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.”

Image

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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2 Responses to “Serendipity”

  1. Denise Yagel September 23, 2013 at 9:26 am #

    Just remember, sweetie … we never know what face God’s angel will wear … and, as always, lovely! And give Blanca a hug from me — she sounds like my kind of woman!
    Mrs. Yagel

Trackbacks/Pingbacks

  1. The Christmas Story | letters of mist - December 24, 2013

    […] In one of my previous posts, I wrote, “God had never spoken to me before (except he maybe hit me in the head with a fifteen-pound cr… […]

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