Time

My first full week. Time runs slow for the American teachers here.  The hot, dry summer days all run together, distinguishable only by the walk to Starbucks one day, an excursion to Alcampo the next. It is the waiting that gives these days such an eternal feel.  The meals divide the day into chunks of time: time to teach, time to soak in the sun, time to nap, and time to walk.  Always we are waiting for the next event to pass that will give our time a sense of progression. We are taught in our American ways that waiting is something to be avoided.  We are going, going, going; patience is not a virtue.  But in this place I am learning that waiting is a glorious thing.  There is a call to be still, to return to the things I once knew and loved.  There is time to read, time to savor not one, but two cups of Earl Grey, time to linger over a meal and enjoy the amusement of language barriers and of the impossible (for me) rolling of r's. And there is time, too, to be adventurous, and let the rush and the beauty of the city to draw me in.  Saturday afternoon Christin and I travel into the heart of the city to view a new Picasso exhibit at the Reina Sofia.  I am more fascinated by the museum's old-world architecture than the intricacies and meaningless mumbo-jumbo of most of the art.  There are a few pieces that move me- Picasso's La ejecucion del Emperador Maximiliano, and a stunning bronze sculpture of an old man and his wife at a workbench.  I am fascinated by the latter, taking a step forward to peer into the couple's ageless eyes.  Suddenly I have made two new friends. And afterwards, there is of course time for gelatto, my new passion.  Savoring each bite as we ramble the golden streets of Madrid, I wonder, Is there any greater pleasure in life? Christin and I make a game of spotting the American tourists.  Camera-ready, donned in shorts and flip-flops (which Madrillenos would never be caught dead in), and wearing a weather-beaten expression, they are hard to miss.  They rush from landmark to landmark, missing the very essence of the city.  You have to take the time to just explore here.  My favorite places in the city have been the narrow, cobble-stoned streets with the hole-in-the-wall bars and local shops. Most travelers seem to miss these quaint and stunningly beautiful pieces of history in their haste to get from point A to point B. Later in the day we meet Jamie and Leigh Ann and walk to Botin, the oldest established restaurant in the world.  It was a favorite hangout of Ernest Hemingway, and I am thrilled to stand where he once was.  The near-immortality of this place sends chills down my spine.  It is nestled, out of the way and unassuming, on one of those narrow streets that gives the city such character.  Inside it is small, dark but lit, crowded and cozy,  We are led down a steep case of stairs into what could be called the basement. The walls are old stone and brick, with a low wood-beamed ceiling.  The four of us order a pitcher of sangria and a basket of bread (with butter for an extra 2 Euros) and we dine within two feet of our neighbors on either side.  Christin orders the filet mignon, Jamie the calamari, LeighAnn the roasted lamb (which is, along with the suckling pig, a Botin specialty) and I, the veal with potatoes.  The food is good, hearty and rich in the Castillian style.  We are sitting next to a group of noisy Americans, but aside from that the experience is altogether wonderful. The girls plan to catch a late night movie, but I, to be home by curfew, must take the metro to the bus stop, which will then carry me home.  I navigate the Metro well and find my way to the bus and settle into my seat for the 20 minute ride to my neighborhood.  The bus comes to my road and continues without slowing.  I am slightly alarmed but wonder if the driver has simply reversed the route tonight.  10 minutes later and in a neighborhood I have never seen before, I venture forward to ask the attendant in broken Spanish if we have passed Avenida de la Vega.  "Si, si," she says, and seeing my panicked look, begins to explain in a torrent of Spanish what I should do.  I pick out the word "debajo" which means down, and as she ushers me out the door at the next stop, I gather I am to supposed to walk down the street.  And so I do, with panic rising at the fact that I am in a strange neighborhood after dark where I don't speak the language.  I round a corner and there, in the glorious light of a lamp post, are three "libre" taxis.  For three times the cost of a 30  minute bus ride, I pay to have the driver take me home.  I walk in the door and smile.  I have now been initiated into the world of living abroad.

Lost

Thurs. June 22, 10:00 pm I was right- this too, shall pass. It will, of course, come again, but the terror (although, it is not really terror, but I´m not sure there´s a word for it) of being completely surrounded by all things foreign has receded.  It was a completely new experience, and quite a shock to the senses.  I´ve been away from home, I´ve been to new places; I´ve been alone and on my own before.  But this- there´s no word to describe this feeling and you can´t begin to understand it until you´ve experienced it.  Everything- everything familiar is ripped from  you in the course of 24 hours and you have nothing- not friends, not family, not even a recognizable food label- to anchor you.  It is almost out of body.  You panic and wonder if home, if mom and dad and Fruit Loops really exist.  Are they still there or are they just a memory?  You  have to get a grip and remember, "This is still me inside this body.  All of these memories, and the people and places who have made me who I am, they are still there."  Once you realize this,  you can sort of bypass complete despair and begin to enjoy the adventure.