New Year's Eve

Face to window

back to the darkened room

he holds a cigarette between 

two fingers

sits a stemless wine glass on the sill.

He inhales nicotine

exhales the taste of me in a sour cloud 

of smoke.

Beside his foot, moonlight nudges 

the sequins on my dress and I can see 

his face, his mouth in a half smile.

From beneath the sheets

I watch his shoulders sway 

in the shadows

I bite my bottom lip to fight residual 

tremors.

I inhale his scent from the chilled

 pillowcase and hold my breath, 

keeping him inside. 

Fruit

You placed a penny in my palm

I tried to plant it in my chest

The fruit it bore

was sickly sweet

with thorns the size of cupids’ arrows

When I brought you

a basket full,

with my bloody finger tips,

nonsense words began

to fall from your lips.

My name came out in stutters

amidst some jokes about a green thumb,

a misplaced apology,

a smile reminiscent of the ones

you used to give me

(I picked that up and put it in my pocket),

an offering of flour

so I could bake a pie,

a cough,

a glance over my shoulder

a glance at your wrist where you’ve never worn a watch,

a less familiar smile I’ve only seen you give to strangers,

an unsolicited laugh,

some excuse about a work meeting,

a hug with too much space inside, a see-ya-soon you didn’t mean, a soon that never came, a soon that never came, a soon that never came a soon that never came a soon that never came a soon that never
cameasoonthatnevercameasoonthatnevercameasoonthatnevercameasoonthatnevercameasoonthatnever cameasoonthatnevercameasoonthatnevercameasoonthatnevercameasoonthatnevercameasoonthatnevercameasoonthatnevercameasoonthatnevercameasoonthatnevercameasoonthatnevercameasoonthatnevercameasoonthatnevercameasoonthatnevercameasoonthatnevercameasoonthatnevercameasoonthatnevercameasoonthatnevercameasoonthatnevercameasoonthatnevercameasoonthatnevercameasoonthatnevercameasoonthatnevercameasoonthatnevercameasoonthatnevercameasoonthatnevercameasoonthatnevercameasoonthatnevercameasoonthatnevercameasoonthatnevercameasoonthatnevercameasoonthatnevercame...

Playing with Giants

In his giant fingers, she was like a child playing helicopter. Between his pointer and thumb he spun her, a wilting magnolia flower plucked from its tree. Her petals reached out sideways grasping for something to grip onto - another body to help her balance, anything to keep her from being propelled into the air without destination for this giant was unpredictable. He would either crush her between his calloused finger pads or let her fall to the ground. 

Some Final Words on Sweden.

Sweden really does morning buns well. Adam is sleeping in, getting his beauty rest, and I’ve gone out on my own for the second morning in a row. I’ve stopped at Wayne’s Coffee – a coffee shop franchise with a setup, frequency and brand font strangely similar to Starbucks – to pick up a chilled Chai and a vanilla bun topped with sliced almonds. They’re so incredibly satisfying – better than a muffin; bready and moist. It’s as if they’ve taken a dinner roll and baked it in a muffin tin with some buttery spread inside of the doughy folds. I could eat them everyday and intend to do so until I leave Stockholm on Tuesday.

It’s nice to travel this way – not as a tourist, but as if I’m just sort of hanging out in a nearby town. Adam’s brother was kind enough to let me stay at his apartment just outside of the center of the city and Adam and I have been spending a lot of time with friends. So I’ve bypassed most of the touristy stuff and we just sort of “chill” (Adam’s favorite word). It feels like taking a weekend in Buffalo or spending the day in Suffolk Country. Despite the language difference (which is barely noticeable since almost everyone speaks English) I’m comfortable here in Stockholm. The signs and menus are all in Swedish though and Adam often leaves me at counters alone to fend for myself. I’ve gotten used to ordering what sounds the most familiar to avoid any of the few things I’m allergic to or just don’t really like. I spent enough time in Spain trying to hide mussels and tomatoes under napkins. Here, I want to be relaxed while I eat so it’s been a lot of Greek food and tons of kebabs.

No one seems to know what the traditional Swedish foods are, anyway. Adam cooked pyttipanna my first night here but he apparently botched it so I have no idea what it’s actually supposed to taste like. I’m easy, though, when it comes to food because the less I eat, the less I poop and that’s ideal because my bowl fright has gotten pretty sever this past month. I cannot for the life of my get used to the European septic system. Spain’s flushing power is un-functionally weak. I will spare you details but let’s just say that things do not go down the same there as they do at home. Sweden seems to have things a little more under control but I’ve been scared so much by Raquel’s inferior toilet that I’m afraid to take any risks.

Moving on to a less intimate matter, though - Adam really surrounds himself with good people. I got to meet a ton of his friends and some of his family. And I finally got to see both Alex and Per again – his two childhood friends who came to Thanksgiving dinner at my house a few years ago. I had forgotten how much I liked them both. Like a lot. In that way of mine where I feel like I’m not cool enough to converse so I spend most of the time creepily smiling into their faces and feeling like a small child.

Everyone here talks about how cold Swedish people are but I haven’t experienced that in the least. Everyone has been so friendly and welcoming. – from Alex’s family to Per’s bandmates to some strangers that I met at a party in the woods.

All in all Stockholm gets only praise from me and I’m quite sad to say good-bye. But alas, I have a home of my own and it awaits me less than patiently.

So “hej då”, Sweden and adios Europa. Until we meet again, you have all of my longing and most of my heart. Thanks for everything, you’ve been a real pal.

Xxxxxo,

 Amanda.

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.