My Past Is My Present

Many thanks to those who have supported my Go Fund Me campaign, “They Don’t Eat Alone in Spain” — a post-divorce narrative of how 52 Artist Dates healed my heart and pointed me in the direction of my dreams –- and my goal of manifesting blog into book deal. It is a joy to share your stories in mine.


4 August

My friend Bob Conlin recently invited me to join a group challenge called 100 Days of Greatness.

Each of us chooses something, anything, we want to do for or achieve in 100 days. We answer a couple of questions about what we want to do, why we want to do it and how we will measure success. And then update the group at least once a week.

My 100 Days of Greatness? 100 Days of Writing and Editing “They Don’t Eat Alone in Spain.”

My update:

“Day One. Forty-five minutes on manuscript. (I promised 30.) Setting a timer helps. Don’t feel like I made much progress … but I honored my commitment. Brava!

“When I was writing regularly the words seemed to fly off my fingers. The process, joyous. I am reminded of these words from my meditation teacher … ‘Our mind wanders, and we gently return to the mantra.’

“And I gently return to the page. The practice.”

Practice builds muscle. Momentum. And action begets action. I’ve been seeing this in my campaign. As I continue to commit to “They Don’t Eat Alone in Spain,” others do the same.

Like the mother of a long-time friend from college (who wishes to remain anonymous). She’s been one of my biggest fans since I began blogging from Rwanda in 2012. She sent a donation earlier this week, adding a note that read, “I believe in you.”

Like my dear friend Kip Helverson, who in the swirl of life’s unexpected also found time to make a contribution. And Laura Silverman, whose own round-the-world adventures inspired my own. “Can’t wait to read it!” she wrote, along with her donation.

Many thanks to each of you, for your support — both financial and energetic. Seems there’s a place on the shelves for one more happy ending. — a post-divorce narrative where the protagonist sweeps herself off her own feet. (And without even trying … isn’t that always the way with romance?!)

projects-100days


5 August

“It’s not about the money….”

I’ve heard these words more times than I can count. In work. In divorce. In marriage. In financial decisions. My experience is, the moment I say “It’s not about the money …” it IS about the money.

And yes, this IS a fundraising campaign.

And yet, I have been delighted by the non-monetary gifts that have come from this effort. They are:

1. I’m having fun! When I’m writing my blog, a paid-assignment, or a piece to submit for publication, I toil. Considering each and every word. Not so here … Much to my surprise, I write these updates right on the Go Fund Me site. No cutting, pasting, perseverating, or wringing of hands. It’s an update or a thank you. Nothing more. An unexpected exercise in keeping it light!

2. I continue to gain clarity about my vision. Every time I write an update, I need to answer the question, “What is ‘They Don’t Eat Alone in Spain’ about anyway?”

It’s my story. About how I found healing after my divorce, not through the love of another person. But by romancing myself. That by committing each week to doing something fun, interesting, inspiring or different — Alone! — I began to see clearly who I was. What I liked. What I didn’t. And was able to step into a life I’d been dreaming of. A life as a writer. A life overseas.

Or, for the purposes of keeping it the length of an elevator ride, “They Don’t Eat Alone in Spain” is a post-divorce narrative — told through a series of weekly “Artist Dates” — that offers a different option for a happy ending. One that doesn’t require a Prince or Princess Charming. But instead, where the heroine rides off into the sunset on her own white horse.

3. I’m not doing this alone. I do my best growing in groups. Weight Watchers. Twelve Step. My Artist Dates are solo. But publishing a book doesn’t have to be.

5. I’m connecting with all sorts of people from my past and present. Among them, David Hicks. I haven’t seen David or his wife since I left Oakland in 2007. And, truthfully, I’m not exactly sure when or how we met. What I do know is the connection was easy and true. And it still is.

Thank you, David for supporting my vision from across the miles!!

dream bigger


10 August

Sunday night. I am stretched out on the couch, laptop on my lap, considering digging into my past. Actually, not so much digging as reaching into … or reaching out to.

I would … except I’m not certain the interaction will give me what I want or need. Clarity. And a sense of connection.

So I connect to myself instead — writing.

(This logic of turning inward to get what I crave outward reminds me of what Woody Allen said about masturbation, “Don’t knock it — it’s sex with someone I love.”)

It can be any writing. Journaling. Blogging. In this case, penning A Go Fund Me update. As long as it brings me back to myself. To my life. The life I want. The life I am creating.

I hit “Post My Update,” feeling infused, inspired … and not the least bit interested in digging around in my past.

Funny thing happens … my past comes to me. Not in the form I think it might. But in contributions and sweet notes from people from my past, who are still part of my present.

Among them, my high-school creative writing teacher, Jan Mekula. Strangely, I don’t remember a thing I wrote in her class. (I do in others.) What I do remember is feeling incredibly safe in her classroom. (I didn’t in many.) Seen, honored and valued as a person.

Sharing my post on her Facebook page, she wrote, “My former student, a fine writer and amazing fierce brave human being.”

My heart swells and my eyes get teary.

I wake up the next morning to three more donations. (I’ll be thanking the donors individually.) It feels like a nod from God. “You’re on the right/write track. Keep doing what you’re doing.”

Like working on my manuscript — “They Don’t Eat Alone in Spain.” A post-divorce narrative of how 52 “creative dates” (aka Artist Dates) healed my heart and pointed me in the direction of my dreams. A year living abroad. A life as a writer.

Thank you, Jan Mekula!

(Photo: Outside hotel in the South of France where F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald took up residence. Apropos for honoring my high-school creative writing teacher? )

fitzgeralds


Want to know more about “They Don’t Eat Alone in Spain” — how 52 Artist Dates saved my soul after divorce and landed me smack in the middle of my own life — or how to contribute to my Go Fund Me campaign? Click here.

 

 

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With Love, The Universe

More words of thanks for those who have supported my Go Fund Me campaign, “They Don’t Eat Alone in Spain” — a  happily-ever-after, after divorce story, sans romance –and my dream of manifesting blog into book deal.


20 July

Last night I had the privilege of reading my work at Nikki Nigl’s AboutWomen in Chicago.

“I began having experiences instead of talking about them.”

I never know what words will resonate with an audience. This time it was clear, as this quote was posted on Facebook later in the evening.

I’ve talked about publishing a book for a long time. Now I’m ready to have the experience of it. Many thanks to Dana Harmon for her generous contribution, which brings me one step closer … (to) my dream of turning my experiences — my weekly Artist Dates, chronicled at http://www.awanderingjewess.com — into a book about the possibilities of happily going it alone after divorce.

(With Nikki, at AboutWomen.)

me and nikki about women


23 July

I forget that the universe is busy working on my behalf, even when I’m not working. In fact, sometimes it does its best work when I am at rest …

I was reminded of this truth this afternoon when I (uncharacteristically) sprawled out on the couch, listening to an interview about creativity with writer Elizabeth Gilbert.

I dozed off for about 20 minutes. When I awoke, I was met by a notification of a donation from my dear friend, Nikki Nigl.

Nikki packed 90 percent of my life into two suitcases and two carry-ons nearly one year ago, thus preparing me for my move to Madrid. She picked me up at O’Hare when I returned home 15 days ago. In between, she sent packages with what I couldn’t easily buy in Spain (travel-size toothpaste, Weight Watchers journals) and notes of inspiration. I’m fond of saying “Everyone needs a Nikki Nigl in their life.”

Many thanks Nikki for all that you do … and for taking my “They Don’t Eat Alone in Spain” campaign past the $1,250 mark. The retreat — where I will meet with literary and film professionals to transform my blog into a book — is now half funded. My goal is to have it completely funded ($2,500) when I send the manuscript to my retreat mentor on September 1.

(Notes from Nikki. I “found” these in the pockets of my winter coat … which she sent to me in Madrid.)

notes from nikki


25 July

I learned to meditate more than 14 years ago . I brought flowers and fruit as an offering for receiving my mantra. And I remember asking my friend and teacher, Paul Brown, how it was he “made a living” as a meditation teacher.

“I don’t know, honey bunny,” he said. “I just do. Money comes to me.”

It sounded ridiculous at the time. It was a hard idea to wrap my head around. Sometimes it still is. And yet, I find it is true in my life too … as evidenced by the success of my “They Don’t Eat Alone in Spain” campaign and Paul’s recent contribution to it. Muchas, muchas gracias a mi amigo y mi profesor.

I believe we attract abundance to us when we do our soul’s work. For me, that work is telling my story — of how I found a happy ending after divorce … even without “getting the guy.” I didn’t see many models for this when my marriage ended … so when romance eluded me I had to forge my own path. Little did I know it would be such a rich and satisfying one. One that would lead me back to myself. The self I had lost along the way without even knowing it.

(Paul and I in Golden Gate Park … post mediation glow.)

me and paul brown


Want to know more about “They Don’t Eat Alone in Spain” — how 52 Artist Dates saved my soul after divorce and landed me smack in the middle of my own life — or how to contribute to my Go Fund Me campaign? Click here.

 

From Across The Pond

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.


19 June

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!
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20 June
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.
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21 June
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.

camel
In Israel. Two Jews and a camel.
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22 June
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.
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23 June
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.
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24 June
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!
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27 June
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.

melinda and i 2
With Melinda … not eating alone in Morocco.
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2 July
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.”

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10 July
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.
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To learn more about “They Don’t Eat Alone in Spain,” or to contribute to my campaign, click here.

For Those Who Have Opted Out of Facebook …

I was visiting my mother in Tennessee recently when a friend of hers asked about my blog … reminding me she follows it, but that she isn’t on Facebook.

Which meant she missed most of my photos and musings about life in Madrid during my year abroad.

Which meant she didn’t know I would be returning to Spain this fall for a Writers Retreat … with the aspiration of manifesting my blog into a book — “They Don’t Eat Alone in Spain.” About the Go Fund Me campaign I launched to help offset costs. Or the generous support I have received … and how it has connected me with my past, as well as my present, and people I know just a little.

With each contribution I’ve offered up thanks on Go Fund Me, Facebook and Twitter. Over time, these messages of gratitude have grown into stories, becoming blogs in their own right.

So this (and the series of updates which will follow ) is for my mother’s friend … and for every reader who wondered where I was wandering during that year abroad. Or wonders where I am now. Thank you for reading, and for wondering …

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Since launching my blog “A Wandering Jewess: My Journey Back to Self”  in 2011, I’ve often been asked “When is your book coming out?” My answer has been a vague, “One of these days.” Truth is, I didn’t know. For personal reasons, I didn’t want to self publish. And I didn’t know how to move my writing from blog to book deal. Until now.

About two months ago, I ended my morning meditation with the words, “Show my work, show me my money, show me my love.” I then opened my computer to find an e-mail from my ex-boyfriend, sent exactly eight minutes earlier, just one word — “Interesting?” and a link to the Rocaberti Castle Writers Retreat in Barcelona .

This retreat is for you if … You’re working on a book/screenplay combination or have an idea for one. You have a book and want to turn it into a screenplay or vice-versa —or sell it directly to Hollywood. You’re unsure how to get your book/screenplay in front of agents and producers. You’re serious about completing your project and making your dream come true!” 

Yes. Yes. Yes. And yes.

I am a big believer in fate. In signs. In messages from the universe.

So this October I’ll be returning to Spain for the Rocaberti Castle Writers Retreat.Joining a small group of other writers, I’ll meet with expert mentors – published authors, produced screenwriters and film producers – for the express purpose of taking my writing from screen to page to big screen. 


(Taken in Seville … before I knew I was going!)

My proposed project, “They Don’t Eat Alone in Spain” garnered a half scholarship to the retreat. I need your help to raise the other half, plus airfare, reward gifts and incidentals. (See budget breakdown below.)

“They Don’t Eat Alone in Spain” is based on posts from “A Wandering Jewess,” about my choice to “go it alone” for a year after the dissolution of my 10-year marriage and how Julia Cameron’s “The Artists Way” offered me an unintended framework for doing it.

“They Don’t Eat Alone in Spain” is a series of 52 Artist Dates – one-person play dates – which led me on solo sojourns to the opera and the Art Institute, to a three-week stag jaunt in Italy and ultimately an unaccompanied year in Spain (Ironically, a country notorious for togetherness. “Look around,” Robert said over lunch on my second day in Madrid. “No one here eats alone. They just don’t …”)


(They don’t eat alone, but sometimes the servers will feed you … literally.)

Whereas the majority of “post-divorce” reads fit neatly into one of two categories – “How To’s” for getting back in the relationship game or “Crazy Dating Confessionals” (“I had sex with my boss, my trainer and the bagel boy … in the same day.”) – “They Don’t Eat Alone in Spain” offers another possibility, a happy ending that doesn’t end in romance.

“They Don’t Eat Alone in Spain” offers no advice, no salacious sex, no Prince Charming – just a weekly “postcard” sent from the road  back to self, a journey taken on the backroads … stopping to fix my own flat tires, visit old promises – traveling alone, living overseas, writing a book – and becoming the heroine of my own story.
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Budget Breakdown

Rocaberti Castle Writers Retreat, Half Tuition: $2,500

Round-trip Airfare from Chicago to Barcelona and Back: $900

Accomodations, Food, Incidentals for 2 nights (pre and post retreat): $200

Rewards: Up to $300

Go Fund Me: 7.9 percent + .30 per gift: Approximately  $350 on $4000

(https://www.gofundme.com/awanderingjewess)

Home

The following long-form piece was written for and performed at Nikki Nigl’s AboutWomen in Chicago on July 19, 2016.

I have been back in Chicago exactly 12 days.

I miss Madrid.

I miss the winding cobblestone walk to my metro stop at Opera. The flat buildings washed yellow, orange and pink with black wrought iron balconies on every window. Cartoonish by streetlight. I swear I could push them over and they’d tumble. Just like a movie set.

I miss the fountain at Cibeles. That “birthday cake of a building” as Dirk used to call it. The old Correos. Post Office. Now a museum I never made it to. A “Welcome Refugees” banner hanging from its top, a fountain in front. In the center of a roundabout that leads you to the Prado or Calle Gran Via, depending on your preference.

I used to walk here on Saturday nights alone when the sun had receded but the air was still hot and all of Madrid filled the streets, up from its collective summer siesta. The goddess Cybel and her lions riding on illuminated pink and blue water.

I miss my metro pass. Fifty euros for unlimited rides on the super clean, super-fast metro that would take me anywhere in Madrid. And if it didn’t the train or the light rail would.

I miss Turron gelato.

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Plaza de Cibeles and that “birthday cake of a building.”

I miss private health insurance to the tune of 57 euros a month. Gynecological exam chairs that tilt down, working with as opposed to against, gravity. I miss not having to ask for a pelvic ultrasound instead of a pap as it is a matter of course.

I miss feeling safe walking home alone at night.

I miss taking the train to Seville or Valencia for the weekend. Or a quick flight to Portugal, North Africa or Nice. I miss swimming in the Mediterranean upon reaching the coast. The salty taste of my lips and the white streaks drying on my legs surprising me.

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On the beach in Valencia.

I miss tomates that taste like tomatoes, pimientos that taste like peppers and pepinos that taste like cucumbers. I miss their names. I miss Paco choosing them for me at the market and our impromptu intercambio. His corrections to my beginner Spanish. My approval of his modest English.  His stories about his daughter and the victory I felt in understanding them. Mas o menos.

I miss cheap groceries.

I miss eating rye for breakfast instead of oatmeal. Eggs that sit on the shelf. Good, inexpensive coffee.

I miss Nick, the Greek waiter at Dionisos, flirting shamelessly with me.

I miss speaking Spanglish.

I miss all of this, and yet I chose to leave it. To return to Chicago. Where I pay for every El ride. Both financially and energetically. Nausteated by the slow, insistent rattling of the train. Knowing I would get there in half the time if I still owned a car. Knowing it’s best to ask someone to walk me to the train at night in some neighborhoods. My keys laced between my fingers as I leave the station and approach my own door.

Chicago. Where politicians are proudly corrupt. People hold signs on freeway off ramps … begging for money. And 2 bags of tasteless produce cost nearly $50.

Where zero degree FARENHEIT winters are a real possibility. As is a shooting death every weekend.

I chose this.

I chose home.

Lumbering Greystone buildings, summer rainstorms and leafy maple trees. Sunday dance classes at the Old Town School of Music. Lectures at the Art Institute. Lake Michigan.

Art-Institute-Of-Chicago-HD-Wallpapers
Copyright Art Institute of Chicago HD Wallpaper.

I’ve moved several times in my life. Four states, seven cities, two countries … if you count where I was born and raised. Which is not the same as home.

I learned that the first time I moved to Chicago in 2007. I’d been living between San Francisco and Oakland for nearly 14 years when my husband and I packed up our two cats and all our worldly belonging and headed east, to the Midwest, a place I vowed I’d never live again, for his medical residency.

God has a sense of humor.

It was grey and sticky, drizzly and hot when we arrived. We opened the car doors and felt the steam rise up around us, looked at one another, and without saying a word asked “What have we done?” Followed by “We are Californians. (Albeit adopted ones). This is a temporary residence. A sojourn. We will hate Chicago together.”

For months I wore ear plugs on the El and held my hand over my heart as I walked up Michigan Avenue. Each felt being accosted, until my own vibrations rose to match those of the city.

Whenever people asked where I was from, I responded, “I was born in Detroit. I live in Chicago. Oakland is my spirit home.”

But eventually … I got worn down. I surrendered. To this city. It’s people. To my addiction. I made a life for myself here. I grew my business. Got sober. And converted to the faith of my childhood – righting a religious technicality.

I stopped beginning every sentence with “In California …”

I found my biological parents. I learned to dance. I took my husband to the place where I spent my childhood summers, 8 hours away in northwest Michigan.

I began having experiences rather than talking about them.

And somewhere along the way I fell in love with this sometimes dirty, noisy, violent city. I fell in love with its architecture. Its people. Perhaps, most of all, I fell in love with myself.

Four years later I moved to Seattle. The wife of a now doctor, I felt obligated to go.

I cried like a wounded animal. Like I cried when I left Bay Area. Mourning the loss of morning hikes in Redwood Park, Peets coffee, and KFOG radio. The Golden Gate Bridge. My old house in Haight-Ashbury. The place where I met my husband and was married.

 

spirit home
Spirit Home. The French Trail in Redwood Park, Oakland.

Except this time, the loss felt strictly internal. Chicago, the place, has never spoken to me. Its topography. Its flatness and lack of nature feel uninspired. But there is something in its soil, in its DNA, that takes root in me.

It called me back after a year in Seattle. When my marriage ended and for the first time in a long time, I got to choose where I would live.

And it called me back after a year in Madrid, where I was teaching English. Fulfilling a childhood dream of living overseas. One I spoke about here, just before I left, a year ago. My only lament that my passport is far less sexy than it would be pre-European Union.

Since arriving, I’ve been greeted with warm “welcome backs” and tentative “welcome homes.” And the inevitable, “What brought you back?” It’s a fair question. One I’ve grappled with myself since making the decision not to renew my visa a couple of months ago.

There are lots of reasons.

Living in a country where you don’t speak the language – at least not fluently, is at best, frustrating. At worst, infantilizing. Without words, one’s personality changes. Mi casera, my landlady, once commented “You are quiet.” To which I replied, “Not in English.”

I needed, and asked for, a lot of help. Scheduling doctors’ appointments. Opening a bank account. Translating government documents. Buying a Spanish cell phone to replace mine which didn’t work.

I slept in a twin bed in an already furnished room in a grand, old Spanish apartment. I felt like a child. I moved the bed. Removed a chest of drawers. A few pictures. I hung up a batik of Ganesh, a string of elephants on a gold chain and a vision board I created around Thanksgiving time. I was still acutely aware that the place was not “mine.” It was not “home.”

The thought of living alone, setting up internet and utilities felt overwhelming. Even friends who were fluent in Spanish waited two months or longer for connectivity. Making due with coffee shops and on occasion, cold showers.

I focused on gratitude. For the opportunity to live with this 83-year-old former UN translator who lived through the Franco era and who was willing to speak with me in halting Spanish or easy English. For my inexpensive rent and the courtyard our apartment looked out on to.

For the community I created. With other teachers. Other expats. And others I met traveling.

For the ability to see Eastern Europe, North Africa and a good deal of Spain. For getting paid, albeit not as much as I had hoped, to talk.

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Traveling in Tangier with my friend Lindsey.

My students adored me. And I, them. But I was acutely aware that they were my students and not my friends … much as I wanted to talk. And much as they were eager to listen.

I had a life. But it was a smaller life.

The English-speaking community in Madrid is transient, making it difficult to build and sustain long-term friendships. And I couldn’t imagine beginning a romantic relationship … in part due to my lack of language skills. But also because of cultural differences. And while my work as a massage therapist surprisingly followed me to Spain, offering me a few clients and a few extra euros a month, my opportunities for employment would always be limited.

I felt limited.

I didn’t know that until a few weeks ago when I was talking with my friend Pam … who had spent six hours in the Social Security office. Playful, friendly and highly communicative, she said to the workers on her way out, “We’re such good friends, I’m going to invite you all to my wedding.”

“That’s it,” I said, pointing to the air, which she – of course – couldn’t see.

I can’t make small talk. I don’t have the language to strike up a conversation on the metro, in the elevator or at the grocery store. I’m too busy thinking about what I’m going to say and how to say it … and by the time I know how, the moment is gone.

And in that moment I realized what home was.

Yes, in its simplest form, home is where I reside. Where I know how to get where I’m going and the fastest way to get there.

Home is the place where restaurants know my face, possibly my name, and often my order. Where I speak the language. And where I sometimes hear my name called out in the street.

But mostly it is a place where I can get bigger. Where I feel expansive. Where I can grow. And to grow, I need to root. Home is a place where the soil is loamy. And conditions are favorable to temperament. A place like Chicago.

 

 

 

Adios, and the Ladies Who Deliver “The Lunch”

IMAG4183There are these two women who deliver lunch every day at ThyssenKrupp.

One is tall and thin. Twenty-something. Calm and smiling. The other is about my age. She wears a bob and a frantic look on her face – as if, like the Mad Hatter, she’s always running late.

Each has six or so white paper bags dangling from each arm. Some containing fish. Others chicken. Some of the students will eat their lunch before class. Others after. Never during. No matter how many times I assure them it is ok. And always, always in the cafeteria. Never at their desks.

As a rule, Spanish people set aside time for their meals – even if it is only a half hour. My students laugh watching me pull an apple from my bag at the end of class. I will eat it walking to the metro – a dead giveaway that I am an American.

This is because, as a rule, Spanish people do not rush. Every ex-pat I know voices the same frustration with Spanish people walking – often five across, blocking the entire sidewalk – slowly. It seems to be the one cultural difference they never learn to accept.

Perhaps this is why I notice this woman. The one with the pageboy and the panicked look. Because her speed, as she delivers “the lunch,” seems more like that of a New Yorker than a Spaniard.

I do not know her name. Either of their names. Or if either of them speaks English. We greet one another each day with a smile and “hola,” “buenas dias” or “hasta luego.” I’m not quite sure when this started, but it has become our ritual. “Ours” as it is mine and hers, and “ours” as it is specific to us – I do not see her engaging with other teachers, or perhaps I do not see them engaging with her.

Sometimes they are pulling into or out of the parking lot in a grey, beater hatchback, in which case, we just wave.

Today was my last day at ThyssenKrupp. I have been teaching here since last September. The company, like most companies offering English lessons, breaks for July and August, and part of June and September, to accommodate the summer schedule – a truncated day with most employees leaving at 3 and working not at all on Fridays.

Today my class insists we go to a nearby bar. That I eat tapas with them – calamares (fried squid), jamon (ham) and huevos rotos (“broken eggs” over fried potatoes with ham) – and “take a drink.”

This is the group that sang Happy Birthday to me on October 20 and bought me a gift. The group that wanted to know the details of my every trip. The group I watched “16 Candles” with, without subtitles, at the end of last semester.

Yesterday I said goodbye to my other class. The group that talked about relationships, divorce and finding love again. About weight struggles, religion and the most appropriate names for primary and secondary sex characteristics.

I’ve taught them why “normal” and “not normal” are loaded words. That we say “silverware,” not “tools.” “Outside” and not “in the street.” (I explain the difference by recalling the time my brother laid down in the street because another kid dared him to, and my mother yelling at him to “get out of the street.”) We’ve watched clips of the Macy’s Day Parade together and talked about Donald Trump … a lot.

They’ve taught me about Spanish politics, explaining how it is that the country still doesn’t have a president, and the tradition of eating 12 grapes at midnight on New Year’s Eve.

We part ways, yesterday and today, with the traditional kiss on each cheek. R. and I say goodbye twice, exchanging “American-style” hugs. E. invites me to her house for lunch, to meet her family, before I leave. I am deeply moved.

I tell them that some days, being with them was my only social interaction. That some days, being with them was the best part of my day. We agree they will let me know if they are in the United States, and I will let them know when I return to visit Madrid.

I drop off the attendance book and dry-erase marker in the Human Resources office for the last time, and return my badge on the way out. I take a photograph of the gate which has always eerily reminded me of the gates of Nazi concentration camps. Sometimes, I half expect to see the words, “Arbeit macht frei.” I once admitted this to my students and was shocked to learn they had the same response.

Walking to the train I hear a horn beeping. It sounds like it belongs to a go-cart. I turn to see the grey hatchback and the ladies who deliver lunch.

“Adios,” they call out, smiling and waving. Not hasta luego – see you later. Adios – goodbye.

“Adios,” I call back. Smiling and waving.

 

 

Because The Universe Still Speaks in Whispers

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A year later…in Lisbon, with a typical Portuguese man.

It is one of those days when I wonder what I’m doing here. And how I got here. How this “happened” to me.

Nothing particularly bad has happened. Nothing particularly good either.

It is cold. And I am tired.

My bedroom feels small. My lesson today on gratitude felt flimsy and flat. The mother of one of my students is once again making unreasonable demands.

It is the week of Thanksgiving and I am an ocean-plus away from “home” – which I loosely translate as somewhere in the United States, most likely Chicago.

I am talking to a friend who is going through a divorce, telling her everything that I know about divorce. And I admit that at least part of the reason I am here and not in Chicago is financial – that I wasn’t earning enough and couldn’t seem to find my way to more money.

I feel like a failure.

I am riding the train home and I look at my phone. Facebook, tells me I have memories with Nikki Nigl today. It is my blog from a year ago today — Artist Date 94: Do Something(s).

I click on the link and begin reading.

“A month has passed since I returned home from my solo sojourn to Italy.  It feels like forever ago.

Life comes on — quickly, strong, demanding — and I struggle to hold on to the peace and freedom I felt abroad.  The joy in getting lost, not knowing the answer — or sometimes even the question, in being alone.  My face looks pinched — the wrinkle between my eyebrows, smoothed by Umbria, has returned.”

I laugh. My face has look pinched for weeks, possibly months. And the wrinkle between my brow has deepened into what appears to be a permanent groove.

“The decisions I made, the desires of my heart — to live overseas, to publish a book (or more to the point, to be published) — begin to slip into the category of ‘all talk.’ “

To live overseas?! I live overseas!

“I recently read that most people would prefer to fail by not trying than fail by trying.  I get it.  I understand.  I wish I didn’t.”

But I am trying.

“…Sitting at the computer, doing nothing but waiting for something to happen, I mutter, ‘Do something.  Anything.’

I write an email and send it off.  (Two somethings.  Write — one.  Send — two.)  A few lines to the sister of a friend of a friend who just returned from Spain, where she taught English for several years.  I ask if she might meet me for coffee and share her experiences — how she got there, what it was like.”

I remember that coffee. It led to dinner. And then lunch. And then another dinner. Where I gathered not only information, but a new friend too.

 “…meeting with my rabbi …we talk about … my desires and deciphering the will and whim of the universe.  Especially when it seems to only speak in whispers.

It feels like a game of telephone and I constantly wonder if I’m hearing it right.

Until I get to the parking lot, into my car and check Facebook.

‘Anyone want a job in Portugal NOW?’

Scrolling down, I am tagged.  ‘Lesley Pearl, could it be you?’

My heart swells, leaps.  Not because I believe I will get the job and move to Portugal (although I might), but because the universe seems to be speaking loudly, clearly — the message undeniable, ‘Yes, Lesley, it is possible.’ “

Yes, it is. Because I am here now. And because I was in Lisbon just a few weeks ago.

And somehow I feel like less of a failure. Facebook has actually made me feel better — by reminding me of where I was, and allowing me to reflect on where I am. Helping me to see that this was all part of the plan…even if I still don’t quite understand it. Because the universe still speaks in whispers.