Reunion en Estocolmo

I’m all packed, and as compact as I ever have been because of RyanAir’s specific restrictions - one bag to check and one carry-on. No purse, no satchel. This time tomorrow I’ll be on my way to Sweden to visit Adam. We’ve talked about it in the past, when we were both still at Albany and I was questioning my masochistic manner of always befriending the international students.

 “I’ll come visit you one day in Stockholm!” It wasn’t a lie, I just didn’t think I would actually ever make it there.

But now here goes! Another stamp in the passport, another European airline experience. Another overnight stay in a dark Heathrow terminal. My dad calls me a dirty backpacker but I prefer dusty duffler. Or musty equipajedora. It’s funny how one day I was completely content sprawled out on my bedroom floor reading books, writing poems with no desire to go anywhere and now I can’t go even a few months without packing a bag and hitting the road. Water, food, and travel. That’s all I need.

And maybe some strange and colorful fashions. A wise [wo]man once told me: “You can buy happiness. In Spain, at Desigual. I’ve said good-bye to some of my more subtle attire to make room for the goodies I splurged on at my favorite store. The selection in the Massionave location in Alicante is impressive. It puts Herald Square’s Desigual to shame. In these threads I am bold, badass, bodacious and busty. You know, happy.

But really, I’m happy for so many reasons. This month has been pretty fantastic. Alicante is a ciudad like I’ve never seen. It is warm, and colorful. Charming and exciting. Antique and modern. It is all of the things that I loved about Salamanca but more. Who would’ve known - more than Salamanca!

It’s small enough to allow one to quickly become acquainted but large enough to stumble across something new everyday – an aquarium in the middle of a plaza, an adorable bakery with a Spanish Lee Pace as its Pie-Maker.

Alicante's party ethic puts this New Yorker / Albany-an to shame. Fireworks midday at a central tram station and then at midnight shot off of the Castillo; parades every day of the San Juan fiesta. Kegs and Eggs has got nothing on Hogueras. Giant statues are scattered around the city – some taller than the strange viny trees; all made of wood and Styrofoam. The details are impeccable; the colors are as vibrant as the people. One can immediately see the work that goes into the specifics - the long hours spent planning, sculpting and painting. Then it all burns to the ground.

Fireworks go off at each location and flames attack the sculptures. Bomberos stand by with their hoses. They spray the flames, they spray the people. The people scream! They curse the firemen. The fires heat the people’s faces and send them into a rage. “Hijo de puta! Hijo de puta!  AGUA AGUA AGUA!!!”

High-powered hoses directed at the masses has always left a certain anger in me. Tonight, though, America’s history is far from my mind and I shout with the Alicantinos to be sprayed down.

* * *

Here, I’ve had plenty of time to unwind and reset. I am well-rested and filled with stories and poems. I have material for years. I am so content. I’m equipped with what I need for part two of Amanda-tries-to-acquire-another-degree. I’ve gathered enough pleasant memories to fuel my year of thesis writing. But let’s not rush it. There’s a-whole-nother week before I have to leave Europa.

Xoxo

A. Emme

P.S.

There’s been an awful lot of photo bombing happening here in Alicante. In that same spirit, a compañera of mine blog-bombed my entry draft and I’d be a buzzkill not to post it:

Also… I am leaving this really awesome lady behind in Alicante because I am lame and am going to Sweden.  Ashley is pretty much the best human being I have ever met and I think I am going to move to Milwaukee to be near her forever.

Poetic Inspiration

Nadie me salvará de este naufragio

si no es tu amor, la tabla que procuro,

si no es tu voz, el norte que pretendo.

Eludiendo por eso el mal presagio

de que ni en ti siquiera habré seguro,

voy entre pena y pena sonriendo.

---------------

No-one can save me from this shipwreck,

only your love, the floating plank for which I search,

only your voice, the direction for which I strive.

To avoid, therefore, the evil portent

that not even in you will I find a safe haven,

I go from pain to pain, smiling.

                  De “Tengo estos huesos hechos a las penas”

por Miguel Hernandez

I spent yesterday in Orihuela – the birthplace of Miguel Hernandez. He is the type of poet I love – awfully sad, reflective on his past, full of passions. Orihuela is a beautiful place. It reminded me of Cascais, Portugal in the way that it is the colorful and quiet home to a less-than-well-off population of people. The colors, though, for me anyway, mask the poverty in a way that highlights its rusticity. There was an apartment for a sale in a small orange building with a balcony and a small chair that seemed perfect for sitting and thinking.

Hernandez is infused in the city. He is in its soul. I sometimes feel like Albany lacks inspiration; that there is no “vibe” there. In Albany I can only write about silly boys and drinking too much but in Spain there is so much to see, so much to feel. Outside of the school where Hernandez spent two years of his childhood were enthusiastic boys with mischief in their eyes. Around the corner a street was blocked off by the policia while the townsfolk whispered and wondered what had happened. Inside of the cathedral was a serenity and a sense of reverence for God that guilted me into timidez and influenced a silent prayer.

Even now, as I write back in Alicante, I can hear Tomás singing. His voice flutters across the courtyard. It is honey, sweet and pure. Unrefined. I can’t make out all of the words but I can hear 'libertad', 'felicidad', 'Hermosa'. He tells me that he is a pacifist but that trouble always finds him. “I am just living”. 

This place is magical. Every day I have to remind myself that there is actually a reality waiting back for me across the Atlantic. That thought keeps me from floating too far off the ground. I'm thinking, though, that I should just let myself hover for a little bit. I'll be grounded soon enough. 

Ginebra y Tónica … giNEbra y tónica

I may have overdone it with the gin and tonics. On Saturday, a day trip to Valencia found me less than pleasant and a little screwy in my insides. Those who have traveled with me know my ways of “go-go-go!” I’m all adventures and field trips but I have to remember to remind myself that sleep and water are essential and alcohol replaces neither. But a good night’s rest has reset me and I am ready for week two of Alicante (Alacant if you’re nasty… or Valenciano).

The thing about Spain that I love the most is its awe. I mean, I cannot walk more than a few steps before I am stopped in my tracks by some marvel, be it man-made or natural. Yesterday I trekked out of the main city with a compañero to find a spot to swim. We were looking for a place that wasn’t too sandy and deep enough to have a decent swim. We got off the tram and walked down towards the water. We walked along the beach for a few and then come to a sort of mountainside. Out in the distance was the meandering coast and further inland, silhouettes of mountains beyond mountains.

Closer to the where I’m staying is El Castillo de Santa Barbara. From the top you can see the entire city. My favorite point of the view is where the coast grows a little widow’s peak of sand. Really, the Mediterranean coast is just an old sweaty man’s forehead. : )

I’ve also been meeting some pretty swell people. Today I was walking around the university seeking out a hoodie for my dad. It was hot as balls and when I got to the campus shopping center it was just a librería and a papelería. Another reason I obviously belong here: They have stores completely dedicated to writing utensils and such! But there were no hoodies.

So I was tired as hell from walking around the huge campus in the melting heat and decided to sit down with an horchata. I saw a lovely spot beside a handsome broken legg-ed man. Rust colored hair, green eyes, super-tanned and his itty bitty puppy, Kanka (the Turkish word for Homie!) His cast was decorated in all sorts of colors and designs, which obviously upped his charm factor way high. We got to talking and it turns out he’s a ballet dancer! Pobrecito – un bailador sin sus peirnas! He also is a congo instructor at a place near by and I was so graciously invited to attend – uh… Count me in, Thanks. ALSO he’s an aspiring songwriter who is teaching himself guitar. ::drooooool:: He wants to get together on the beach and have the “the writer” help him write a song. I’ve heard the music. It’s wonderful. If all else fails, seriously, I will have no qualms about being a traveling minstrel. 

Get Too Guapa and You'll Kill All the Boys in the Barrio

As I was getting dressed after dinner last night- a delightful Guiso made with fish, potatoes carrots and tomato sauce - my host mother, Raquel, passed by the bathroom, peeks in and says to me: "Don't get too pretty or you'll kill all the boys in el barrio".

"El barrio", as they call it here in beautiful Alicante, is the older part of the city - downtown, if you will. It's where the majority of the bars are located, where they will burn the very first sculpture during la festival de las fallas, where all the cool cats hang out... Naturally, I've spent a good about of time there and will continue to do so.

Spain, my friends, is good for me in so many ways. It allows me to practice my Spanish skills, submit myself to experiences within a new and exciting culture, and it is blowing up my ego like America just can't quite do. I step out in my shorts, con piernas sun-kissed and glistening and I am unstoppable. These light eyed caballeros have no idea the havoc I intend unleash. They don't call me peligrosa for nothing.

With this uncovered sense of awesomeness that had been dormant since my days in Salamanca, I woke up this morning and walked with Juan - another student staying in Raquel's apartment - to his colegio as a way to sort of get myself acquainted with the city. I've located a Desigual (OBVIOUSLY!), a Corté Ingles (A Spanish type of Macy's), tons of pharmacies and, to my delight, a firehouse. Why, you ask, is it so delightful for one to come across a regular ol' firehouse? Well, mis amigos, it's because early in the mornings the bomberos go out running - many bare-chested, all in lovely thigh-bearing short shorts.

Silly is the girl who sleeps in for she misses the running of the bomberos. Forget Pamplona and the running of the Bulls, I'll get my kicks in Alicante.


os mando un besito y sueños dulces de bomberos españoles.
(sending you a big ol juicy kiss and sweet dreams of spanish bomberos)
  Amanda.

Excuse me while I admire your snake skin belt.

There's a man sitting across the café in a snake skinned belt and white Keds. Where am I? He is casual and stylish. Sophisticated and bad ass beyond words. I love Spain.

Here, the parties don't end until 6am so the sleepy visitors who fail to bring earplugs don't get to sleep. That being said, I'm dead dog tired - running on pure excitement and the delicious vitamins from my fresh squeezed Valencia orange juice. I wish you could see the giant juicers they have here. You throw in 20 oranges and let the machine do its job. Pure juicy goodness complete with pulp and bits of chewy rind. I am all about it.

There's an apartment for sale across the road above the Gran Via Centro de something or other. Looks like my kind of place. I'll be looking into fellowships for the next few months. I'd very much like a funded extended stay in the city of my dreams. I'll step onto the balcony at dawn wrapped in a silk robe, a tiny steaming cup of tea in my hand. I'll look down onto the street - the parked vespas, the metro station, the stumbling drunks just finishing their fiestas. A writer's paradise. This writer, anyway. I've already got tons of story ideas. The most prominent involving a small girl I met yesterday. Adorable and blonde, she tip-toed into my room  with her hands behind her back and a sneaky little smile on her face. "Hola. Eso es tu habitacion? Tienes hijos? Como te llamas?" Then her father called for her and she ran out pretending to not have been pestering the guests as I'm sure he's warned her about countless times.

Off I go.
     Ready for adventures.
                 Amanda.

¡Estoy Aquí!

Estoy en Madrid, salva y sana. En un café, bebiendo un smoothie.

I feel like I've come back home. Last time around I only spent a few days here in Madrid, but getting around is a breeze and I don't feel like a tourist at all. It's like a day in Manhattan, except no one speaks English and, apparently, I don't speak much Spanish anymore. But I'm determined to get my skills back up. I haven't spoken a word of English since I boarded the plane and I'm going to try to keep that up as long as the circumstances allow me.

There's a viejo loco standing at the café counter directly in front of me. He's sipping wine (alone at 2:00pm) and mumbling (what I can only imagine are) obscenities. So far I've managed to decipher "puerco" and "joder". He's glaring at me and he's scary as hell, but I'm holding my ground. I'm a resident of Spain for the next 4 weeks.

He's switched his attention to the camarero now. "Por Díos," he says. He's refusing to pay €2.90  for his wine. He drops a coin (and then an f bomb), he drops another coin (and then an insult to the handsome waiter). Slowly, my Spanish is returning to me - if only the curses, I'm grateful for it. On the way to my hostel (which is a 4th floor walk up), I passed by at least 2 prostitutes so I'm prepared to get curt if I have to, once the sun sets.

I've finished my smoothie and learned all I could have from my amigo viejo so I'm off to site-see and take care of some last minute business.

Until next time.
un besito de Gran Via.
        Amanda.