humans are funny

Category: spain

  • Whenever you’re alone, there are always other people.

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      After two weeks with my mom and two weeks with my cousins, my luggage wheels were traversing the Spanish cobblestones alone.

      Traveling alone is the best and the worst. It’s the hardest and easiest. When you’re alone, there’s no need to tell a companion that you have to walk in to this store really quickly to grab some laxatives (an example). No need to feel pressured to go see the Pharmacy Museum in Krakov because your friend wants to go (Ok, I wanted to go. Hint: You can skip the Pharmacy Museum in Krakov.) When you’re alone, there’s no need to apologize to anyone when the dinner you made turns into midnight cheese sandwiches (Seriously, how did that broccoli end up tasting like bad breath?)

      Plus, there are spiritual benefits to traveling alone, as it opens up a whole new world of awareness. With no phone or Facebook in a foreign land, dinners, lunches, breakfasts, and pretty much everything in between is spent listening to thoughts and getting to know what goes on inside your head. By now, I REALLY know what goes on inside my head. (It’s insanity in there.)

      That new awareness leads to good, but it’s also the hard part. There are phases to this hard part. The first is fear. Maybe not for everyone, but I am prone to outbursts of that worthless emotion (Don’t try to say that there’s some good in fear because whatever.) I fear getting lost. I fear asking for directions. I fear being seen as a tourist (which is what I am, so this one makes no sense– my brain wants me to be cooler than a tourist.). Since I am alone, I am completely aware of it, which is even more frustrating. –What if I say something wrong and he can tell my Spanish isn’t as good as his? –Your Spanish isn’t supposed to be as good as is, as he is FROM SPAIN. –You’re right, but still I’m scaaaaaaaared. –You’re being really scared of some stupid shit right now. —Waa.

      This lasts for a few days.

      And then come the couples. Suddenly, you look around and realize that everyone on vacation is here with their extremely significant other. Your pupils become sniper eyes as you notice every little held hand, every fucking beach kiss, every cute eye exchange when the baby needs a new diaper. You see it all. And to top it off, waiters just can’t get over that you’re a girl on vacation all by herself. Every time you sit down to dinner, they’ll say, “JUST YOU?” and feign some crazy shock. A few nights ago by the Madrid airport, my waiter said that my boyfriend must have been killed in an airplane. I looked him in the eyes very seriously and said, ‘Yes. Yes, he was.’ And then I looked away. Not really, but I should have because WHY CANT A GIRL JUST TRAVEL ALONE? SO WHAT IF HER OVARIES ARE AGING AND SHE DOESN’T HAVE ANYONE TO TRAVEL WITH?

      That’s the self-pity phase. It lasts for a few days.

      And then there’s an outpouring of love for family and friends. Well, if Rahul were here, he’d love this place. And if Andrea were here, she’d be making fun of that guy’s Speedo right now. And, boy, my mom would want one of those mumus over there. Man, my friends and family are pretty sweet. WHY AM I SPENDING THE ENTIRE SUMMER WITHOUT THEM? I’M SO DUMBBBBBBB. I miss everyooooooone. Waaaaaaaa. Even my landlord. And my mail woman. What is she up to right nowwwwww?

      That’s the regret/longing phase. It lasts two days tops.

      Then comes the I-don’t-give-a-fuck phase. This phase is freedom. It’s still introspective, but whenever fear comes up or self pity walks in, you can stop them at the gate and say, ‘YOU ARE IN SPAIN RIGHT NOW. LOOK THE FUCK AROUND AS THE SEA IS RIGHT BY YOUR FEET AND YOU’RE NOT WORKING AND WINE IS $3 FOR A GOOD BOTTLE AND THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT YOU WANTED TO DO WITH YOUR LIFE.’ AND LOOK HOW MUCH YOU REALLY LOVE CAPITALS!!!!

      I’d been hoping with fingers double-crossed for this phase to hurry up and come. Please come, freedom to speak and be and frolic and talk to everyone and dance with old people and eat foods that are weird and sticky!

      I realized it had finally arrived as I sat in the jump seat of a huge tourist bus, the very last passenger on board. My bag stumbled around on the floor as we zipped around a rotunda more than once. The driver was simply driving, not ready to arrive at my stop. He was telling me all about his wife’s suicide. She was too tall to hang herself from any beam, so she held onto her ankles until she died. She could have simply stepped to the floor, but she didn’t. She held on. AND THIS MADE ME SO HAPPY! Not because I’m a morbid human being with a suicide obsession (although also a possibility). It made me happy because this is exactly what would be happening in my own country. I wasn’t feeling alone. I wasn’t scared of saying something wrong in Spanish. I wasn’t missing anyone. I was myself. And I had found someone who wanted to talk to me about his life, which is exactly what happens in the States. People with stories always find me. Or maybe I find them. Especially “suicide survivors.” We always seem to find each other and share stories like old ‘Nam buddies. I was myself, and he was himself. And there we were, listening to each other and driving around Spain! If we were in the US, you bet that guy would be appearing in the next Taboo Tales.

      Feeling free, I danced that night until six in the morning with the Salsa champion of Italy! And after that I went to the biggest water park in Spain and GOT A FAST PASS! Then I had dinner with a piano teacher named Rosa. After that, I debated prostitution laws with a hot cop (it’s totally legal and only 20 bucks for the WHOLE SHEBANG!). Now, I am in Madrid writing this from the center of a square surrounded by Germans and luggage shops and jars of sangria and umbrellas and cigarettes and walking dogs and frozen yogurt shops and old women peering from balconies. And I feel calm and not scared and not alone. AND I NEVER WANT TO LEAVE. AND I STILL LOVE CAPITALS.

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  • Ole! Ole! Ole?

    One day we’re all going to be the same race. I can’t wait. I give it seven more generations. All of our skins will be caramel colored and our eyes brown. We’ll all have Christmas trees, menorahs, and burkas. We’ll all walk on the same side of the street. We’ll eat kimchi tacos and collared green pierogis. Half of comedians will be out of jobs. Kids will fail the high school slavery lessons because they just won’t grasp the idea. Mexican food will just be called food. Aliens will say, “Humans. You just can’t tell them apart.”

    Until then, we’re in race limbo. Some of us are sixteen things. Some of us are half and half. Few of us have papers that would win dog shows. In the end, it doesn’t matter. We’re all living. We’re all here. Our ethnicity is rather unimportant within the grand span of the universe.

    But for me it’s always been an issue. I’ve always wanted to be ‘something else.’ In high school, I hung out with the Greeks and named myself Laurenne Salapoulous. In college, I only dated black guys and signed up on BlackPlanet.com as BigBootyWhiteGirl (what? I do have a rather large booty for a white girl). I was searching for culture, and I didn’t know where to look. I wanted customs and tradition. I wanted to know special dances and recipes handed down from an ancient great grandmother. What I think I really wanted was a big family. My mom is the best. But a single mother and an only child can lead to some less-than-riveting Christmas dinners. You can play few card games with two people.

    Since most people on my dad’s side were dead, I never felt like I could really embrace his cutlure. But if anyone had one, it was him. While my mom is third generation American, my dad was first. My dad’s baby books are all in Spanish. He was raised speaking Spanish with his very Spanish dad. He even went to high school in Madrid! Still, this half thing bothered me. I felt like a faker trying to know more about my very own Spanish culture without having an actual relative teach me. I sort of felt like my speaking Spanish was as phony as Madonna’s sudden British accent.

    Of course, this was something I totally made up in my head. There is not a committee of Spanish people out there evaluating whether or not I learned how to make a typical Spanish tortilla from my grandmother or the internet. I guess everything anybody is self-conscious about is really NOT that important. When I finally analyzed it, it reminded me of junior high when I used to bring a curling iron to school because I thought I’d be judged if my bangs weren’t perched in a perfect wave above my head. You’ll never guess but nobody cared about my bangs as much as I did. Still, I was so super self-conscious and afraid to use the language I absolutely love.

    In order to graduate from Psychology School (which is almost over!), we had to choose a thesis project that we’d take on for 9 months. The goal is to accomplish something that we’ve always been scared of doing. Something that comes from our heart. Something that we’ve always thought impossible. Some people climb Mt. Kilimanjaro. Some people learn how to ride horses or write a book or start a business. The idea is that we’ll each run across many instances of “I can’t.” We’ll hate life. We’ll have a hard time. We’ll make mistakes, choke, suffer (yes, I am paying money to suffer). And from all of that, we’ll learn how to overcome fears, how to believe in ourselves, and that we can accomplish something we never thought possible!

    I chose to figure out my own culture and clear out all the weird issues I had with it, the goal being to feel comfortable speaking Spanish with anyone and to speak it so confidently that I could use it in my career somehow. I wanted to stop searching for things outside of me and finally just define myself by learning about myself (seems kind of obvious now). Well… IT WORKED! I learned a lot by analyzing myself over and over again. Those details I will spare you, but I have several 30-page reports that can lead you down the holes in my brain. Basically, I’ve spent the last two years studying myself, which is the most self-centered degree ever. And obviously fascinating. What I learned is that I am an American who really wants my father’s culture to live on because I’m the LAST SALA! And that’s okay. I’ve taken Flamenco classes for six months. I’ve been seeing a private tutor weekly, and my Spanish is off the chain (as they say). I feel comfortable hablando con todo el mundo.

    I’m a mix of cultures. I’m my own culture which, is a selective blend of my mom’s Polish cookies, my dad’s Spanish brandy, and a few episodes of Jersey Shore that I purchased one day in a moment of weakness. Sorry. In the end I’m really American.

    Part of my project required that I put my Spanish out there without worrying about people judging it. So, I wrote some Spanish poetry, which helped me to realize that I really like poetry! Who knew? This whole thing is blowing my mind. So, I put that bitch online, and I like it. It’s called Half & Mitad (mitad = half).

    Here’s an excerpt:

    The project culminates with a summer trip to Spain. You are allowed to create your own project, and I happened to write one that included a mandatory trip for the ENTIRE summer to immerse myself in the culture that runs through my bliggity blood. SO I AM LEAVING NEXT WEEK FOR SPAIN AND IM NEVER COMING BACK I WONT BE BACK UNTIL September! Yahooooooooooooooo (I think everyone would benefit from this school).

    Thanks to everyone who has been learning lessons with me along the way during these past 2 years of self-analyzation. I can’t wait to get back to writing about vaginas!

  • I am different this time. I swear.


    I left India feeling lighter. Refreshed. New. I knew I was a cliché, but that’s the thing– I didn’t care. I felt like I had shed the load of caring about what others think. Thankfully, this was discarded along with my need for make-up, new clothes, and all material goods. In my previous life, I always swung on the fence between hippiedom and yuppiedom. It seemed dreamy to have a nice house and comfortable car, but in India I finally confirmed that it feels nicer to not have. To me, being able to travel with one pair of pants beats worrying about a mortgage.

    Phew. Glad I realized that. No more brand names. No more high heels. Done.

    Then British Airways lost my backpack.

    “What’s that you say? You say the airline usually reimburses about one-hundred Euros per day?”

    Immediately I became one of those shoppers with glittery packages. The moment I bought the first tight-fitting jeans, my seal was broken. Like an addict looking for a spoon, I was on a rampage. I happened to be in Spain during their semi-annual countrywide blowout sale, and my hands couldn’t flip through the discount racks fast enough. I had to have that dress. And those shoes. And pajamas. And of course a purse. And look at that– a whole store filled with stuff I wanted to buy in India but didn’t. I fluttered through dressing rooms and beeped through register transactions.

    When my backpack finally arrived three days later, I am ashamed to say that nothing I bought fit into it. I then had to buy a suitcase to carry all my new purchases.

    I hung my head in shame.
    But then I put on my new heels!

    Just this once. I swear. I need to feel feminine for a short time– then back to stinky shirts and baggy pants. I hadn’t realized how grimy I’d felt over the last eight months. It’s nice to remove leg hair, wear jewelry, and put on deodorant once in a while. I’d forgotten. Our minds and bodies have the ability to get used to anything. What you thought was crazy before just becomes your life, and there you have it. Strange. I bet I could have acclimated to sleeping on a bed of cockroaches if I’d really wanted. Maybe next I will choose to get used to… being unemployed and living with my mother until someone invites me on another 9-month holiday.