Cómo vuela

There are certain perks to being an army brat. Having to list your previous addresses for the past ten years in a MacDonald’s job application is not one of them (“Where did I live in the seventh grade again?...”). However, all of that moving around does kind of transform you into some kind of champ for saying goodbye. We’re notoriously good at it. Best friends moving to separate states in middle school? No problem, make a joke about how you’ll probably move again and end up together elsewhere. Parting ways for college? Meh, at least now you get to pick where your restless souls take you. 

Maybe my parents were just really good at sugar-coating the whole thing: “Well, Clara, we’re moving to California...but the good news is that we’ll get to go to DISNEY LAND!” I think more than that, though, is that we military kids build up a certain kind of resiliency about the whole thing. From an objective point of view, the cold efficacy with which we are able to walk into a crowd of new people and point out the ones we’re going to devote time and energy to before we move on in a year is a little frightening. We’ve learned that with so little time, it’s just not worth cultivating friendships that aren’t going to last. Sometimes, we take this concept a little too far; sometimes we start thinking, “If I’m going to leave in a few months, why should I bother getting to know anyone?”

I let a wall come up as soon as I stepped off of the plane. Since day one, I’ve been resistant to getting attached to anything or anyone, knowing that this would be my shortest move yet. Put off by being surrounded by other Americans in what I thought would be a truly international program that would challenge me every single day, I balked at the idea of being friendly. I’ll be the first to admit that I built that wall up a little too high. I didn’t just stop with deciding who I wanted to be friends with and who I would ignore--I made damn sure those other people wouldn’t try to break through my barrier and try to be friends anyway. And that, honestly, is one of my biggest regrets. 

Still, though, a few have managed to squeeze through the cracks. I’ve made some friendships here that are sure to last a lifetime (thanks, facebook). And, despite my groans about my host dad’s latent racism or my host mom teasing me about my addiction to sweets, I have grown attached.

There's no crying in baseball or Spain, duh.

 I was just sitting in the kitchen with my host mom, talking about some of the logistics of packing and our departure, and I said without thinking, “Ya es la hora.” It’s that time already. 

She met my eyes a little wistfully and heaved a sigh I know she’s heaved twenty-two times before, with the passing of every one of her temporary children. “Cómo el tiempo pasa,” she said. How time goes by.

I looked around a little at what had become my home, at the cabinet Pedro had built himself, the walls Rosa could never keep one color, the goofy drawing on the fridge from their sassy granddaughter--and I was surprised to feel a little wave of something like sadness. I wrapped my fingers around my coffee mug and gave it a little squeeze before responding, “Cómo vuela.” How it flies.

A little horrified by the depth of my own emotion, I gulped down the rest of my coffee and bolted upstairs to distract myself with youtube videos. Right then, right there, I almost broke rule number one of the army brat’s guide to saying goodbye: I was about to cry. Every person who’s relocated ten-plus times knows that saying goodbye is like ripping off a bandaid: best conducted with a few firm back pats at the train station and nary a backward glance. The worst  thing you can do is spend the week, days, hours before you leave thinking about it. 

But it’s really not my fault for breaking my own rules, you know. It’s that damn facebook and all of those damn status updates from my study abroad peers; peers that are much more open about discussing their feelings and having a good cry or six. Don’t they know that talking about your feelings completely counteracts anything you’ve done to put hair on your chest? Sheesh, kids these days.

Anyway, I have nothing to worry about. I have tear ducts of steel. So there. 

What I was really hanging around for, I was trying to feel some kind of a good-by.  I mean I've left schools and places I didn't even know I was leaving them.  I hate that.  I don't care if it's a sad good-by or a bad good-by, but when I leave a place I like to know I'm leaving it.  If you don't, you feel even worse.  

~J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye

Free Boob

'Cause I'm free as Clara's boobs now...
And these boobs you cannot change
(Oh x 5)


A few days ago, moping about being lame for canceling my trip to northern Spain, I decided that I needed a new way to prove my independence to myself. So, after a few moments of tossing around ideas in my head, I did what any rational creature would do and decided to go sunbathing topless.

Somewhat nervously, I gathered up my things this morning and headed to the beach at San Juan, which is a short Tram ride out of town and would further minimize the chance that I would accidentally run into any of my acquaintances (you know, the ones that are busy being not-lame and are all NOT IN SPAIN at the moment; whatever, I'm paranoid, shoot me). The beach itself is, by the way, pretty amazing. Hardly anyone was out there this morning because A) the weather's been so iffy lately, and B) it was a Tuesday and most people aren't unemployed bums on spring break like me. In short, hardly more accommodating environs could have been imagined for my plans.

After briefly wading up to my ankles in the sparkling ocean water (and it really was sparkling--no other words), I set out my towel and unhurriedly, in a totally not obsessive-compulsive and evasive manner, rearranged the position of my water bottle and book about fifteen times. Then, having thus run out of things to distract me from my decision, I furtively glanced at the exposed breasts of the bronze Mediterranean goddess twenty years to my left and tried to absorb some of her confidence. Obviously, she didn't care about the whole world being able to see her nunga-nungas. Of course, because nothing was remotely strange about that. 


I peeked into my bikini top at the translucently white skin that hadn't seen daylight since about, oh, never. What would happen when flesh met air? Would I erupt in a column of flame sent from the heavens? Would the children running by clutch at their poor, virgin eyes, begging to unsee the horrid paleness that could not be unseen before collapsing in sizzling, festering heaps?

With a deep breath, I imagined someone walking up to me and asking me who the hell I thought I was, with my boobs hanging out like that--some kind of European or something? Why had I plagued the whole beach with my sinful snowy spheres (nice alliteration, amiright)? I imagined myself staring that person down, shimmying, and retorting, "Why? Because I'm a grown-ass woman and I do what I want!" (And then trying to translate that sentence into Spanish and butchering the hell out of it).

Unable to justify putting it off any longer, I unclasped my bikini top in one swift motion and...nothing happened. Not even one measly strike of lightning from the heavens above. Ah, I realized--this really isn't that big of a deal.

And then I sat on the beach for four hours and got my first-ever, truly all-around boob burn. I even took pictures!...Just kidding, that's Mr. Bean.

 Well, let me tell you, my friends--although it wasn't a big deal for anyone else on that beach today, it was a hell of a big deal for me, and I'm proud of myself. Even though I won't be able to wear a bra for a week now.

CLARAAAAA!!!

That was Spain, calling my name to take it back into my life, á la Marlon Brando in Streetcar Named Desire.
Continuing the ridiculous analogy of Spain as my romantic partner, I must share with you this picture:

...and reassure you all that we’re in the “Honeymoon Period” of our relationship once again. Apologies, promises, blaming, and gifts--glorious, glorious gifts of sunshine and well-endowed European men running around the beach in tiny little shorts. Ah, love...that fickle creature. Yes, Spain, of course I’ll take you back.

In all seriousness, I’m feeling much better. I just had a lovely day at the beach! Three hours of boob-burn-inducing sunshine and Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility has brought me back to high spirits. I’m looking forward to two more weeks of this: lazing about in the sun, working on my skin cancer, maybe even writing a page or two in my book. I think I’m the only person in my whole program staying in Alicante for the whole of spring break, and although I was initially embarrassed that I didn’t have the cajones and deep pockets to embark on a spontaneous international adventure, now I’m glad that I get to spend the whole two weeks just hanging out here, getting to know my city just that tiniest bit more before I have to leave in May. 

We’ve certainly had our ups and downs, Spain and I, but with such a glorious day as today, it’s hard to imagine that the forecast of rain for the week could possibly be true. After all, Spain told me it would really change this time. Honest!

In another news, here's a picture of the Cabo de San Antonio I forgot to put up last week. When you look at a map of Spain, it's that pointy bit on the East end north of Alicante that you see probing the Mediterranean. 

In Which I Rant Incessantly About Being the Hugest Loser Ever

It is impossible to launch into a six-month journey abroad without having expectations of some kind. There were certain reasons I picked Spain (the weather, the proximity to other European countries, the weather, the beach, the weather...) and certain things I knew I would have to overcome. For instance, I knew I would have to get over my residual Monroe-Doctrine-esque intrusively protective attitude about Latin American Spanish--the lisping would certainly take some getting used to, and the new vocabulary as well.

Alright, I thought. Difficulty and challenges. Bring it on. Nasty ham products? Easy. Speaking in a foreign language? Piece of cake. Being looked down upon for being American, yet being inexplicably incapable of breaking out of the strangling bubble of Americanness despite being in another county? Whatever.

I had one Great Expectation. Just one: that the weather was going to be nice.

It wasn’t an unreasonable expectation. Alicante is a huge tourist destination for snowbirds year-round. Google it and give me one single picture that doesn’t look like pure paradise. Go on, I dare you. 

Well, newsflash. Anything you google is in the quaint little downtown area. This is what the majority of the city actually looks like:

Whatever, it’s got a certain graffiti-and-ugly-ass-brick charm. Moving on.

The point is, I though I would escape the “cold” in Arizona and be laying on the beach every day. In reality, I was bundled up under three blankets in my bed for a month because I was too stupid to bring sweatpants, thinking, “Oh, if the buildings in Spain don’t have heating, certainly that means that they just don’t need it!”

February came and I thought, okay Spain, show me what you’ve got! Bring on the heat wave!

Then March. Still nothing but teasingly bright-but-weak sunshine. The smile stapled onto my face got harder to hold onto as I finally admitted that my one Great Expectation was shot to shit. I got bitter. If Spain were  my boyfriend, I joked, Spain and I would need to take a little break. Then I realized, no; if Spain were a man, teasing me day after day for two and a half months with promises that he would change and we would have a better future, I would throw a vase at him and then break up with his sorry ass.

The weather FINALLY got warm in early April, but it’s dipped chilly again, bringing torrential rains for Semana Santa all across the country. The huge irony in this is that when I finally have my spring break, the time I’ve been yearning for since March when all of my peers in the States had a week off from their studies and I was stuck in the classroom, it’s raining. I’m in Spain and I finally have free time during the daylight hours to go to the beach and it’s raining. 

It honestly doesn’t even matter that the weather is supposed to be nicer next week. I think there comes a time in every relationship, personal or national, in which one just gets so tired of waiting for better things that by the time better things actually come about, one just wants to say, “Fuck you, better things. Where the hell were you two months ago?”

I was supposed to take this week of my two week, wildly-and-inconveniently-placed-in-the-semester spring break to go on a hike in Northern Spain. I was going to do part of the Camino de Santiago de Compostela, the famous Way of St. James--apparently the third holiest Catholic trek in the world after marches to Jerusalem and Rome. I was even still going to go after my friend bailed. I had misty-eyed daydreams of myself, stomping solo through cow pastures, getting in touch with my own latent spirituality. How invigorating it would all be! How worthy it was of purchasing 60 EUR in nonrefundable plane tickets!

Then I got sick two days before I was supposed to leave. We’re talking like, mild fever symptoms: tickle in the throat, achy neck and shoulders, mildly elevated temperature. Nothing serious. But I started thinking about it: what if I got worse while I was on the Camino? I would be all alone, in god knows what dinky little pueblo without the benefit of the internet or someone to translate for me if I got so delirious that I couldn’t communicate in Spanish anymore. I wasn’t really that sick yet, but I started to just feel...vulnerable. Then I started thinking about what it would actually be like, hiking 116km in five days. Five days of walking is a long time to just walk by yourself. Completely alone.

Then, the kicker: I looked at the weather report and it said it was supposed to rain. Every single goddamn day. I decided to stay home.

Here’s a quote from Archie Griffin, whoever the hell that is: “In the face of adversity, you find out if you're a fighter or a quitter. It's all about getting up after you've been knocked down.”

Well, ladies and gentleman, my time here has taught me something important about myself: I’m a quitter. And I’m sorry, Archie Griffin, but I don’t feel like getting up. I don’t feel like trying to plan more trips and squeeze every last dollar I can out of this trip. I’m sick of waiting for the weather to get nice so that I can do the one goddamn thing I came here to do, which was just to lay on the beach with a sangria in my hand and not a care in the world. 

I’m sorry Spain, but I think we should just be friends.

(I’ll feel better when the sun DOES come out again, and I can go to beach and I’m feeling less hormonal. Forgive the rant.)

Fair Weather Friend

When I was in middle school, I preferred to live in book-world. I read a lot, probably more than was healthy for any thirteen year-old girl struggling to find the balance between social studies and actually participating in the social world. I mostly read fantastical stories of far-off adventures, full of dragons, dwarves, and occasionally, mildly explicit bodice-ripping sex scenes. From time to time, I would also indulge in stories that were set not in Narnia or Middle Earth, but in exciting real-life places like Maryland. One of my favorite “real-life” stories was The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants by Anne Brashares. Yes, it was trite and corny, but I fell in love with the characters--four teenage girls wildly different from one another but somehow all going through the same thing: that dreadful yet long-awaited agony of female adolescence.

My favorite girl would change from time to time, depending on which one of them I identified most with at the moment: did I sympathize more with Lena’s shy and artsy side? Tibby’s dry-witted, hair-dyed irreverence? Bridget’s bubbly, warm extravagance and pure energy? For a while, my favorite character was Carmen: tough, dramatic, and somehow pragmatic and passionate at the same time.

I was in the 10th grade when the fourth and final book came out, and even though I was fifteen and moving on to even worse paperback literary nightmares (Twilight, anyone?), I was beyond excited to find out how the Sisterhood would end. Much to my disappointment, Carmen’s part in this final installment had me sighing in disgust on every page. Brashares sent Carmen out this final summer of Sisterhood to what seemed would be a great fit for her colorful and strong personality: drama camp. Somewhere on the drive to camp, though, Carmen lost all the fight in her and she arrived mousy and self-depreciating. I was embarrassed for her. How could it have come to this? This wasn’t the Carmen we knew and loved. I just couldn’t believe that someone so proud could disintegrate into this whimpering, sad back-stage...whatever, content to be in the shadow and let people kick her around. I was finally able to stop rolling my eyes when she re-harnessed her passion at the end of the novel to finish as the lead in the play with the appropriate boytoy on her arm, but the memory of her weakness left a bad taste in my mouth, and it has ever since.

I never understood her sudden transformation. Indeed, I had forgotten all about it until a few weeks ago when I realized that what had happened to my beloved fictional BFF so many years ago was happening to me. Exactly. Confident, strong-willed heroine enters new territory and transforms not into swan, but into ugly, flea-bitten duckling. There was no good reason for it at all, not even for the sake of nauseating plot movement. And just as when I sat in my living room as a fifteen year-old, I couldn’t for the life of me understand what was going on. It doesn’t make sense. I still don’t get it, despite that tenth-grader inside me rolling her eyes in disgust. 

Being the critical thinker I am, I tried to figure out a trigger for my sudden transformation. I decided it was the weather, which has been (until about last week) a hell of a lot colder than anyone wants you to think it ever gets in Spain. I joked that Spain was my Fair Weather Friend--great when times are good, but an awful, no-good piece of shit that flakes on all of your plans when they aren’t. I couldn’t wait to leave. I put a timer on my desktop that counted down the days until my flight to London. I hid in my room with the shades drawn. I watched corny BBC scifi shows on my laptop. I put on a little more weight than I’m proud to admit, drowning my sorrows in chocolate. I had to fight the urge to thrown my jamón serrano out the window at every meal. Beautiful, exotic Spain my ass--I just wanted to go home.

Then, as some of you might be aware, I went on a four-day holiday to Ireland. (This is one of the many blessed things about living Europe. Don’t like the country you’re in? No problem, just fly to another one for a few days!)

It was exactly what I needed, what I didn’t even know I needed: a break from the city, from the teasing beach, from the Spaniards and the Americans and the bloody cured ham. The rolling green hills enchanted me. No one in Ireland knew I had become fourth-book Carmen. I could be anything I wanted, again. So when we walked into our 9-bed room at the hostel in Killarney, I was overjoyed at how easy it was to talk to the girl from New Zealand in the bunk across from us. I was back.

Ireland was amazing. Killarney was touristy and impossibly small, but it was just what we needed. We walked in the neighboring national park every day, and went out to the pubs to see real Trad sessions (traditional Irish music) and taste real beer (Guiness!). We roomed with the most amazing people, and for the first time, we were in a city interacting with English-speaking people who weren’t all American--two Australians, a Kiwi, and a Canadian. Most importantly, I got a huge slap-in-the-face reminder of how I am supposed to react in new situations. It was nice to realize that I wasn’t actually suddenly and irreversibly transformed into a fundamentally-inept social retard. I was just...Carmen, book 4. Whatever that means.

Still haven’t figured out how I’m going to make the jump to Carmen, end of book 4, with restored confidence and arm candy. But I guess I’ve decided that I can start with this list of resolutions:

1. Go to the beach at least four days a week
2. Drink more sangria
3. Embrace the belly
4. Write more
5. Find my perfect bar, away from that night club shit
6. Meet some Spaniards (I type this with hesitating, introverted fingers--we’ll see how that goes)
7. Work my way up to running up to the castle and back

I just realized that I wrote a post all about my inner angst and then I ruined it by mentioning that I can walk up to an ancient moorish castle whenever the hell I want. Oh, Spain.

By the Sea

This weekend, my friend Kate and I decided to do something different. Instead of hanging around, waiting until nightfall to engage in various acts of debauchery to the accompaniment of repetitive Lady Gaga songs, we decided to embark on that shining ideal of vacation that those with middle-aged souls such as ourselves hold so dear--the beloved day trip!

Kate's host grandma (who knows everyone and everything) was going to Benidorm to visit her late-husband's family anyway, so we decided to harness her omniscience for a day of frolicking on the city's famous beaches, located conveniently a mere one hour's Tram ride away.

Benidorm has been (by me, yesterday) affectionately referred to as the "Florida of Spain," which essentially means that no one you see in the city actually lives there. At least, that was the impression we got. Apparently, a Friday morning in early March is hardly the prime vacation time for anyone but Kate, myself, and a gaggle of retired English snowbirds with spray-tanned ankles. Paradise!

It actually was pretty fantastic, probably because when I stepped out of my house at 9am, having stubbornly left my coat at home despite the looming storm clouds, I fully expected to be miserable for the duration of the day. After all, what is there to a beach town when it's too cold and rainy to go to the beach?

As it turns out, my friends, quite a lot. Precisely because the weather was so dreadful, we had the best time of our lives. Normally-swarming beaches were deserted and we had the town practically to ourselves. It was like going to see a movie that's been out in theaters for ages and being one of three people in the entire theater--a magnificent experience.

Between the stormy weather and British tourists, I felt less like I was in Spain and more like I was strolling between Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham Carter in a ballad from Sweeney Todd ("By the Sea," to be exact). I caved at the end of the day and finally bought a sweatshirt to stop my teeth from chattering as we roamed the streets near the beach, buying delicious treats ranging from nutella crepes to a wonderful alcoholic chocolate shake called a "Triple Orgasm" which nearly lived up to its name. We returned home completely spent, in a good way.

Here's a video I took of a lovely smattering of white and blue things we stumbled upon that we would later learn was actually the Castillo of Benidorm. Video's a bit shaky and the wind is loud, but you get the idea.

Also, sandcastles? Pshh. In Benidorm, they make sand horses.

Sweet Disposition

Dear Universe,

I had a great FANTASTIC day today. Seriously, it was awesome. 

First off, let me give you some background information. Due to erroneous and/or hyperbolic representation in the media, this is what I expected of European men when I came to Spain (I literally just googled "Spanish men" and this was the second picture of 38,300,000 similar results):

You know, some like...Antonio Banderas action, with the long flowy hair and rippling obliques that make me want to say, "To hell with feminist progress, of course I'll stay at home and make you a sandwich, you sexy Spanish man, you."

So, you being the Universe and all, you're probably already aware of this, but a startlingly-hilarious population of Alicante's young men actually look like this:

 And, unfortunately for me, most of the ones I've met act like this.

Thus the not-caring anymore about how I looked and just doing what I wanted with my hair. However...just when I decided that that's the way it was going to be, Universe, you decided to switch things up a little. I saw an attractive young man on the train to school this morning who didn't look like a douche-bag! Overwhelmed with joy over the fact that he didn't have crystal earrings, a spray tan, or frosted tips, I did something I haven't done since coming here and learning that doing this to strangers is generally frowned upon: I smiled at him.

Later, as I got off the shuttle that takes us from the train station to the university, I hefted my backpack and felt a friendly tapping on my shoulder. I turned around and the non-douche mystery man was there, pressing a piece of paper into my hand. Quickly, and with just a hint of accented English, he said, "This is for you," and walked away. Somewhat stunned, I cautiously opened it, expecting to see his phone number and something about getting coffee sometime. Instead, this is what I saw:

I just couldn't wipe the smile off my face the whole day! Mostly because A) he knew who Jean Seberg is, and B) she was one of the inspirations for my new 'do. Even if I don't really care what people about how I look, it's nice to have someone compliment you in such a specifically-desired way. Seriously awesome.

But wait! There's more!

I also had two tests today that I'm pretty sure I aced. And my headache from trying to quit coffee was less bad today. And my less class let out early. AND I got a Nutella sandwich in my lunch bag. 

All I can say is, fuck yeah, Universe! You rock!

Love,

One of your appreciative inhabitants

P.S.: Listen to this song to get in my happy mood (and try not to think about how much all of that shit that they're breaking costs). http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=su7ik94u9Yw

Land of the Free, Home of the Brave

“Do you like Obama?”

After an hour of wading through complex manifestations of grammar rules and stating more than a few times that yes, I’m “from” Arizona (but it’s a dry heat), someone in my English classes will inevitably ask me this question. Whether it’s the older woman with the bad teeth trying to keep up with the changing times or the grease ball with the pierced ear trying to impress me into his cama, the whole class turns and stares at me with bated breath. Usually, I avoid this question by asking them, “Well, how do you feel about Zapatero?” which earns me a few laughs (to give you a clue as to the Spanish president’s general popularity, every time he comes on the news my Spanish dad draws a finger across this throat and tells the TV screen to “go away”).

I’m supposed to say, “Yeah, I love him! Way better than that Bush idiot!” But that’s not entirely the truth, and if I don’t love him then I must hate him, which makes me one of those gun-shooting, hotdog-eating lunatics they can’t bear to share the world with--someone I’m supposed to hasten to apologize for. I know what they want me to say. Me, the lone American girl standing in an English language classroom that has room for a Welsh dragon but not an American flag--I’m supposed to apologize for being American. Like it’s some sort of handicap or something.

This past month, eager to make friends and eager to be accepted in the European community, whenever the question of my essential American-ness came up, I’d just turn the appropriate shade of red shuffle my feet saying, “Yeah seriously, Americans can be so ignorant, and fat, and...” mumbling off, letting the other people in the conversation take over with the depreciating comments--insult after insult rolling off of me because well hell, Americans really are ignorant and fat, and who cares as long as these three Spaniards knew I was the exception?

Then I realized something. Listening to my peers make the same excuses started to really bother me. I felt like that recently-cool kid sitting at the jock table listening to his new friends bash all of his old ones, throwing in a lame “Hey, come on you guys, he’s not really that bad,” every once in a while. 

The Obama thing, for example. I was walking through town with two American girls and we were talking about some of the differences between Spain and the US, and one of them says, “Spain is just so much better! American politics are fucked up.” To say that this sweeping generalization rankled...Well, let’s just say that after a fortnight of watching Egyptian riots and countless other examples of actually “fucked up” political situations, yeah. It rankled. Sure, maybe our bipartisan deal isn’t the best system ever, but I think it’s pretty safe to say that it’s a hell of a lot better than a lot of other places I could name.

What happened to sane patriotism? When did we become this bipolar nation of gun-waving crazies and whimpering, self-depreciating pansies? It sort of makes me sick. Yeah, I’m American--I waste a lot of natural resources in my quest for material comfort, but I also like living in a place where smiling at people in the street is a common courtesy and not a sexual advance (that was an interesting lesson). I like living in a place where blatant racism is not an acceptable social mechanism. I like living in a place where ambition is a virtue. Christ, I like living in a place where saying you’ll show up at two means two and not three forty-five. What’s wrong with a little national pride? I mean, I’m not about to start marching around the streets of Spain with an American flag tied around my neck and my nose in the air, but it would be nice not to have to feel like I’ve committed some crime by just being from the United States every time I meet a new person.

So about Obama--do I like him? The last time someone asked me, I told him that yeah, I thought he seemed like a pretty cool guy. He's charismatic and has a soothing presence on air, which is something I thought the American people needed after George Bush, and as to his policies, I couldn’t really say--I agreed with him on some issues and not on others, and anyway, the United States is governed by a careful system of checks and balances, which serve to ensure that not too much power goes to just one man, so to ask if I liked Obama...

Right about there I looked around and noticed that my students were all staring at me in various stages of miscomprehension, some of them nodding politely while their neighbors just frowned, waiting for me to say a simple “yes” or “no.” It was then that I sighed and made another joke about Zapatero. Hey, what can I say? I’m just an American, anyway.

(Here's a picture that came up when I googled "Patriotism." Enjoy it, you "fucking hippie fagot.")

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

Alright, guys. This actually has very little to do with Spain, but it’s kind of a big deal for me right now, so I’m going to write about it anyway.

I CUT MY HAIR!!! :D

Before (with my best Dissatisfied-Before Face):                       AFTER! :)

Yes, I’m sort of surprised, too. Ever since the Hair Dye Fiasco of 2010, I’ve fantasized more or less daily about hacking into my treacherous mane with a Pampered Chef butcher’s knife. I could practically feel the liberation from patriarchal society and bad dye jobs just thinking about it--and then I’d think of a million other things that would prevent me from taking the plunge. What if I hated my haircut even more than I hated my bleached ends? What if this blow to my self-confidence caused me to start off on the wrong foot in Spain and I felt like a young eighth grader struggling through the trenches of puberty and algebra again? What if people thought I was a lesbian? What if--gasp--guys didn’t like me anymore?

After coming to Spain and feeling like a young eighth grader struggling through the trenches of puberty and algebra again anyway, I realized something very important. I got in front of my mirror and, putting on my best Rhett Butler face, pointed significantly at my reflection and rumbled, “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn!” Okay, well, I didn’t actually think about channeling Clark Gable until I sat down to write this blog entry, but it seemed appropriate--in reality, it was more of a slow realization over a series of weeks filled with growing apathy towards my natural inclination to please people. 

I suddenly realized that I just didn’t care if people thought I was a lesbian, because A) whatever, that’s not even an insult, just a false statement, and B) nothing people say about me will change the way I actually am. I can’t wait to use this little gem from Remember the Titans if someone starts mumbling that it’s not important, but... : “If it doesn’t matter, what’s the big deal?”

On the same note, I realized that I really, REALLY  could care less what the male population (especially of Spain) has to think about my hair. I’m at that point where I honestly, truly could care less about being in a relationship with anyone, let alone someone who makes me feel like a Dallas Filet in a pair of high heels. If someone wants to prove me wrong and startle me out of my anti-men rampage, then dammit, he shouldn’t care what my hair looks like anyway. 

As for not knowing if I’d like the end result or not...well, I didn’t like my current curtain of brassy blonde locks either, so even if I hated it, at least it was a change. I finally decided to it the other day when I was talking for the millionth time to a classmate about “thinking about” cutting my hair but how I thought I would miss the feel of my long hair on my back, and he said, “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever even seen you with your hair down!”  Somewhat incredulously shocked, I went home an hour later and started flipping through my pictures from Spain. Get this: out of 235 pictures, I only have my hair down in three of them. THREE. All I could think was, what’s the point of having long hair if I’m just going to be throwing it in a stupid bun everyday, anyway?

With the help of my short-haired-maverick friend Kate, I grew the balls to make an appointment at my host-mom’s favorite hair salon: a one-room deal 30 feet away from our house which my host-dad describes as “only being able to fit four people at one time.”

Kate and I walked in five minutes before my appointment time, which startled the perpetually-late Spaniards who apparently hadn’t been expecting me for another hour at least because that’s how long we had to wait for the one-woman act to get done with her other customers. Despite the fact that there were now five people in the small purple room, the women all stuck around to see the end result of my hair after they heard what I was going to do to it. “Qué lástima, qué lástima,” they kept muttering--what a shame! Still, the one getting her roots touched up was on my side, insisting that “anything goes these days” and that it would look better with my face. Mediterranean-style, they all insisted on participating, throwing in their two cents whenever possible:

“What a shame!”

“No, woman; it’s going to be very stylish, look at what the kids are wearing these days!”
“You should braid it first before you cut it if you want to save it.”

“Like this?”

“No, braid it at the bottom of her head!”

“Yeah, but the top might get more strands.”

“But the bottom will be longer!”

[After the first chop] “Oh how stylish! You should just keep it that way.”

“What a shame!”

“No, woman, let her do what she wants!”

“Such healthy hair!”

“What a shame!”

Eventually, though, even the one with the cross-dressing dog (notice how the poor thing even has to wear pants) approved of my choice. Despite the language barrier (which I somehow managed to leap over gracefully several times, remarking how much I resembled a hedgehog with bristly hair) I left the shop feeling more bonded to my hairdresser than I ever had before. 

I still feel like something’s missing when I move my head around, but it really does feel liberating instead of sad--at least for the moment. If anything, I’m feeling a lot less regret than I thought I would at this point. I love it, and I think this is the final step I needed to take to finally, actually realize that I don’t really care what people think.

To conclude, here are a few things I’ve learned:

1. Do what you want and to hell with the rest.
2. Follow your instincts, things usually turn out okay. Even if your instincts tell you to dye your hair red and you spend a year trying to get back to normal, you’ll eventually realize that it’s just your life telling you to let go stop caring so damn much about physical appearances--it might even help you experiment with a new hairstyle you’d always dreamed about but never imagined pulling off!
3. I have a HUGE cowlick on the back of my head that kind of makes me look like a cross between these two gentlemen:

 and

http://26.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lekys0Tj7X1qan0hfo1_500.gif

Basically, though, I needed this life change and I love it. More on Spain in posts to come, I promise!

“...And Those Who Can’t, Teach.”

For those of you who don’t know, this week was my introduction to teaching English as a foreign language. I signed up with the director of my study abroad office to volunteer once a week each at both this elementary school on the outskirts of town and at the Alicante School of Languages, which is about a ten minute walk from my house. 

How did it go? Well. As the the Spaniards say: “¡Madre mía!” which translates in this case as “Christ, I had no idea nine year-olds were so freaking annoying.” I had no idea what to expect when I walked into the classroom, but when I stepped across the threshold I suddenly realized something that should have been very obvious: I had to actually teach  the little monsters, and all I was equipped with was a map of the United States. The kids’ usual teacher had no sympathy. Her battle-hardened eyes grazed over the panicked look in my eyes and she said, “Twelve at a time should be okay, shouldn’t it?” I nodded stupidly and took a dozen of the screaming children to the library with me. I seated them around a table and passed out the maps of the US I had and they immediately launched into a million questions, probing my defenses like I was just some substitute teacher and not an honorary native of the English language come to give them the gift of my inspiring presence. They asked everything in Spanish despite this being their slotted time to practice English:

“Do you like Spain?”

“George, shut up, she probably doesn’t even know Spanish.”

[Giggles]

“How many siblings do you have?”

“How old are you? I bet you’re at least 36.”

[Giggles]

“What is this a map of? Where’s Spain?”

“I can see Texas!”

“Sandy’s from Texas.”

“George, shut up! She doesn’t know what Spongebob is.”

[Giggles]

I seized the brief pause in questioning and cleared my throat authoritatively. “Actually, I love Spongebob! He’s square, has holes all over his body, and he’s--”

“YELLOW!” screamed one small girl in English.

I could have kissed her. “Yes, yellow! Very good. What about Patrick, what color is he?”

And so it went for the next half-hour, the map laying forgotten on the table as we spoke of American cartoons and I astounded them with crazy facts like, “Yes, children--in the United States, Spongebob is on the TV in English!”

The next group was a little more...difficult. I think that their normal teacher saw how much the first group of children learned to appreciate my extensive knowledge of Spongebob and laced the next group’s juice with speed, just to spite me--we are in Europe after all, maybe that sort of thing is accepted here. Anyway, the point is, the next group of children walked in and I could immediately tell that...well. Every class of students at every age is split into the “good, smart, gifted children” and the “accidents of birth who probably get too much sun.” I was now gifted with a half-hour session of trying to teach English to the second half of the class, and they were not so easily won-over by my Spongebob name-dropping. We pulled out flashcards of the vocabulary they were learning, and I’d ask them, “Can you...?” and they’d scream out the activity presented on the card, i.e. “SWEEM! I cahn sweem!” 

It was a good exercise for most of the class. If it weren’t for the special students, the ones who would be stuffed with meds for ADHD in the United States once they learned how to walk--if it weren’t for them, we might have gotten through the activity. This one boy, though, was determined to undermine my authority. He had a little Euro Trash rattail and a devilish look in his eye that I suspect got him everything he wanted at home and made all of his teachers miserable. Every time I’d hold out a flashcard, he would ignore the neat little drawing of the man playing tennis and scream, “I can chorizo,” causing the rest of the class to erupt in cacophonous laughter. It quickly got out of control. I tried reminding them that we were in the library and had to be quiet, but they ignored me so I took a book from the shelf behind me and slammed it down on the table, which produced a stunned silence that lasted for a blissful 3/4 of a second before returning to chaos. 

I tried to remember what my teachers had done to maintain order, all of the things I’d heard about dealing with little snots, and then I had a brilliant idea. I leaned over the table and started whispering: “Now, children, here’s what we’re going to do...”

Interested by my change in tone, they all leaned in and stopped talking so they could hear what I was saying. It worked!...at least until they decided that what I was saying wasn’t interesting and ignored me again. If you’ve got any ideas, please leave them for me in the comments.

Anyway, so on Thursday I went to the Alicante School of Languages, and that was much more successful. It took me FOREVER to find the right classroom, but when I did the class was really excited to have me there. There was a teacher there to kind of help me along and guide me to ask the right questions, it was really nice. Most of them were in the 30-50 age demographic; when one of them asked how old I was and I told them I was 19, they all kind of gasped and twittered amongst themselves until someone bravely ventured, “Well, you seem very mature for your age.” It was a successful class, though; for two hours we just talked about traveling and the difference between American English and British English and the drinking age in the United States.  

My favorite moment was at the end of the class, though. The teacher came up to me and told me that at the end of every class, the students listened to an English song and tried to fill in the lyrics in an accompanying worksheet as they played through it several times. I wasn’t really sure what song I was expecting to follow the quaint British woman’s voice on the CD (“Lesson fifteen point five--Popular Songs in the English Language”) but it sure as hell wasn’t Freddie Mercury. I swear to god I almost died from trying to hold in my laughter--by the fifth refrain of “We Are the Champions,” I was laughing out-loud and singing along dramatically, much to the delight of the class.

Shortly after, I walked back to my house in the chilled Mediterranean air with a smile on my face, thinking that maybe that old saying about those who can’t do things teach them was a bunch of shit, because I’d just had the most fun I’d had all week struggling to remember how to spell the word “affordable” and talking about American culture with a bunch of older people that probably wouldn’t have given me the time of day before. It was all I could do not to skip home.

“And it goes on and on and on and on! We are the Champions, my friends...”