humans are funny

Category: Spaniards

  • 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!

  • Help. I’m trapped inside a fairy tale. Somebody kiss me and wake me up.

    I hate the term ‘hopeless romantic.’ I understand it implies that there’s no hope left for the hopeless romantic. But it’s a misnomer because the very reason a romantic is deemed hopeless is because he or she possesses too much hope.

    I know this firsthand.
    I am a romantic, and therefore full of hope and hopeless.

    I’ve never been very vocal about it because having too much hope in the romance department can sometimes be extremely embarrassing. Really. Embarrassing.

    For example, there was once a time when I was deeply in love with a fellow improv student. Although he had never confirmed for me that he loved me too, my hope told me that he did. Oh yes, I was sure of it, as I had definitely seen some eye twitching in my direction which could have been winking. One day after class, we all talked about our holiday plans. He asked me about my flight home for Christmas, and I told him I had a very early flight out and had to leave my apartment at four am.

    This toxic combination of schedule talk and sappy romanticism convinced me that said improv student would ABSOLUTELY be in my apartment lobby at four am, roses in hand and ready to profess his love to me before whisking me away to the airport.

    I had so much hope that I didn’t even call a cab.

    Then four am came. I walked into my lobby smiling, having practiced my surprised look and brushed my teeth extra hard for that surely breathtaking kiss just moments away.

    And then four-fifteen came.
    Hmmm.
    Four-sixteen.

    Oh.
    No.

    I called a cab.
    But I STILL spent the entire way to the airport looking out the cab windows for my future lover to catch up to us, throw flowers out the window, and beg me to leap from the cab into his lap.

    This is why I keep these things to myself. It’s gross. Just disgusting. Only a delusional narcissist could believe that something so grand could happen, but it my defense: this is how it happens in the movies! It’s society’s fault. Yes. Everyone is to blame besides me. I grew up watching Pretty Woman. Come on! If a hooker can get that ending, why can’t I get a surprise ride to the airport, dammit?

    I realized during this vacation in Utila that I must put an end to this excess of hope because it’s VERY dangerous. Hopeful romanticism creates a filter through which regular language passes and morphs into harmful lies that can lead to random sex or worse: a horrible relationship.
    I can no longer trust myself, and I’m afraid I must be caged.

    The Honduran island of Utila is a trough of travelers from all over the globe. It’s overrun with Europeans, Americans, and Argentinians, most there to get some diving certification at one of the very many dive shops. Due to my romantic filter, my conversations with these people were slightly skewed. Here are some examples:

    What the Argentinian man at Dive Center Said: Hello.
    What He Meant: Hello.
    What I Heard: I’ve been waiting for you all my life, and I will make a fabulous lover and father because of my sexy accent and the fact that I’m not wearing a shirt.

    What Hippie with Beard Selling Bracelets Did: Smiled.
    What He Meant: Please buy something so I can eat today because this hippie thing is actually harder than I thought.
    What I Heard: Oh, hello! You look like an amazing bracelet-making companion. I want you to drop everything and spend the rest of your life traveling with me. Fuck money. All we need is each other.

    What Local Restaurant Owner Said: Nice to see your smiling face here again.
    What He Meant: Please fake marry me for papers and take me to your land, at which point I will kidnap you for ransom.
    What I Heard: Move here! Stop everything you have and just move here. We’ll open a chain of restaurants together and love love love love each other until eternity.

    What a Blue-Eyed Spaniard Said: Do you want to rent a kayak with me?
    What He Meant: Maybe if this chick kayaks with me, she’ll give it up in the water like that last tourist did.
    What I Heard: I am open-minded and adventurous. Of course I would love to move to Los Angeles just to be with you. I can’t wait to tell the story at our wedding about how we met here on this tiny island when you seduced me with  your small breasts and dirty hair.

    See?
    Dangerous.
    My heart is sewn from hope and rainbows, and my brain is filled with fairy tales. Sigh.
    I either need to find someone who bores the guts out of me so that his very existence reminds me that these tales exist only for fairies and prostitutes. OR, I need to find someone just as disgustingly hope-filled and hopeless as I, so that we can spend our lives leaving each other walkways of petals and notes in secret hiding spots.

    In the meantime, I’ll stick to the Spaniard. At least he likes to kayak.

    Yes, I really went kayaking with a Spaniard. And it was one of the funnest days EVER. It’s weird though. Now I’m back in LA, and there’s no package or anything here. I thought for sure he’d have sent me a box filled with a million love notes by now. Or maybe a carving of my face in a driftwood. Or perhaps a ring or even himself. Yeah, he should have moved here by now. I wonder if he got stuck in customs. I better email him. Again.