Archive | September, 2013

Serendipity

22 Sep

A story about getting luckier than I deserved.

The Ciudad de las Artes y las Ciencias (City of Arts and Sciences) at night

The Ciudad de las Artes y las Ciencias (City of Arts and Sciences) at night

 

Last week, I began rereading Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert, trying to rekindle that love of travel that I thought she and I shared.  When I first read the book years ago, I envisioned her strolling through the streets of Rome with hazelnut gelato in one hand and a glass of wine in the other, the Mediterranean sun glinting in hair that was as golden as mine.  That, I thought, was what my experience was going to be like.  Gilbert makes it sound so easy.  Don’t speak the language?  No problem!  No friends in this country?  Don’t sweat it!  Eat some pizza, visit some fountains, and everything will turn out fine.  Right?

The truth, I’ve discovered, is that it’s anything but.  But I kept going back to the passage she wrote in which she collapsed, sobbing, on the floor of her bathroom.  God, she says, spoke to her then.  He said, Go back to bed, Liz.  I always found that part the hardest to swallow.  Why would god take the time to talk to someone who’s never bothered to speak with him before?  Why that moment?

And yet, as I lay in my lumpy bed last week, listened to the traffic roaring by on the Gran Vía, and cried (as usual), I couldn’t stop thinking of it.  God had never spoken to me before (except he maybe hit me in the head with a fifteen-pound cross on Christmas Eve last year, but that’s a story for another time), so he probably had better things to do than talk to me, anyway.  But I couldn’t help whispering through my tears, “I can’t do this alone.  I thought I could, but I can’t.  Please help me.”

For days, I didn’t think he was going to answer me.  Sunday morning, I ran out of tears and just sat in my bed, thinking about what to do.  My host mother had been gone for most of the weekend, leaving me alone.  I hadn’t slept in three days and hadn’t eaten anything substantial in two.  I had left messages in Spanglish on the phones of my Spanish psychologist and the program director, telling them I had run out of options.  I was going home.

However, I was incredibly lucky to have been blessed with good friends as soon as I got here.  Stephanie and Sally, two other UVA students living nearby, answered a desperate Facebook message I sent.  They dropped what they were doing, showed up in my host mother’s apartment, and made me a cup of tea.  Then they carved up a melon and fed it to me.  “Look,” said Sally, “why don’t you come over and have dinner at my place tonight?  I hope you don’t mind, but I told my host mom about you.  She wants to meet you.  Maybe talk things over with you, if you’d like that.”

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Sally and I pose in front of a Spanish McDonald’s (classy, right?)

Blanca, her host mother, lived in an old building with laundry flapping from clotheslines in the inner courtyard and a smooth, beveled staircase that rose nine floors into the Valencian skyline.  When we arrived at her apartment door, she had just gotten back from the beach with her son and daughter.  Her skin was still warm from the sand of the Malvarrosa.  Half Swedish, half Spanish, she had blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, and pale skin spotted brown from forty years in the Spanish sun.  “Come here, Elizabeth,” she said, smiling.  I (surprise!) burst into tears.  She enfolded me in her arms and let me sob into the shoulder of her housedress.  Then she handed me a set of keys.  “I want you to know,” she told me, “that you are a friend, and you can always stay here.  Always.”  She sat me down on the couch, made me a cup of chamomile tea, and massaged my hands.  “I am going to feed you dinner, you are going to take a long, hot shower, and then you are going to sleep in my extra bedroom.  But first my children are going to take you to a movie.”

Blanquita and Manu, Blanca’s thirty-something children, kissed me on both cheeks, gave me a glass of orchata (a sweet, creamy Spanish drink made of almonds and sugar), and whisked Sally and me off to the movies.  They chose Asalto al poder (White House Down in English), a very silly movie in which Channing Tatum shoots a lot of people, blows things up, and drives cars through windows.  Manu paid for our tickets.  When I protested, Blanquita winked and said, “When a Spanish man offers to pay for your ticket, you don’t say no.  It doesn’t happen often.”

For the first time, I felt like Valencia was somewhere I could be content.

Dinner, instead of the tongue-burning, salty vegetable mix I had grown accustomed to, was a variety of foods I recognized and wanted to eat.  (Tomatoes with goat cheese!  Ripe peaches!  Whole-wheat bread with olive oil!  Flan!)  “I think dinners should always have music in them somehow,” Blanca told me as we served ourselves.  She slipped a CD into her CD player, and the strains of the Appalachian-tinged song “Ashokan Farewell” filled the room.  “Now, Sally tells me you can sing.  Yes?  Would you like to join a choir?”

I blinked.  “Um.  Yes, please.”

“We can do that!  And do you play any instruments?  Piano?  Guitar?”

“I play the flute,” I told her.  “But I didn’t bring it with me.”

“Ah!  Well, then we’re going to rent you a flute to make you happy.  You are a sensitive girl, yes?  An artist.  And artists need their art.”

I could only stare at all of them as they ate: the way Manu gesticulated with his fork when he talked about the English classes he was taking, Blanca and Blanquita’s bright blue eyes, the crinkling of Sally’s brows when she laughed (which was often).  After dinner, as Blanquita and Manu washed dishes, Blanca made me more tea.  “Tell me,” she said, “do you believe in god?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted, after a pause.

“But you recently asked god for help?”

I was floored.  “Yes.”

“God sent me to you,” she said matter-of-factly, stirring more sugar into my tea.  “I am an angel, but I am not special, because there have been and will be many angels in your life.  We are all lucky in that way.  Just remember, Elizabeth, that I will always be here in my house for you.  So will Sally.”

Yesterday, after a twenty-four-hour waiting period so that Sally, Blanca, and I could be sure of what we wanted, I moved into Blanca’s apartment.  “I feel like Harry Potter going to Hogwarts,” I told the program director as she helped me haul my luggage (bulging from the haphazard way I had re-packed it) into a taxi.

“It’s wonderful to have you here for good,” Blanca said when I got there.  She kissed the top of my head.

Every time I think I’ve had it in Valencia, life tosses something else – namely, someone else – my way.  I have had the honor of meeting an incredible group of people here, and I hope my luck doesn’t run out during this semester.  And I still can’t tell you whether I believe in god, but after having my own Elizabeth Gilbert moment, I can say that the bonds which connect us are much more curious and delightful than we are led to believe.

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Hiraeth: Homesickness When It’s Least Expected

10 Sep

I know I haven’t posted anything here for quite awhile, but since I’m abroad this semester, I may sporadically or regularly update this blog with thoughts from my travels.  If you read my blog before, welcome back!  If you didn’t, I hope you enjoy it now.

A fountain in the Ciutat Vella, the oldest section of Valencia.

Anyone who knows me knows that I love to travel.  Given half the opportunity, I will jump on a plane, train, or bus to anywhere.  My wanderlust began five years ago.  After visiting Ireland, Italy, and Spain for tantalizingly brief periods of time during high school, I had all kinds of pipe dreams: attending Trinity College in Dublin, working as a writer and waitress in Siena, and visiting museum after museum in Barcelona’s Barrio Gótico.  When I ended up in the same state as my hometown for college, I let go of those plans for the next item on my travel bucket list: studying abroad.  Most people seemed surprised when I told them how badly I wanted to go gallivanting off to Europe.  “Why would you want to leave UVA?” they asked, bewildered.  But for me, the question was never why.  It was where, and how soon.

As soon as I discovered UVA had an established and respected program in Valencia, I set my heart on going my second year.  I scrutinized the online schedules (Hispanic Linguistics!  Islamic-Iberian Culture!  The Art of Picasso!), delighted that all the classes would be taught in Spanish only.  I perused photo galleries of students smiling at the Valencian beach, in front of the futuristic Ciudad de Artes y las Ciencias, and on a weekend trip in Paris.  How, I asked myself, could this be any more perfect?  I didn’t so much as ask my parents to go as tell them that I was going.  (Fortunately, I am blessed with parents who are used to dealing with a high-strung, whimsical, and stubborn daughter).  Money was deposited.  Plane tickets were bought.  Suitcases were packed.  On September 3rd, 2013, I left the Richmond airport for a JFK flight to Madrid, where I would take a commuter plane to Valencia.  I knew no one, would be staying with a host mom I had only seen a picture of once, and spoke the local language like a demented seven-year-old (if Spanish even counted as the local language; I spoke nary a word of Valenciano, the local dialect).

And (much as nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition), I did not expect homesickness.

The Welsh word hiraeth, a languorous, chew-on-it-for-a-moment kind of word, has no direct translation in English.  It means a combination of longing, yearning, nostalgia, and wistfulness.  This is what I did and am feeling.  It was probably compounded by getting sick my first day in Spain.  I started feeling lightheaded and nauseous on the plane ride.  On my first morning in Valencia, when I was supposed to attend orientation, I couldn’t get out of bed without collapsing.  I missed most of orientation, the proficiency test the next day, and the all-day trip to a nearby beach the day after.  My mood was one of the bleakest I’ve ever felt.  All I wanted to do was buy a plane ticket back to Virginia (and that’s not an exaggeration; if you were to look at my browser history, you would find all kinds of searches for air fare).  I kept crying unexpectedly and for no reason.  Walking down the stately Gran Vía del Marqués de Túria near my apartment, with its tall palm trees and old ladies walking Pomeranians and young couples pushing strollers, I cried into my sleeve and tried not to vomit.  Later that day, I went into a supermarket to look for nail scissors and couldn’t find them.

“Please, where are the finger cutters?” I asked a clerk in broken Spanish.

Mercifully, she understood.  “Over there,” she said, pointing.

“Thank you,” I said, and burst into tears.

Yesterday I was walking back from the UVA center in Valencia with my new friend, Stephanie.  I was telling her how terrible I felt, tears welling up in my eyes once more.  She stopped in the middle of the street.  “Elizabeth,” she asked, “why are you here?”

I answered without thinking.  “Because I want to endure surprises.  Because I want to improve my Spanish.  Because I want to be independent.”  And I knew it was the truth.  Despite my desire for travel and my head-in-the-clouds nature, I am a schedule kind of girl.  I like knowing where I am going and how long I will be there.  If it were possible to map out my entire life, I would probably do that.  But arriving in another country means that there is no order.  Being in Spain feels like drowning: no way to breathe, no way to hold myself up.

Some of my new friends and I enjoying the good weather in Valencia

Some of my new friends and me enjoying the good weather in Valencia

However, I know that somehow, order is going to coalesce out of this chaos.  I am going to learn to live with the dreaded not knowing sometimes.  Already, things are beginning to settle down.  I stood by the window of my bedroom, staring out at the square in front of my host mother’s apartment, sobbing once more.  Suddenly, I realized that I was smiling.  I was crying from happiness.  I’ve begun my classes, with their familiar uncomfortable desks and students unwilling to talk on the first day.  Last night I watched a historical bodice-ripper called Isabel (about Queen Isabella) with my host mother, the kind with verbal smackdowns in rapid-fire Spanish and the weird sort of sex with all the covers pulled up and all the clothes on.  It was awkward in the familiar way that watching Game of Thrones with my American mother is awkward.  Today, I rode the bus to school by myself and got off at the right stop.

I think it is safe to say that this is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.  At home, I have a family, friends, a boyfriend, and a school that I love.  I won’t see them for a while.  But here, I can spend my evenings eating helado until 3:00 in the morning.  I can go gallivanting off to France for the weekend.  I can see the Roman ruins of old Valencia.

I may still fail at this.  It’s possible.  But I want so much to succeed, even if it hurts this badly.  All I can say is: wish me luck.  It’s going to be a wild ride in so many more ways than I expected.

This song’s been comforting me a good deal.  Thank god for progressive bluegrass and Nickel Creek.  Some of the lyrics: 

Your first dawn blinded you, left you cursing the day.
Entrance is crucial and it’s not without pain.
There’s no path to follow, once you’re here.
You’ll climb up the slide and then you’ll slide down the stairs.

It’s foreign on this side,
But it feels like I’m home again.
There’s no place to hide
But I don’t think I’m scared.