And so it begins

I can´t remember the last time I spent the entire day in class. 9-5. Maybe never? It has certainly been at least 10 years since I have been actively learning for so many hours with barely a break to relax. Marvelous.

My accent is terrible, of course it is. If I were in Brasil it would be fine, but practically all vowel sounds in peninsular Portuguese are closed, and I just can´t seem to hear the difference. Ah well, I have only been at if for a few days. Finally feeling a bit settled in... the crazy casera who seemed mortified that we might ask for the use of a tiny corner of her kitchen, not to cook, but to refrigerate milk or stash a piece of bread for breakfast, has made a bit of a turn around and even offered us coffee this morning (which we declined, after paying the month´s rent). Kristina, my cohort and classmate from Minnesota and I have been exploring together, and we met another student Sarah, from Chicago yesterday who had discovered a few more interesting things about the city, primarily a free government sponsored internet café which remains open after the university´s lab shuts down, and a supermarket, where we bought bread and tetrapak milk in individual containers to hide in our bedrooms.

Food here is excessively inexpensive, complete student meals for between 1.90€ and 3€, and since I have found away to avoid the fries, I am feeling better about eating in general. What more to complain about then? I love the steep morning climb that leaves me slightly winded, but promises to get my leg muscles into the best shape they have seen in years. By the end of the day I was so tired from walking around the outskirts and sneaking in to the run down bairros, to take pictures of the ugliness too (difficult to find, but worth it in its quaint run-downedness) that my knees were wobbly and I felt lucky to not tumble down the last hills. I have terrible blisters on my toes and between them, and I realize that I shouldn´t have painted my toenails red because I have no acetone and I want to rid myself of them.

Mostly it has been so liberating this feeling of aloneness. I sat waiting for Kristina to come down the monumental steps for dinner, looking out over the city with a light misty fog rolling in, and just felt... what? Alive? Alone? Closer to something ineffable? Perhaps that is what it is, in love with the world once more.

Bemvindo

I´m here.

Yes, here I am. Wasn´t it said that wherever you go, there you are? Or that you can´t run away from yourself? All of the above.

Strangely enough, though. I am not. Not fully. What I mean to say is that I am here, but at the same time it is not me that is actually present. Momento, momento... me explico.

We are who we project ourselves to be, an amalgamation of the way we see ourself and the way others see us. Our identities are shifting constantly based on the people with whom we interact. And yet, one becomes accustomed to a certain identity, a certain set of identities and the markers of those identities are donned and shed with the style and grace required. Mother, student, lover, social outcast, liberal, libertine (?) and the likes. But here?

Here I am something different. A foreigner, to be sure, but not one that is easily placed. I have been mistaken for Italian and Spanish, and even Portuguese (by a Spaniard) but not pegged as an American, not yet, or not to my face at least. I am not a mother here. Nobody looking at me assumes that, in fact, most likely they assume the opposite. (What would be the opposite you ask?)

I had forgotten. Forgotten what it meant to be a woman traveling alone, with eyes wide open and an only somewhat discreet camera in hand. I had forgotten the eyes. Neither kind nor unkind, precisely, but the eyes that pass by and undress you, tear each piece of metaphorical covering from your (admitedly not well-enough) covered body. I had forgotten the way that men group together and leer, imposing their opinion of you, or ripe with expectation, or disgust, or a mixture of the two coupled with wistful fascination. The women that look from shoes to head, pausing only briefly with their disapproving gaze as you try to inconspicuously speak in another language on the phone.

Ah yes, isn´t it all wonderful, the strangeness? The difference, like bathing in bright blue otherness, as a way to realize that what you consider self to be is only one way of looking at things, one way of looking at you.

The city expands out beneath my feet, cobbled pavement promises to be a danger to ankles and steep inclines with slippery smooth stones provide just enough excitement and insecurity to force one to watch her own steps as she ascends or descends. In the center of the city, the commercial plaza, littered with the requisite pigeons, sidewalk cafés, street vendors, and men in hats is set up with a mini football court and a large screen on which the world cup matches are being broadcast for the town. I sit shivering, after a few too many glasses of red wine, taken alone, on the far edge of the riser and ignore the incredulous stares. I watch France beat Spain, and remember that it was here, not so far away, in 1982 that I first picked up a ball and began playing. It was in a plaza, in the center of Madrid that I first asked my mother why little boys could play with their shirts off and little girls had to suffer through the heat. I still wonder about those things, but perhaps for different reasons.

The air of propriety is not so much oppressive as amusing and I decide, smiling to myself, in cahoots with the devil, that I will thumb my nose at it all and let people think what they will. After all, it isn´t me that they are seeing anyway.

Bon voyage... or my trip, thus far

Although it may seem that I have fallen off the edge of the planet, I have merely been traveling and, incidentally, disengaged from my computational duties. (In fact I am actively trying to break a bad habit, but more on that later... perhaps).

Flying with I. is generally pleasant, and mostly uneventful. Beyond her sacking the jellybean supply while I slept through almost the entire cross-continental journey, she behaved spectacularly, and has been a joyous, if overly energetic companion. Only today, early this morning have the tears begun, as she realizes exactly what it means that I am going away and leaving her behind. Genuine pain, as her face crumples up and hot tears spring from her eyes. God I am going to miss her hot little hands in mine, her breath in my face. I feel guilty each time I unlace her from the eternal embrace to which I am subject. I miss her already, and she still lies sleeping next to me.

We have done the rounds. I finally got to the DeCordova Museum with my aunt Shelley on the first day here. Then on to see Laura and Andy at their new place. I had forgotten how damp and tropical summers are here on the east coast, I had forgotten about mosquitos at dusk. Gentle reminders abound. Every meal was fabulous, Indian at the India Café on Brattle, Vietnamese, Marrocan. We visited the swan boats (per I.'s vigorous request) with my high school physics teacher-turned-friend, Mike (he had never been, despite living in Boston for the last 10 years), ate at a real honest-to-goodness deli.

It seems so strange to be a tourist in a place that was once your own, but I was reminded that perhaps I wouldn't be averse to relocating back to this coast one day...Who knows, I still have so much of California to explore. World Cup mania spilled out onto the streets, and I. groaned at me as I tugged her arm towards the open windows of the local pub. Yes, we watched Argentina squash Mexico in the first minutes of overtime... she cried for Mexico, even though she had no idea what was going on. I wonder if there will be football on the flight this evening? British Airways to Portugal? Both teams are playing, in the next few days... it is with not a little excitement that I envision myself in some local bar watching the final match. Last time I watched a World Cup final while traveling (or at all for that matter, I think) was at a Brazilian Bar in New York City, the year that France won, strangely enough, in France.

Jenny caught up with us the third day, after her unbearably long debriefing session released her from jobly duties. I. and I, of course, listened to street music in the square and sipped frozen drinks while finishing book 5 of the Chronicles of Narnia: Voyage of the Dawn Treader. We had just made it to the beginning of the end of the world when Jenny waved wildly at us from across the street. To celebrate the first official night of summer we, of course, grilled. Andy made a lime, ginger, peanut marinade for tuna steaks and I marinated mushrooms and yellow squash in a balsamic, soy, garlic concoction. I also made a cucumber, tomato (is it really summer without deep red ripe tomatoes? I ask) basil salad with garlic, olive oil, and red wine vinager, and Laura supplied a light coconut rice. Meanwhile Jenny added her chopping and child entertaining skills to the mix while I. gorged herself on artichoke. A good time was had by all.

After sufficiently lauding both ourselves for being participants and I. for being the active agent upon losing her very first tooth, (I was so bummed that I would miss that milestone, and there it was...) we window shopped through the myriad shops of second-hand clothing, antiques and curios, and only actually bought (big surprise) books and stationery. I. was a good sport, after all, nothing was bought for her, but many, many flavors of ice cream over the course of the days. Before heading back, Laura met us for lunch, and we weathered quite a violent thunderstorm and summer downpour together at Herrell's ice cream. Suffering terribly, of course. In the evening, we took I. to the Loeb experimental theater to see a decidedly non-experimental show (though staging was indeed minimalist): You're a Good Man Charlie Brown, but she had fun, and knew almost all the songs. She was still dancing like a dervish, late into the night, with nary a complaint. I was the one who was dragging, being neither on East Coast nor West Coast time, I have been sleeping about 4 hours a night, all provoked because I decided to finally have my advisor over for dinner and subsequently stayed up the entire night before leaving to scrub down my kitchen, and put the finishing touches on my house prior to the arrival of the sublettors. Someone is home at my house as we speak, but it isn't me. Sleeping all day and arriving in the evening which was really the afternoon has thrown me all out of whack, not to mention the fact that morning comes extremely early here. But I shan't complain because the worst of jet lag is still to come, and I don't even know where I am going to spend my first night in Europe. Ah yes.

Upon thoughtful reconsideration, I did in fact buy myself a guidebook, seing as how I am leaving the computer (my ultimate and often only source of information) behind, I thought it wise to have some sort of orientation material, maps, names of trainstations and price guides handy. I suppose I'll have to read some of it on the flight, or then again, maybe not. As it turns out, I have several friends that actually live in, and will be in Portugal, so I may in fact get to travel a bit more than I expected, but that will be a story for another day. Saturday we had planned on the beach, the Atlantic enticingly frigid as ever beckoned, but the gods of weather would not have it be so, and instead we brunched at the fabulous High Rise bakery, and went back to the square to see A Prairie Home Companion. I. laughed throughout but petulantly claimed that she was only pretending to like it. We know better.

Finally back at my aunt and uncle's house, I got to see my cousin Sam, and meet another, previously unknown second cousin Rhea. Lovely time, we sat around the kitchen table drinking tea and singing songs from musical theater that we all grew up with for I. and alternately listening to her. I couldn't sleep, didn't sleep well, awoke early and fiddled with my computer (see?)

But, here are the results, at least, of the first leg of my journey. I hope to update on occasion, but may be MIA for a while. Who knows. In any case, friends, Romans, countreymen... er... lend me your eyes...

Boston 2006

beautiful birthday

I hate birthdays, always have. It isn't so much that I mind getting older, in fact, mostly I still feel like a neophyte with nothing to offer the world... but it is the expectation. It was never as good as I wanted it to be. Never as exciting. School almost always ended on or around my birthday, which, while it is a nice present in and of itself, tends to overshadow the actual importance (or imagined importance) of my special day. It sent people spinning in whirls of dispersion, far from any sort of unified showing or celebration in my honor.

Of course there were a few notable exceptions, one year there was a surprise party at the Swim club, of course, it was a shared celebration for me and my brother (who, by the way has his birthday 6 months before or after, depending on how you look at it). Anyway, point is, my parent's anniversary is two days before, and Father's day on or right after, and for whatever reason (let's call it narcissistic self-involvement for now) nobody ever made me feel very special. I mean, I always got a present or two, and a card (my mom is obsessed with cards) but they were never ceremonious enough to make me feel like they were much more than an afterthought. I know, I know, poor little spoiled girl. It isn't that, I have never cared much about amassing things, it is, like jokes, all in the delivery.

At the end of this birthday however (it ended today, really, with me picking up I. from Kirsten's house and spending the day with K., P. et. al. at the beach) I have no new things to call my own, and yet, it was the best birthday I have had in quite some time. No, no parties held in my honor, nothing like that, just simple little things, a night at the LA Opera - La Traviata (gorgeous), a phone call from Costa Rica (Sole) and another one from NY (my dear friend Jen --who I have known since we were 5? and who I rarely see, but when we do, it is as if no time has passed, even if there are 7 years between the last visit-- just directed a play that was favorably reviewed in the New York Times!) a finished final paper that made me feel proud of myself, virtual cards from virtual friends (Oscar, Flo), and a lunch in the sun with my baby on her last day of kindergarten. I can't really explain it all, but I feel so very alive. And so very lucky to have such wonderful friends in my life.

Next week it is off to Boston, to visit Laura, and Jenny (who will be on a serendipitously coincidental business trip) and then to Portugal where I will be computerless (and happy about that) beyond internet cafés. Finally K. (childless K.) will be meeting me in Lisbon and we will head north through Galicia, País Vasco, perhaps through the Pyrenees and down to Barcelona, then to Andalucía, and finally to Madrid to see la tía Loli and my boy Antonio (who promises to take me to the best gay bars in the city).

Thank you to all my dear friends (you know who you are), you really mean so much to me and I love you.

Rats, foiled again

It never fails, ever. The more you absolutely need piece of mind, there is something to throw a monkey wrench into the plan. Or perhaps I should thank my child for getting sick after my examinations and final administration (we'll ignore the little detail of the parking ticket I received during the exam). It could have been worse. Heck, come to think of it, with the $5 co-pay for the strep culture/ visit I felled two birds with only one stone, saving myself the $15 fee for filling out a "report of health examination for entry into school" by asking the kindly doctor to fill it out during a visit, as opposed to not during one. This is a five line form, I might add.

This is what is wrong with the system. The doctors are charging $15 for a form that is pro forma... everyone must have one to get into school. The schools are requiring a specific document that demonstrates children's healthful readiness for school (so far, I am not particularly opposed, yes, perhaps this impinges on my right to privacy, but I'll enter into this particular social contract so that my kid might be equally protected from rampant infection) one and a half years after she has entered into said school. You see my point.

Ultimate results:
Paper: 0
Kid: negative strep
Clean kitchen: priceless?

So, as I am wont to do, in procrastinational fits, I did nothing more than mull over the same ideas in my mushy grey matter, while scrubbing each and every counter surface in my kitchen, upheaving appliances, rearranging them, and emptying all pantries of food, save for what needs to last us this week.

Problems. I have half a bottle of vodka in the freezer and two mostly full bottles of Mexican and Israeli (respectively) coffee liqueurs, and no desire to be drunk. None. Not even buzzed. I suppose I shall just pack it all away, or throw a large party for others? No, not that, must leave the house sparkling for sublettors. Incidentally, beyond reading through and shredding three months of accumulated mail, restoring my bookshelves to their former glory, emptying the kitchen and downstairs closet of my belongings and updating all of my myriad on-line payment/ receival accounts with my new (yes, once again) bank account, as well as readjusting my phone for summer unuse, I also made a nice agua de jamaica and edamame.

Clearly I am as scattered as my professor made me out to be, last week when I left his office fighting back tears. I didn't cry though, just for the record, even though I was angry as hell, and distraught. At least not in front of him. I'll show him, I will... Tomorrow I will write one kick-ass close reading in a highly organized fashion and he'll just have to eat his words... Tomorrow. There's always tomorrow.

Mid-week update

While last weekend was spectacular, it seems that June gloom has now settled in on us. Heck, one weekend of fabulous procrastination was all I could really afford anyway. Two full days of actively ignoring my work felt really necessary. Mental preparation for the grueling exam that was to come.

And was it ever grueling. But, as the say at Bryn Mawr: Done is Good! and I am done (at least with that). Yes, it is over, and I am left feeling... relieved? Not so much. More than that, a sense of ennui has settled in over me. I stumbled out wobbly-kneed after a 2 hour (which was officially only supposed to be one hour) examination in which I think I have never said so many stupid or unfounded things in my life - I could be wrong.

So what if I am getting the outstanding MA award? it seems like minor compensation for all that emotional trauma. HA. I'll be over it in a week, I am sure.

So what is next? That's what everyone keeps asking. Well if I could even see straight with all the work that I have left for the end of the quarter...

Ah yes, it never really ends does it? But for now, I will go back to reading about "Theater of the Oppressed" and perhaps manage to scrounge around enough original ideas to write this afternoon's paper. Are there any left in that poor little head of mine? We'll see.

behind the times

Ok, so it took me a week to upload photos from last weekend. This one has been equally gorgeous (though it may take me another week to upload said photos). Despite better judgment, I spent the day with my beloved at the beach, with K. and P. and a few others. The water was spectacular, and once I dragged her out past where the waves break, and began the lesson on how to read the ocean swells, she was paddling about happily. I also made the brilliant rediscovery of 30 SPF sunblock, last weekend's trip to the newly revamped rec cen pool left my back scorching, quite literally, for the week entire. Ah yes. The ozone is rapidly depleting. On other brilliant fronts, (public service announcement) I found out, based on Jenny's timely suggestion, that when one has no insurance to cover meds, the price varies wildly from one commercial pharmacy to the next, and I thusly spent only $300 out of pocket instead of $450... bastards... So, word to the wise, comparison shopping, it isn't just for techie equipment anymore...

So, little slice of life, the one I actually lead, as opposed to the virtual one that has suffered my negligence (fucking comps, I mean, seriously, I should have standards, right?) Ah, right, so I am not saying anything, so as not to jinx myself, but so far so good, just one more hoop for monday, and I have to dress up. Should I shave? Terrible question, am I morally obliged to do so? OR to not do so? When actually it is really not a political statement I am making at all but rather one of personally autonomy/ thumbing one's nose at decorum. Should my exam be above that? Or below it? Ah well, guess it will all depend on if I can scare up a razor between now and then. Which is not looking good, because I did all the shopping for the week, and mostly K.'s surprise party tomorrow, which was mostly fruit and wine for the sangría and lettuce and other sorts of fruit and cheese for the salad.