One of the best parts of being abroad is it forces you to isolate your little behaviors and idiosyncrasies and really takes a long look at them, which is about as painful as it sounds. In order to communicate something in another language you first have to think about how you would say it in English and what tone/mood/ feeling you want to relate. While I’m having enough trouble just asking Paquita where she keeps the toilet paper, I also have to navigate the tricky Spanish university social system, which is basically the exact opposite of the culture at Marist. There are almost no extracurriculars you can lean on to meet new people/forget about your lack of social skills. And the kids in my classes already have their friends and it’s generally not culturally “normal” to talk to strangers. You can ask them a question and they will answer completely and politely, but, at least for me it hasn’t lead to much more. Usually, I scrape up something witty or universally relatable to keep things going with a new aquaintance but the Spanish cut to the chase. How have I survived without my edgy, inane, New Yorker banter?
When you are single and planning to go abroad, everyone tells you “ U gOnNa mEeT sO mAnY sPaNiSh hOtTiEs” and magically a lifetime of romantic mishaps will disappear and you will have the tios buying you tapas left and right. It’s a very nice idea that was very nicely enforced by Vicky Cristina Barcelona, but once I arrived, I quickly dropped that illusion and decided that this experience was about me and not rando Spanish dudes. It’s all scary enough without having to worry about getting hurt or contracting some type of SDTD ( Spainish Discoteca Transmitted Disease). But that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped appreciating what’s right in front of me. As I said, there is a very mysterious, very attractive Colombian guy that sits next to me every day in music class- he has that scruffy hippie thing going that I like. I was very confused the first day he sat down next to me and asked my name. Huh? Was someone actually speaking to me of their own accord? Was this person considered attractive by the general public? Weird. The next day, I figured we’d move on to talking about the weather or the syllabus, but he was silent – and so was I. The next few weeks continued in the same way – we didn’t talk, even though I tried to put some effort into my appearance those days.
When I finally said to myself “whatever,” I used the extra time I wasn’t spending on my appearance to geek out on my laptop before class. Who taps me on the shoulder and starts chattering away but mysterious Latin hippie. He was cracking jokes, agreeing with me, asking follow-up questions, etc. I had no idea what was going on. We chatted amicably through the end of class and at the end, he suggested that we exchange numbers. Gulp. This was maybe the 2nd time in my life a guy had asked for my number- and the 1st was one of my more embarrassing moments of recent history. When I say the 2nd time, I mean in a social situation. Usually when guys ask for my number they missed class and need the notes. I gave him my number and he tried to call it, but alas he had no money on his phone – bad omen #1. So he decided to give me his. It was at that moment that I realized I was sweating and my knees were knocking and I no longer understood Spanish. Why was this happening? I know nothing about this guy, have absolutely nothing invested in him, and he wears a fanny pack ( ok ok I know that a fanny pack is a dealbreaker, but at the time I was trying to play it off as a cultural nuance that I didn’t understand). He repeated his number a few times, but my hands were shaking and I couldn’t enter it in my phone, so he mercifully took it and did it himself. God, this gets more tragic every time I recount it. He went off and that was that. He didn’t call me. I didn’t call him. We still chit chat from time to time but that’s the extent of it. So for all of you who were wondering about my love life here – there it is.
So all of this has led me to examine how I interact with guys that I am interested in/are interested in me( from what little I can discern), which as I’m finding out more and more, is a little non sensical. Although I KNOW I’m not the only girl who thinks along these lines. I’d say I’m less of a Rubik’s cube and more a “Chamber of Secrets” – (save your snickers, judgment, and sexual innuendo for later). I’ve set up a bunch of puzzles and traps to keep people out or let them reach a certain point and then let them get eaten by Fluffy the 3 headed dog. So as an exercise for myself and a case study for the general public, I present the process of attraction, as seen through my bespectacled eyes.
If I Think Someone is Attractive
1. I wonder where his girlfriend is.
2. Oh, I see her. She just bought a Fruit and Yogurt cup and diet iced tea from the cab.
3. I should probably go finish the last season of Arrested Development while I devour this chicken parm.
I’d say about 40% of the time – things end there. Thanks Marist male to female ratio.
Let’s say for some reason this person is unattached. I usually find an extraneous reason not to like him/ think he is the scum of the earth (he spelled you’re/your wrong or under his favorite book section on facebook he wrote – who reads?) or I simply get lazy and stop caring. When you are used to your life a certain way, it’s hard to convince yourself that a change could be for the best. Even though I can’t say I’ve put in tremendous efforts as of late, my lack of success in high school still follows me around sometimes and reminds me of the insecure mess I used to be, and suddenly I feel inadequate.
If by some strange chance, he passes the grammar gauntlet and hasn’t done anything offensive (ex. Wear a Nickelback concert T or refused to use the recycling bin). I might be ready to admit that I actually like this person. Especially if we have good banter going- gosh I love a good good banter. Friends, boyfriends, teachers, acquaintances, political candidates- I don’t care who you are – if we don’t have an established set of banter topics, we’re on a one way train to nowhere. Keep in mind that this process could take weeks or months.
Now most girls have some type of sure fire method they use to get a guy’s attention. Giggle. Hairflip. Going to his game Laughing at things that aren’t funny. I don’t know what this kid’s do these days. I have little to no flirting skills – usually because I fear that they would come off as disingenuous because I can’t pull it off. Despite it all, I really believe that there are people out there that find authenticity attractive. Nothing is sexier than someone who cares about what’s going on in the world, has an opinion, and is brave enough to talk about it, as well as people that are willing to be open about their quirks and imperfections, instead of acting like they don’t exist. I like people that are obsessed with something ( in a good, normal, non-psychotic way) –whether that’s hiking, Civil War maps, or 90’s music.
So I flex my personality muscles, because I believe I’m different because of who I am, not what I look like (usually disheveled). I’ve got time. Some of my other latest flirting go tos include flaunting my knowledge of YouTube sensations, playing Super Smash brothers/ Halo, talking about recent issues of TIME magazine, sending witty text messages, discussing agricultural policy, bragging about my Free Cell winning streak, debating Biggie vs Tupac, wearing my best cardigan, etc. All things that I genuinely like but hard to transition into any romantic anything. It’s just enough to feel like I’m trying but not enough for any guy to really think twice about it; because these aren’t as much flirting techniques as normal everyday friend activity. The number one rule of Dating for Emilys is NEVER do anything that would give the guy and obvious clue aka make a move physically or tell him. This is all about tension, build- up, confusion, and inklings. You know, the fun stuff
Ok let’s say this poor soul is showing interest in me. Now it’s really time to panic. Launch the escape pods, sound the alarm, this is not a test. Shit. What now? I’m not programmed to go past this point. In the past I’ve followed this game plan:
1. Panic.
2. Ask my housemates for advice.
3. Panic.
4. Imagine fantastic future disaster that could result from this/any relationship, for example, I end up pregnant, addicted to drugs, and living by the railroad tracks.
5. Ignore said situation and said person until everything goes away aka act like an asexual cyborg
In a nutshell, if I’ve I liked someone and there’s the slightest glimmer of possible reciprocation I’ve usually panicked and ruined things for myself. I like when people don’t like me or are too tangled up to do anything about it. It’s safe and I know what’s going to happen next. There have been a few brief, sun drenched moments when my guard was down and things felt right and I took a few itsy bitsy risks. I go back to those memories when I think about how I would like to be when I return.
Although I have had experiences and enjoyed a level of independence that I would never trade, I wonder what life is like on the other side of the bubble. My sister has been in the same very functional relationship for more than 3 years and is just as happy and independent as I am, although in a different way, and I have no concept of what that is like. There are reasons why people write so many love songs and sonnets and cross continents for love and lust. I believe that it is all as wonderful as it is made out to be – but falling in love with life and with my friends and with myself have been equally wonderful and I’m content taking things as they come and letting people, including men, into my world a little bit more. For the time being, I have convinced myself that I am a beautiful, funny, intelligent person and maybe I won’t be freaked out if someone else thinks so too.
This blog isn’t filled with subliminal messages that someone is supposed to receive and suddenly realize that I’ve loved them all my life. I’m just trying my best to be brutally honest with myself and when I share it with the blogosphere, it helps to soften the blow. It’s meant to remind me that other people might be just as freaked out as I am and that I should be patient with them, as I have been with myself. And it is a helpful nudge for guys who find themselves interested in a slightly nerdy and fiercely independent girl ( if you need to know where to find one, holler at me - I know oodles). Let her feel smart and funny and beautiful, but be patient. Take her cues or seeming lack there of – there will be a moment when she lets you in.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Friday, November 6, 2009
How deep is your love?
Life after Paris is hard. Everything seems very square and bourgeois after strolling around the Seine. I pity any trip that comes after Paris because it really doesn’t stand a chance. In my case, I pity Palma, Mallorca, which was our next slated trip. I can’t say I was overly excited– I was a little road weary and not eager to board another RyanAir flight. We also heard that Mallorca was known for slipping drugs into drinks; even the waiters at restaurants were not to be trusted. However, the clusterbumble across Europe must continue AND two of my favorite people from Marist were planning on meeting me there: my faithful roomie, kindred spirit, and first Marist friend, Alana, and my sanity inducing, movie night, bandie fo’life, Aileen. In an effort to save money, the Salamanca crew had bought copious amounts of food at the grocery store and stuffed as much as we could into our luggage. There would be a kitchen at the hostel and we were planning on cooking/living off of our fat stores as much as possible. I kid you not; my luggage was 60% food, including a whole bag of cereal and 7 bocadillos. The security people probably thought we were part of some underground ham trading rings, but if they did they didn’t care. The metal detector guy was from Salamanca and pretty much fell in love with us all (“Americans and Spaniards are the same – we like to eat and drink!”), so we had nothing to worry about.
We made it to the hostel with no problems without any problems (e.g. unknowingly circling ourselves around unattended luggage) and it turns out that we had a HUGE apartment all to ourselves and the hostel was run by very nice British people. Being in Mallorca, it was easy to forget that you’re in Spain, mostly because you are constantly surrounded by lots of jolly, blonde, Germans. No one speaks Spanish. No one looks Spanish.. All the restaurants were either Kebab places advertising falafel and XL bratwurst for 2 euro or just straight up German food restaurants – like Grillmeister. Apparently, our neighborhood was called “Little Germany.” It was also the off season for Mallorca so there were absolutely no tourists there, so that means the most visible beachgoers were the lovely folks from all of the retirement homes in the area = not exactly the Rafa Nadal beach sighting I was hoping for. Alana and Aileen met us at the hostel and I smothered them with hugs and we caught up on all the Marist talk for an hour or two before we went to hit the town to find dinner and ecstasy-free entertainment.
We walked for a very long time without finding many places that were actually open. Then to our right we noticed life size plaster models of dinosaurs and saw the bright lights of the Dino Park Mini-golf and Entertainment complex guiding us to what would become our home in Mallorca. We checked the events calendar and struck gold – Bee Gee’s tribute band performing tonight at 9. I LIVE for gratuitous displays of tastelessness such as this. All was not lost. Not wanting to be late, all 9 of us hurried back to the hostel for a little dinner and some pre Bee Gees cocktails (Pre Gees, if you will). When we finally arrived at this gala, we made up 9 of the 11 people there, not including the waiters. The Bee Gees Fever, as these 3 strapping Germans called themselves, wore white pants, purple tie dye silk shirts, and left jaunty accessories to individual choice (a fedora, John Lennon glasses, or a large pendant). And this extravaganza was not without special effects. Oh no no. Smoke machine, disco ball, multimedia video presentation of the Bee Gee’s in the background. They played all the hits. A few drunken middle aged ladies showed up at the end – it was clearly not their first time at the Dino Park Bee Gee’s Fever show. They were up out of their seats dancing and giving money to the tall, long haired Bee Gee (Andy Gibb?) and at one point even grabbed Alana and dragged her onto the dance floor. At the end, the Bee Gees took requests …. Hell, yes. Laura and I softly started chanting for Wonderwall and the Bee Gees instantly started in with it. I laughed so hard I nearly lost my bocadillo. They had to stop midway through because they didn’t know the words, but damn it they gave it all they had. The waiters and staff clearly hated the Bee Gees and were sick of seeing their act every Saturday from 9 to 11, so they herded them off stage by closing all the blinds and threatening to turn off the lights. We got a picture with 2 of the 3 Bee Gees at the end. The 3rd had run to the dressing room and was unfortunately “sin pantalones.”
The next day I had to say good-bye to Aileen and Alana, but not before we fit in breakfast and a round of putt putt at Dino Park. Dino Park was clearly fabulous, but there was an interesting character at the hostel breakfast every day. Around 10 each morning a middle aged rather rotund man, complete with mustache would amble in and say “I’ll have a coffee, Alan” to the bartender and would sit at the computer for 3 hours chain smoking and scrolling through pictures of what appeared to be mail order brides. They were mostly young Asian women wearing ironic hats. SO creepy. We spent the day at the beach dozing in the sun and we spent the night talking and listening to bad pop songs on our improvised sound system (iPod headphones in a champagne flute). And that concludes our trip to Mallorca- not a culturally eye opening trip, but definitely a good break from our grueling travel schedule. I couldn’t be more thankful for Alana and Aileen. They are absolute melocotones and reminded me that I am coming home to a load of people who love me no matter what (and it’s mutual).
Oops – I forgot one lovely little tidbit of information. On the way back to Salamanca, we had to take the metro in between the Madrid airport and the train station. Fine. We’ve done that many a time and the Madrid metro is actually surprisingly pleasant. Well on that day the metro was a rough ride – very sudden stop and go – and it was crowded. So at one of the stops I lost my balance ( shocking) and managed this kind of Matrix-esque flamingo move- I kept one foot planted while the other one swung around and kicked some guy in the back of the knees. Having recovered my luggage, I squeaked out a “Sorry” and looked for the nearest hole that I could disappear into. The guy didn’t respond and said something to his friend that I couldn’t understand (listening to a German Bee Gees tribute band doesn’t bode well for language acquisition). I thought that was that and I was alone to process yet another awkward moment, but Madrid never lets you rest. At the next stop, the guy I kicked and his friend go to get off, and his friend (who was about 5’3, gelled hair, and tight white polo shirt) gets in my face, say “Sorry” in a high voice and gives me a swift swat on the arse. Listen, I know my Old Navy cargo pants are verrry irresistible and I commend your excellent taste in posteriors, but surely there was another way to deal with that situation? No one else really saw this little exchange and at the time I had absolutely no reaction. Looking back, I think it’s hilarious in a twisted way and I now have a litany of responses ready for any other Metro swatters.
As I am writing, my parents are landing in Spain and will be here for the next 10 days and seeing the sights (I had to insist that there were other things to see in Spain besides me). And I guess my dad must really like me since this trip involves a frightful combination of his two least favorite things: planes and water. I am very very excited to see them, but I will admit that I feel a little strange about having them in Salamanca. This place is the first place I have been truly independent. I was not anyone’s daughter or sister or previous student. Whatever life I have here is totally and completely mine and it will be interesting to try to include my parents in it for the next few days. They are very cool about it all and I’m sure will read this and know how I feel. But I need hugs and some unconditional love and my parents are just freakin’adorable. I am excited to share my experiences, my new home, and my new ideas with them and if it wasn’t for them, I definitely would not be here. We’d like to think that we arrive wherever we are all by our own bootstraps and in the more immediate past, that is usually true. I filled out the forms, got these grades, etc. But thinking back, all the prudent choices that my parents made before I even knew where Spain was are what allowed me to study abroad. What a cool thing to give your child, if that’s what they want. I hope that my kids will want this experience and that I will be able to help them get there. And by “there” I mean Dino Park.
PS If a swing dancer can make it to Salamanca within the week, he/she will be handsomely rewarded.
We made it to the hostel with no problems without any problems (e.g. unknowingly circling ourselves around unattended luggage) and it turns out that we had a HUGE apartment all to ourselves and the hostel was run by very nice British people. Being in Mallorca, it was easy to forget that you’re in Spain, mostly because you are constantly surrounded by lots of jolly, blonde, Germans. No one speaks Spanish. No one looks Spanish.. All the restaurants were either Kebab places advertising falafel and XL bratwurst for 2 euro or just straight up German food restaurants – like Grillmeister. Apparently, our neighborhood was called “Little Germany.” It was also the off season for Mallorca so there were absolutely no tourists there, so that means the most visible beachgoers were the lovely folks from all of the retirement homes in the area = not exactly the Rafa Nadal beach sighting I was hoping for. Alana and Aileen met us at the hostel and I smothered them with hugs and we caught up on all the Marist talk for an hour or two before we went to hit the town to find dinner and ecstasy-free entertainment.
We walked for a very long time without finding many places that were actually open. Then to our right we noticed life size plaster models of dinosaurs and saw the bright lights of the Dino Park Mini-golf and Entertainment complex guiding us to what would become our home in Mallorca. We checked the events calendar and struck gold – Bee Gee’s tribute band performing tonight at 9. I LIVE for gratuitous displays of tastelessness such as this. All was not lost. Not wanting to be late, all 9 of us hurried back to the hostel for a little dinner and some pre Bee Gees cocktails (Pre Gees, if you will). When we finally arrived at this gala, we made up 9 of the 11 people there, not including the waiters. The Bee Gees Fever, as these 3 strapping Germans called themselves, wore white pants, purple tie dye silk shirts, and left jaunty accessories to individual choice (a fedora, John Lennon glasses, or a large pendant). And this extravaganza was not without special effects. Oh no no. Smoke machine, disco ball, multimedia video presentation of the Bee Gee’s in the background. They played all the hits. A few drunken middle aged ladies showed up at the end – it was clearly not their first time at the Dino Park Bee Gee’s Fever show. They were up out of their seats dancing and giving money to the tall, long haired Bee Gee (Andy Gibb?) and at one point even grabbed Alana and dragged her onto the dance floor. At the end, the Bee Gees took requests …. Hell, yes. Laura and I softly started chanting for Wonderwall and the Bee Gees instantly started in with it. I laughed so hard I nearly lost my bocadillo. They had to stop midway through because they didn’t know the words, but damn it they gave it all they had. The waiters and staff clearly hated the Bee Gees and were sick of seeing their act every Saturday from 9 to 11, so they herded them off stage by closing all the blinds and threatening to turn off the lights. We got a picture with 2 of the 3 Bee Gees at the end. The 3rd had run to the dressing room and was unfortunately “sin pantalones.”
The next day I had to say good-bye to Aileen and Alana, but not before we fit in breakfast and a round of putt putt at Dino Park. Dino Park was clearly fabulous, but there was an interesting character at the hostel breakfast every day. Around 10 each morning a middle aged rather rotund man, complete with mustache would amble in and say “I’ll have a coffee, Alan” to the bartender and would sit at the computer for 3 hours chain smoking and scrolling through pictures of what appeared to be mail order brides. They were mostly young Asian women wearing ironic hats. SO creepy. We spent the day at the beach dozing in the sun and we spent the night talking and listening to bad pop songs on our improvised sound system (iPod headphones in a champagne flute). And that concludes our trip to Mallorca- not a culturally eye opening trip, but definitely a good break from our grueling travel schedule. I couldn’t be more thankful for Alana and Aileen. They are absolute melocotones and reminded me that I am coming home to a load of people who love me no matter what (and it’s mutual).
Oops – I forgot one lovely little tidbit of information. On the way back to Salamanca, we had to take the metro in between the Madrid airport and the train station. Fine. We’ve done that many a time and the Madrid metro is actually surprisingly pleasant. Well on that day the metro was a rough ride – very sudden stop and go – and it was crowded. So at one of the stops I lost my balance ( shocking) and managed this kind of Matrix-esque flamingo move- I kept one foot planted while the other one swung around and kicked some guy in the back of the knees. Having recovered my luggage, I squeaked out a “Sorry” and looked for the nearest hole that I could disappear into. The guy didn’t respond and said something to his friend that I couldn’t understand (listening to a German Bee Gees tribute band doesn’t bode well for language acquisition). I thought that was that and I was alone to process yet another awkward moment, but Madrid never lets you rest. At the next stop, the guy I kicked and his friend go to get off, and his friend (who was about 5’3, gelled hair, and tight white polo shirt) gets in my face, say “Sorry” in a high voice and gives me a swift swat on the arse. Listen, I know my Old Navy cargo pants are verrry irresistible and I commend your excellent taste in posteriors, but surely there was another way to deal with that situation? No one else really saw this little exchange and at the time I had absolutely no reaction. Looking back, I think it’s hilarious in a twisted way and I now have a litany of responses ready for any other Metro swatters.
As I am writing, my parents are landing in Spain and will be here for the next 10 days and seeing the sights (I had to insist that there were other things to see in Spain besides me). And I guess my dad must really like me since this trip involves a frightful combination of his two least favorite things: planes and water. I am very very excited to see them, but I will admit that I feel a little strange about having them in Salamanca. This place is the first place I have been truly independent. I was not anyone’s daughter or sister or previous student. Whatever life I have here is totally and completely mine and it will be interesting to try to include my parents in it for the next few days. They are very cool about it all and I’m sure will read this and know how I feel. But I need hugs and some unconditional love and my parents are just freakin’adorable. I am excited to share my experiences, my new home, and my new ideas with them and if it wasn’t for them, I definitely would not be here. We’d like to think that we arrive wherever we are all by our own bootstraps and in the more immediate past, that is usually true. I filled out the forms, got these grades, etc. But thinking back, all the prudent choices that my parents made before I even knew where Spain was are what allowed me to study abroad. What a cool thing to give your child, if that’s what they want. I hope that my kids will want this experience and that I will be able to help them get there. And by “there” I mean Dino Park.
PS If a swing dancer can make it to Salamanca within the week, he/she will be handsomely rewarded.
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