In my last post, I reflected on the experiences that make it to Facebook, but not my blog. Among them, my Go Fund Me campaign — my return to Spain this fall for a Writers Retreat, and my aspiration of manifesting blog into a book deal, working title: “They Don’t Eat Alone in Spain.”
What follows are words of gratitude for those who supported my campaign early on … while I was still living in Madrid.
No, they don’t eat alone in Spain. And I certainly don’t create alone either! Many thanks to Jennifer Towner, Jennifer Quiad Gould, Janine Sheedy and Lesley Burke Schooler for supporting the dream of bringing “They Don’t Eat Alone in Spain” from blog to book!
Many thanks to Harriett Kelley and Sara Frank! With your generous donations we doubled our numbers this weekend. (Yes, “our” … You are definitely my partners in this endeavor!)
Help me add a voice to the “suddenly-single” conversation, to offer a road map for a different happy ending — one where you CAN (if you choose to) eat alone in Spain, or anywhere else.
Muchas Gracias, Pat Launer, for your generous contribution and for helping transform my blog,” A Wandering Jewess,” into the book, “They Don’t Eat Alone in Spain. ”
I met Pat when I first began my wandering … on a press trip in Israel, more than 20 years ago. I was a newspaper reporter, telling other people’s stories, with the dream of one day telling my own … with her support, and the support of others, I’m “living the dream” — literally.
Woke up this morning to a generous donation from Mel Garrett! It was as if the Go Fund Me fairies were working overnight. I suppose they were!! Seems they have a daytime crew too … Thank you Rebecca Lauris for your donation, which arrived mid-day in Madrid.
Muchas gracias, Lara Beitz!! Thank you for your generous donation and for rounding us (yes, us … I can’t do this without all of you!) up to a number ending in zero. And for helping me share a story of a different happy ending.
Joder!! We crossed the $500 mark yesterday!! Thank you, Jonathan Alper, Claudia Simmons and Matthew Baron for your generous donations. (And thanks for sharing my campaign on your Facebook page, Claudia!) A special shout out to Matt who inspired me to take on this fundraising challenge after successfully raising $$ to produce two CDs for his education rock band, Future Hits!
Muchas gracias Melinda Hilsenbeck, David Kosins and Kathy Kirshner for your generous support.
Melinda visited me in Madrid last summer and has seen first hand that they don’t eat alone in Spain. She also met me in North Africa this past spring. We didn’t see much solo dining there either… But that doesn’t mean I can’t. Or won’t.
Some days I just love Facebook “On This Day.” Today is one of those days. On July 2, 2011 I wrote, “For weeks, the message I keep getting from friends is ‘You are a writer, still. A storyteller first and foremost. Always.’ Received it again tonight. Hm…”
I have no idea what this was in reference to, but it seems as true today, 5 years later, with three new contributions to my storytelling cause. Many thanks to Clover Morell, Anastasia Wilkening and Sarah Baxter for helping me tell a different divorce story in “They Don’t Eat Alone in Spain.”
A tarde muchas gracias to Megan Carney for her generous and timely support of “They Don’t Eat Alone in Spain.” Her donation arrived just days before I left Madrid, and as the countdown began for my return to La Furia Roja (Spain’s nickname … I’ve never heard of it, but Google had!) and the Rocaberti Writers Retreat where I hope to take next steps to turn my blog into a book.
To learn more about “They Don’t Eat Alone in Spain,” or to contribute to my campaign, click here.
It is 7 a.m. Sunday morning and my phone is ringing. Correction. Skype is ringing.
I look down at it and smile. It is D.
I’m bleary-eyed and disoriented. I have adjusted to Spanish norms regarding time and turned off the lights only five hours earlier.
If it were anyone else, I might roll back over and return the call later. But I don’t. I am, in fact, delighted.
I plug in my headset and pad into the living room where the Internet connection is stronger and our call will be clearer. I sprawl out on the floor and watch the sun come up through the opened balcony windows. I tell him that it is cool outside and that I am wearing his wool socks. I tell him about life in Madrid. Unfiltered.
I tell him that I feel like a child because I don’t know the language. That I am frustrated because I do not have ready access to the words I need to express myself. That I cannot participate in so many conversations. And that the ones I can join are simplistic, slow and involve many “¿Come se’ dice-s?”
I tell him that I do not like teaching little children. That I find it exhausting, and that I feel trapped as I have accepted a position that includes working with a three-year-old and a six-year-old.
I tell him that some days everything feels hard. Grocery shopping. Getting a monthly metro card. Completing my student visa requirements.
And then I burst into tears.
I tell him I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be doing. That I don’t know how much I need to work. Should work. How much I need to earn. That I do not own anything except my clothes, a pocket-size sculpture of Ganesh and the fancy shaving tackle he bought me.
“I hate when I am like this…when I don’t feel grateful, when I don’t see what is magical in my life.”
He laughs and tells me that I am magical. That ownership is an illusion. That the language will come…along with everything else.
“It’s like you are driving to St. Louis from Chicago. You know where you are going. But somewhere around Springfield you get a little bit lost and tired. But you don’t turn around and drive back to Chicago…you keep driving, because you know where you are going.”
“I miss you,” I say.
“I am right here,” he replies.
And he is.
“I miss being able to talk to you whenever I want to. I miss eating breakfast with you and swimming in Lake Michigan and going to the Green Mill to hear music. I miss your hands. I miss your lips. I miss making love to you.”
I am certain I can hear him smiling.
And then, “I am so happy and grateful to be talking to you right now.” As the words tumble out of my mouth I feel a palpable shift in my body and my emotions. I realize that in this moment I do feel happy and grateful. I tell him this. Then I tell him about the sun coming up over the Spanish tiles out my window. And about the impossible color of the morning sky — an almost cartoonish shade of azure.
And I realize that by focusing my attention on what I didn’t have, or soon wouldn’t, rather than what I did right in this moment, I almost missed what I’d been missing – the chance to be with D.
I bask in our connection. In our “being here” now. In sharing my morning and his night.