give you a hug and threaten to kill that **** who hurt you, or to smack you across the face and call you an idiot when you are one, I think that's the best thing in the world. There are, however, downsides. As my brother has often pointed out, I've never had to do a single thing in my life. Figuring out computers? Sorting out my driver's license? Dealing with the cable company? Forget about it! I've always had it in the back of my mind that I'm not adult enough to mess with these things, someone else who knows more about it will sort it all out for me. Works well enough, until you're in an entirely new country and nothing's worked out for you and the apron string's been cut.
This past week in particular has been hard to go it alone. A friend of mine back home passed away, which was hard enough. I don't deal well with emotions when I'm with my best friends, so I wasn't about to open up to a group of (almost) strangers. As that happened, the stomach flu decided to sock it to me. And I, future doctor that I am, hate admitting sickness, so I decided to carry on like it was no big deal. And then life decided to kick me when I was down, and of course, my purse got stolen. With the entire contents of my life in it. Perfect. Back home, I'd go crying like a little girl into someone's arms, but here, I'm no one's sister. No one feels obliged to listen to me sob and dust off my skinned knees and carry me back home. And you know what? That's ok.
I found out this week that I can do it myself. It's like when you're a kid and you fall down. You don't notice, don't care, until your parents swoop in on you and look you over for scrapes and smother you with attention that you start bawling. If you just get up off your ass and say "SAFE!" instead, you find that knot in the back of your throat dissolving, and you get on with your life. So what, I had a shitty week? We all do. That's life. There's no use crying and carrying on about it, and it's especially pointless to expect others to do it for you. Not that I don't love being Marie. I'll always be everyone's little sister, the one who clowns for the camera and wants to play with your friends and still thinks that opposite day is for real. But I think it's time to grow up just a little bit. It might be time to think about being a lady. But what do I know, I'm nothing but a sister.
Monday, April 27, 2009
They Might Be Psycho Killers, But Tonight, I Really Don't Care
so I say turn the music up; take me home, or take me anywhere.
I like order. You might not know it, looking at the state of my bedroom floor, home to clean and dirty laundry, last night's problem set, last month's payment stubs, and last year's Pilates mat, but I like things to be neat and organized. I write out schedules divided into fifteen minute increments in my spare time. I turn up Joanna Newsom and reorganize my living area at least once a week. I pull my books off their shelves and reorder them according to size about every other month. I get a thrill out of having a plan, of knowing what's going to happen, when, and how. Spain, however, has different ideas.
When I first moved here, I was dumbfounded by the lifestyle here. Deadlines aren't really deadlines, more like suggested time frames. Schedules aren't hard and fast; classes begin whenever the professor feels like talking, and end whenever he wants to stop. Even our calendar is vague, leaving that wiggle room that Spaniards love so much. Rules here are made to be bent past the point of recognition. Freak me the eff out. What happened to my order? Where is that rigidity that I cling to? There is now a spectrum where there used to be grayscale. And I'm anxious about colors, as we all know.
I've tried imposing some kind of order on my life here. I more or less keep to my running schedule, I leave my room fairly pristine, I have a schedule of comings and goings, and most of it goes down as I plan. I've even ritualized my walk home from nights out; I walk and talk with my friend Paul to his, which is the halfway point, and then pop on my headphones and The Hood Internet or TVOTR or the Man in Black keeps me company the rest of the way: across Calle Aragon, past the University of Wales to Aulari V, up to Primado Reig, through Guardia Civil, cross the tram lines to the graffiti store, and then home. The same path, the same side of the street, even the same playlist for my quiet, peaceful end of the night. Eeeasy, right? Seems pretty run of the mill, you'd probably think it's monotonous, mundane, even. You'd be wrong. In the fifteen minutes from Paul's to mine, in what I like to call the Magical Mystery Mile, I have:
• Just barely missed getting hit by a drunk driver, as he crashed into a lamppost where I was standing a few seconds earlier.
• Had coconuts thrown at my head from five stories above.
• Witnessed hobos who’d taken up residence for the night in the ATM antechamber having sex.
• Been picked up by an off-duty cabman who tried to get my digits AND get fresh with me.
Yeah. You couldn't just let me have it. You couldn't let me have ONE ritual that I could get through without your constant need for nonconformity. I can't walk my Magical Mystery Mile without constantly encountering the bizarre. Well, fine. You want to throw a wrench in my plans? You want to keep me on my toes, so that I can't ever have a nice, neat, organized schedule that goes according to plan? Fine.
From now on, I'm penciling in chaos. You're talking to a girl who never got gold-starred because she didn't get the concept of coloring inside the lines. I will accept that my life here will never fit into the clean spaces I've allotted it. When I write out my fifteen-minute map to life, I acknowledge its futility; the only useful spot on my schedule is the first increment I've budgeted to scheduling. I've now timed my morning routine so that I arrive just as my professor starts to open his mouth. I've learned to shrug my shoulders and say "No pasa nada", like a true Spaniard. It goes against everything I've conditioned myself to for the past ten years. It even makes me a little nauseous to throw away my carefully partitioned view of my day. But at least now I know that I can't plan ahead; I know that I can't know. And, like they say, knowing is half the battle.
I like order. You might not know it, looking at the state of my bedroom floor, home to clean and dirty laundry, last night's problem set, last month's payment stubs, and last year's Pilates mat, but I like things to be neat and organized. I write out schedules divided into fifteen minute increments in my spare time. I turn up Joanna Newsom and reorganize my living area at least once a week. I pull my books off their shelves and reorder them according to size about every other month. I get a thrill out of having a plan, of knowing what's going to happen, when, and how. Spain, however, has different ideas.
When I first moved here, I was dumbfounded by the lifestyle here. Deadlines aren't really deadlines, more like suggested time frames. Schedules aren't hard and fast; classes begin whenever the professor feels like talking, and end whenever he wants to stop. Even our calendar is vague, leaving that wiggle room that Spaniards love so much. Rules here are made to be bent past the point of recognition. Freak me the eff out. What happened to my order? Where is that rigidity that I cling to? There is now a spectrum where there used to be grayscale. And I'm anxious about colors, as we all know.
I've tried imposing some kind of order on my life here. I more or less keep to my running schedule, I leave my room fairly pristine, I have a schedule of comings and goings, and most of it goes down as I plan. I've even ritualized my walk home from nights out; I walk and talk with my friend Paul to his, which is the halfway point, and then pop on my headphones and The Hood Internet or TVOTR or the Man in Black keeps me company the rest of the way: across Calle Aragon, past the University of Wales to Aulari V, up to Primado Reig, through Guardia Civil, cross the tram lines to the graffiti store, and then home. The same path, the same side of the street, even the same playlist for my quiet, peaceful end of the night. Eeeasy, right? Seems pretty run of the mill, you'd probably think it's monotonous, mundane, even. You'd be wrong. In the fifteen minutes from Paul's to mine, in what I like to call the Magical Mystery Mile, I have:
• Just barely missed getting hit by a drunk driver, as he crashed into a lamppost where I was standing a few seconds earlier.
• Had coconuts thrown at my head from five stories above.
• Witnessed hobos who’d taken up residence for the night in the ATM antechamber having sex.
• Been picked up by an off-duty cabman who tried to get my digits AND get fresh with me.
Yeah. You couldn't just let me have it. You couldn't let me have ONE ritual that I could get through without your constant need for nonconformity. I can't walk my Magical Mystery Mile without constantly encountering the bizarre. Well, fine. You want to throw a wrench in my plans? You want to keep me on my toes, so that I can't ever have a nice, neat, organized schedule that goes according to plan? Fine.
From now on, I'm penciling in chaos. You're talking to a girl who never got gold-starred because she didn't get the concept of coloring inside the lines. I will accept that my life here will never fit into the clean spaces I've allotted it. When I write out my fifteen-minute map to life, I acknowledge its futility; the only useful spot on my schedule is the first increment I've budgeted to scheduling. I've now timed my morning routine so that I arrive just as my professor starts to open his mouth. I've learned to shrug my shoulders and say "No pasa nada", like a true Spaniard. It goes against everything I've conditioned myself to for the past ten years. It even makes me a little nauseous to throw away my carefully partitioned view of my day. But at least now I know that I can't plan ahead; I know that I can't know. And, like they say, knowing is half the battle.
Friday, March 13, 2009
She
may be a hundred different things, within the measure of a day.
7:00
I was born by the river, in a little tent, and just like that river, I've been running ever since.
Let out a sigh. Kick off the covers and fumble for the light. Scramble for the computer, and switch on some tunes. Alright, Sam Cooke. Yeah, a change IS going to come, she can feel it. Suddenly, she's got the energy. Throws on her sweats, her kicks, and grabs her music, and then it's out on the streets.
7:30
I can't hear your voice, do I have a choice? (you're slipping below, I'm losing my force)
Heart's pounding. Pounding pavement. Chasing pavements. Chasing waterfalls? Keep going. Just keep moving. Pick up those feet, c'mon, almost there. Get up off of that thing, and dance, til you feel better! Alright, on the beat now. Got it. Get it, girl. In time. Ahh.
9:00
He talks about you in his sleep, and there's nothin' I can do to keep from cryin' when he calls your name, Jolene.
Should. Not. Sing. In. Shower.
10:45
I got to go because, something's on my mind, and it won't get better, no matter how hard I try. Whoa, yeah.
Arms swingin', boots clickin', she's walkin' with that true-blue American swagger. Yeah, you can take the girl out of the delta, but you can't take the blues rock out of the girl. Walking to class, confident and happy. You just got to be, the best thing for me. Baby, I'm the best thing for everyone.
2:15
Don't dig the crap games, with barons and earls, won't go to Harlem in ermine and pearls.
Snap-happy, grinning little fool. The kind Daisy Buchanan would be proud of. Spaniards must think she's completely mad, just skipping and sliding here and there down the street, moved by Frankie and Ella. Won't dish the dirt, with the rest of the girls, that's why the lady is a tramp. Post-lunch, filled with jamon y queso y huevos, she's got piss and vinegar and could be the world's most content tramp. Gimme that swing, and I'm golden, daddio.
11:30
My mama told me, Son, always be a good boy, and don't ever play with guns. But I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die.
Gearing up to leave an boozy, card-littered, cozy little flat by the beach for a night of drinking. Getting five drunk students to move with any semblance of cohesion is a task. After concerting bathroom breaks, making a few half-hearted attempts to soak up some wasted alcohol, and delaying to hear out a few good tunes, it's finally out for the night. Spilling onto the streets, gay and young and absurd. Making moves from one bar to another, losing people, catching others. This is how a night of mistakes begins. Take note.
4:05
Crazy, I'm crazy for feelin' so blue.
"Tell me, beautiful, how many hearts have you broken tonight?" He's a sweet taxi driver. Kind of grandfatherly, all gray-haired and myopic behind coke-bottle glasses. And a little bit perceptive. Probably comes with the job. Although, really, the scene she left isn't that hard to interpret, in any language.
"Too many. But it's only because I can't have the one I want." It's a lot easier to lay down your load in front of a complete stranger. And really quite comforting. Crazy...
"Well, don't worry, darling. It's not worth it. You just need to find a rich handsome Spanish man, and you'll be happy again." She giggles and pays. It's funny how lip service sounds so much more profound and resonant in Spanish. Gets out onto the street, counting down the minutes til her head hits the pillow and this whole process starts over again.
7:00
I was born by the river, in a little tent, and just like that river, I've been running ever since.
Let out a sigh. Kick off the covers and fumble for the light. Scramble for the computer, and switch on some tunes. Alright, Sam Cooke. Yeah, a change IS going to come, she can feel it. Suddenly, she's got the energy. Throws on her sweats, her kicks, and grabs her music, and then it's out on the streets.
7:30
I can't hear your voice, do I have a choice? (you're slipping below, I'm losing my force)
Heart's pounding. Pounding pavement. Chasing pavements. Chasing waterfalls? Keep going. Just keep moving. Pick up those feet, c'mon, almost there. Get up off of that thing, and dance, til you feel better! Alright, on the beat now. Got it. Get it, girl. In time. Ahh.
9:00
He talks about you in his sleep, and there's nothin' I can do to keep from cryin' when he calls your name, Jolene.
Should. Not. Sing. In. Shower.
10:45
I got to go because, something's on my mind, and it won't get better, no matter how hard I try. Whoa, yeah.
Arms swingin', boots clickin', she's walkin' with that true-blue American swagger. Yeah, you can take the girl out of the delta, but you can't take the blues rock out of the girl. Walking to class, confident and happy. You just got to be, the best thing for me. Baby, I'm the best thing for everyone.
2:15
Don't dig the crap games, with barons and earls, won't go to Harlem in ermine and pearls.
Snap-happy, grinning little fool. The kind Daisy Buchanan would be proud of. Spaniards must think she's completely mad, just skipping and sliding here and there down the street, moved by Frankie and Ella. Won't dish the dirt, with the rest of the girls, that's why the lady is a tramp. Post-lunch, filled with jamon y queso y huevos, she's got piss and vinegar and could be the world's most content tramp. Gimme that swing, and I'm golden, daddio.
11:30
My mama told me, Son, always be a good boy, and don't ever play with guns. But I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die.
Gearing up to leave an boozy, card-littered, cozy little flat by the beach for a night of drinking. Getting five drunk students to move with any semblance of cohesion is a task. After concerting bathroom breaks, making a few half-hearted attempts to soak up some wasted alcohol, and delaying to hear out a few good tunes, it's finally out for the night. Spilling onto the streets, gay and young and absurd. Making moves from one bar to another, losing people, catching others. This is how a night of mistakes begins. Take note.
4:05
Crazy, I'm crazy for feelin' so blue.
"Tell me, beautiful, how many hearts have you broken tonight?" He's a sweet taxi driver. Kind of grandfatherly, all gray-haired and myopic behind coke-bottle glasses. And a little bit perceptive. Probably comes with the job. Although, really, the scene she left isn't that hard to interpret, in any language.
"Too many. But it's only because I can't have the one I want." It's a lot easier to lay down your load in front of a complete stranger. And really quite comforting. Crazy...
"Well, don't worry, darling. It's not worth it. You just need to find a rich handsome Spanish man, and you'll be happy again." She giggles and pays. It's funny how lip service sounds so much more profound and resonant in Spanish. Gets out onto the street, counting down the minutes til her head hits the pillow and this whole process starts over again.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Fear Not, You're a Rainbow Warrior
golden lights on everything gleaming. We are Rainbowarriors, evil come not near.
Dearest friends,
I love you. You know I do. I adore you, couldn’t care more for you. But today, I have to take you to task. I feel like you’ve failed me, just a little bit. What did you do? Well, if you don’t know what you did, I’m not going to tell you. You know what you did. Ok, well it’s not so much what you did as what you didn’t do. You let me go. You let me just walk out the door, all bouncy and cupcake-craving, with the trademark Priya-shit-eating grin on my face, leaving my most important travel item on my dresser. How could you let me leave my Priya Guide at home?
Before I go off the deep end and sound like your typical angsty and hormonal young adult (No one understands me! I’m so alone!), let me clarify. I know I’m nothing hugely special. I’m not a beautiful and unique snowflake; I’m the same decaying organic matter and everyone else, part of the same compost pile. That said, there are a few quirks about me that probably should be explained. Thus, the Priya Guide. Written for friends of Priya, by friends of Priya. Covering topics like:
• Priya and Personal Space: To give, or not to give
• The Truth About Apples: Eating the correct way
• Unweaving the Rainbow: Decoding the many faces of P
All things, you’ll agree, that any neophyte in the Order of Priya probably needs explained, so we can avoid incidents like the great Hair Ruffle Disaster of ’08. And you let me forget it. Tsk tsk.
En serio, I’ve gotten a couple people saying, no, insisting, that I’m homesick. Confuse me? These people definitely need to take a page from Chapter Nine: When You Assume: Making an ass of you and P. I’m on this great adventure, and while it hasn’t all been shits and giggles, I’m having an absolute blast. Right now, we’re in the middle of Fallas, which is a bit like World War III: Valencia Blast. There are deafening daytime fireworks every day, and Mardi Gras-esque floats and parades in the streets. Between that, sangria breaks before class, and late-night piso parties, I don’t think I really have time to miss my life in Austin. And really, what would I miss? The Welch sleepovers? Bringing homework to parties? Counting dry cheerios and water as dinner? Yeah, not so much.
While these well-intentioned initiates have failed to correctly identify the moods of P, they have made me realize something. I know I'm not homesick, but I am holmesick. I miss ya, holmes. I miss people who know me. Nothing against my Valencia friends, who really are pretty spectacular, but there are times when I just think, this would make so much more sense with my homefries. Like going out to celebrate my MCAT. Don’t get me wrong, I had fun, and it was a great way for me to let loose. But I found myself wishing that I could share a drink with the people who I blew off to study for it. The ones who understood, who completely expected me to be one-track-pre-med Priya and settled for seeing me when I could squeeze them between physics and o-chem cram sessions. The people who just rolled their eyes and laughed when I’d show up to work with my lab manuals, and served up caramel macchiatos with a sprinkle of pV=nRT. So here’s looking at you, the lovely, shiny-faced members of my own rag-tag gang. Until we meet again, my glass is raised to you, the writers of the Priya Guide.
Dearest friends,
I love you. You know I do. I adore you, couldn’t care more for you. But today, I have to take you to task. I feel like you’ve failed me, just a little bit. What did you do? Well, if you don’t know what you did, I’m not going to tell you. You know what you did. Ok, well it’s not so much what you did as what you didn’t do. You let me go. You let me just walk out the door, all bouncy and cupcake-craving, with the trademark Priya-shit-eating grin on my face, leaving my most important travel item on my dresser. How could you let me leave my Priya Guide at home?
Before I go off the deep end and sound like your typical angsty and hormonal young adult (No one understands me! I’m so alone!), let me clarify. I know I’m nothing hugely special. I’m not a beautiful and unique snowflake; I’m the same decaying organic matter and everyone else, part of the same compost pile. That said, there are a few quirks about me that probably should be explained. Thus, the Priya Guide. Written for friends of Priya, by friends of Priya. Covering topics like:
• Priya and Personal Space: To give, or not to give
• The Truth About Apples: Eating the correct way
• Unweaving the Rainbow: Decoding the many faces of P
All things, you’ll agree, that any neophyte in the Order of Priya probably needs explained, so we can avoid incidents like the great Hair Ruffle Disaster of ’08. And you let me forget it. Tsk tsk.
En serio, I’ve gotten a couple people saying, no, insisting, that I’m homesick. Confuse me? These people definitely need to take a page from Chapter Nine: When You Assume: Making an ass of you and P. I’m on this great adventure, and while it hasn’t all been shits and giggles, I’m having an absolute blast. Right now, we’re in the middle of Fallas, which is a bit like World War III: Valencia Blast. There are deafening daytime fireworks every day, and Mardi Gras-esque floats and parades in the streets. Between that, sangria breaks before class, and late-night piso parties, I don’t think I really have time to miss my life in Austin. And really, what would I miss? The Welch sleepovers? Bringing homework to parties? Counting dry cheerios and water as dinner? Yeah, not so much.
While these well-intentioned initiates have failed to correctly identify the moods of P, they have made me realize something. I know I'm not homesick, but I am holmesick. I miss ya, holmes. I miss people who know me. Nothing against my Valencia friends, who really are pretty spectacular, but there are times when I just think, this would make so much more sense with my homefries. Like going out to celebrate my MCAT. Don’t get me wrong, I had fun, and it was a great way for me to let loose. But I found myself wishing that I could share a drink with the people who I blew off to study for it. The ones who understood, who completely expected me to be one-track-pre-med Priya and settled for seeing me when I could squeeze them between physics and o-chem cram sessions. The people who just rolled their eyes and laughed when I’d show up to work with my lab manuals, and served up caramel macchiatos with a sprinkle of pV=nRT. So here’s looking at you, the lovely, shiny-faced members of my own rag-tag gang. Until we meet again, my glass is raised to you, the writers of the Priya Guide.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
It's Just a House Burning, But It's Not Haunted.
it was your heart hurting, but not for too long, kid.
It seems to be a pretty common theme in my life that people can't resist asking me about myself. I know, I know. I'm intriguing. I'm inscrutable. I'm a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, deep-fried in je ne sais quoi. I get it. So it doesn't really phase me when people ask me deeply personal questions. For example, my first cab driver in Spain (there have been several weird ones after, but a girl always remembers her first) asked me if I was here to fall in love, and whether or not I was going to be having lots of premarital sex. Was I bothered? No, I just serenely smiled and said, "No entiendo". By and large, the most asked question, which people are strangley comfortable asking, has got to be: What do you believe in? It took a few years for me to formulate my answer, and even more to be ballsy enough to voice it, but I can say that I whole-heartedly agree with what I've found. I believe in people.
It's easy enough to say when you're living in your own little bubble. Everyone in my world speaks the same language as me, had the same background, and for the most part, holds the same main beliefs. Sure, there are outliers here and there, but my people in Austin are fairly homogenous where it counts. It's easy for me to put my faith in them. Not so when I'm across an ocean, meeting people of all different walks of life, with entirely different influences and thought processes. Then it becomes a little harder for me to hold my hand out to a stranger, and believe he's not going to screw me. Spain, I think, is partly a test of my stock answer. If I say that I believe in people, it has to be applicable to all people. And so far, it is.
The past few weeks have been a little frustrating for me. Finding a piso (flat) is hard enough in Austin, where you have to deal with sleazy realtors and high housing prices and the student rush to get the swankest pad on the block. In Valencia, it's nearly impossible. House hunting here is equivalent to, and in my opinion, harder than, dating. You see see pictures of a potential match, get a general feel for the area, and start thinking about spending some time with this one. You get dressed up, go to meet it, and things seem fine. More than fine; this could be the one! You get butterflies, and walk home, planning all the perfect things you'll do together. Oh, here's a cute coffee shop we could frequent! There's a Mercadona (grocery store) that's perfect for us. And then you get home, and you wait for the call. And you wait. And you wait. And as you wait, you make excuses. Oh, I bet they just have a busy day. Maybe they have a meeting in the morning. I'm being ridiculous, they'll call tomorrow. And the whole time, your friends look on sadly, thinking, "Oh, honey, he's just not that into you!" Yeah. Hardsh. After days and days of trusting that someone, something would work out, I was ready to give up. And that's when I saw it. My perfect piso. I emailed the realtor, booked a viewing, and jumped on it. I think I might have scared my landlord just a little bit by how insistent I was. But, in the end, I got it. And renewed my faith in myself. I can kick ass and get what I want. I believe.
After the housing debacle, there was still the lack of internet to deal with. Apparently, Spanish internet companies don't really care about their customers, and have no qualms about leaving you without internet for a few weeks. Hey, this is Spain. We do things on Spanish time (which, by the way, is much much later than IST)! So for my first month here, I had no way to contact the outside world. Luckily, my roommate Cedric, who is very quickly becoming my hero, was able to steal internet from some outside network, and was so very kind enough to let me use his computer. There were times, I'm sure, that he just wanted to kick my lazy American butt off his nice little Mac and get on his facebook, but dear boy that he is, he never said a word. He just shrugged and said, " I know how I would feel if I were cut off from my life." Thanks, Ced. And then, after three weeks of frustration and internet impotence, I came home from school to find a gran sorpresa! Internet! In my house! Huzzah! Once again, the world comes through for P.
There have been a million little incidents in the past few weeks that shout, "People are good! Don't give up!" I think it's a matter of recognizing that, yes, you are in a different country. Yes, things are going to be different. Maybe it takes longer for people to come around, or they do so in a different way, but in the end, people are people. No matter where you go, we're all variations on the same theme. It's not hard to recognize what's right and what's wrong, and to know when to lend a helping hand. Spain is proving to me that my answer isn't unfounded, that there is a little good everywhere. I know that sounds really optimistic and childish of me, but I choose to believe.
It seems to be a pretty common theme in my life that people can't resist asking me about myself. I know, I know. I'm intriguing. I'm inscrutable. I'm a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, deep-fried in je ne sais quoi. I get it. So it doesn't really phase me when people ask me deeply personal questions. For example, my first cab driver in Spain (there have been several weird ones after, but a girl always remembers her first) asked me if I was here to fall in love, and whether or not I was going to be having lots of premarital sex. Was I bothered? No, I just serenely smiled and said, "No entiendo". By and large, the most asked question, which people are strangley comfortable asking, has got to be: What do you believe in? It took a few years for me to formulate my answer, and even more to be ballsy enough to voice it, but I can say that I whole-heartedly agree with what I've found. I believe in people.
It's easy enough to say when you're living in your own little bubble. Everyone in my world speaks the same language as me, had the same background, and for the most part, holds the same main beliefs. Sure, there are outliers here and there, but my people in Austin are fairly homogenous where it counts. It's easy for me to put my faith in them. Not so when I'm across an ocean, meeting people of all different walks of life, with entirely different influences and thought processes. Then it becomes a little harder for me to hold my hand out to a stranger, and believe he's not going to screw me. Spain, I think, is partly a test of my stock answer. If I say that I believe in people, it has to be applicable to all people. And so far, it is.
The past few weeks have been a little frustrating for me. Finding a piso (flat) is hard enough in Austin, where you have to deal with sleazy realtors and high housing prices and the student rush to get the swankest pad on the block. In Valencia, it's nearly impossible. House hunting here is equivalent to, and in my opinion, harder than, dating. You see see pictures of a potential match, get a general feel for the area, and start thinking about spending some time with this one. You get dressed up, go to meet it, and things seem fine. More than fine; this could be the one! You get butterflies, and walk home, planning all the perfect things you'll do together. Oh, here's a cute coffee shop we could frequent! There's a Mercadona (grocery store) that's perfect for us. And then you get home, and you wait for the call. And you wait. And you wait. And as you wait, you make excuses. Oh, I bet they just have a busy day. Maybe they have a meeting in the morning. I'm being ridiculous, they'll call tomorrow. And the whole time, your friends look on sadly, thinking, "Oh, honey, he's just not that into you!" Yeah. Hardsh. After days and days of trusting that someone, something would work out, I was ready to give up. And that's when I saw it. My perfect piso. I emailed the realtor, booked a viewing, and jumped on it. I think I might have scared my landlord just a little bit by how insistent I was. But, in the end, I got it. And renewed my faith in myself. I can kick ass and get what I want. I believe.
After the housing debacle, there was still the lack of internet to deal with. Apparently, Spanish internet companies don't really care about their customers, and have no qualms about leaving you without internet for a few weeks. Hey, this is Spain. We do things on Spanish time (which, by the way, is much much later than IST)! So for my first month here, I had no way to contact the outside world. Luckily, my roommate Cedric, who is very quickly becoming my hero, was able to steal internet from some outside network, and was so very kind enough to let me use his computer. There were times, I'm sure, that he just wanted to kick my lazy American butt off his nice little Mac and get on his facebook, but dear boy that he is, he never said a word. He just shrugged and said, " I know how I would feel if I were cut off from my life." Thanks, Ced. And then, after three weeks of frustration and internet impotence, I came home from school to find a gran sorpresa! Internet! In my house! Huzzah! Once again, the world comes through for P.
There have been a million little incidents in the past few weeks that shout, "People are good! Don't give up!" I think it's a matter of recognizing that, yes, you are in a different country. Yes, things are going to be different. Maybe it takes longer for people to come around, or they do so in a different way, but in the end, people are people. No matter where you go, we're all variations on the same theme. It's not hard to recognize what's right and what's wrong, and to know when to lend a helping hand. Spain is proving to me that my answer isn't unfounded, that there is a little good everywhere. I know that sounds really optimistic and childish of me, but I choose to believe.
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