April, 2011

Get ready because we’re going on a journey in this post.

Yesterday I a friend sent me a post about crying in public, about how the fast-paced rhythm of the city shrouds yet magnifies our most private emotions from others. Melissa Febos hits it right on the head, describing the public train experience:

“In a place where we are so rarely alone, we find privacy in public. We all have our masks, behind which we are free to be, yes, depressed, or any other emotional state we may not want to share with 30 fellow passengers.”

and

“Public criers ask nothing; they don’t need anyone to take care of them.”

And it got me thinking of the four months I lived in Spain. Madrid taught me the cathartic experience of being personally vulnerable in the most public places. I cried many times in Spanish streets, and only once did someone ask me if I was OK.

I consider my short time in the big city the best and worst of my 20s, so far (still have a few years to go…). Freer than I’d ever been — no drama, no newspaper responsibilities, no clubs, few difficult classes — I felt lost. Without all the activities and things that cluttered my life, I didn’t know who I was.

I lived with four American girls and one Spaniard. I made friends at school. I taught English once a week. I traveled. I went out.

But I also spent a lot of time alone. Sometimes I felt lonely. I usually didn’t miss anyone. I missed the feeling of knowing what I had to do and doing those things.

I dealt with the loneliness in three ways. I left the apartment and walked to stores, to the market, to parks, to nowhere. I ate pastries and apples instead of meals. I drank a lot of cheap, red wine. The combination of these things resulted in an uncanny knowledge of the city and major muscle loss.

I often cried in the middle of my walks. Something would remind me of home. Or someone would be rude to me in a store. Or a nasty man would “compliment” me and my blond hair in the street.

And I would cry, usually while walking away from whatever sparked the waterfall.

I spent Easter 2006 like most of that semester — alone. During Holy Week, I traveled France and Italy with a friend who was little more than a classmate.

I met up with my little sister and her high school trip to Europe in Rome, which included a few people I knew for a long time. For the first time in months, I wasn’t alone. But however I’d changed into in three months fit with my past.

I returned to Madrid on Easter Sunday to an empty apartment, which I would have relished before. Instead, I took to the streets, even more empty than usual for Sundays because of the holiday.

Despite Spain’s plethora of churches and cathedrals, none were open for me to wander into. So I walked to a little park in the next neighborhood over, sat on a bench and said an Easter prayer. I didn’t cry, a first for me on major holidays away from my family.

Holidays and personal moments away from people I love have become the norm; I’m not lonely and I’m rarely alone.

Flash-forward to 2011. During this morning’s Easter sermon, the pastor said, “Something must die in order to have a resurrection.”

I didn’t realize it on that Easter Sunday in Spain, but I had a resurrection of sorts. I lost the neediness to define myself by what I did and what I could accomplish.

Not all resurrections have been that big. I had one last week after spending three days on my couch, sick as a dog. Man, it felt good to wake up without a Nyquil hangover, dress myself and leave the apartment. Hallelujah!

“]

Hardy daffodils. [Casper, Easter Sunday 2011

Hard to believe I was in New Orleans two weeks ago.

I was there for the Education Writers Association conference and stayed a few days to hang out with my family and enjoy the city.

On Thursday morning, my first in the city, I woke up and ran a sweaty three miles along the neutral ground (median) to Audubon Park. I’ve run a handful of times since February, but this was the first run that felt good, natural. It had nothing to do with the heat and humidity — I could have done without that.

I snacked on fruit and read the newspaper in the kitchen while chatting with my aunt. The scene could have happened two years ago. Again, natural.

Other now-foreign experiences that felt “natural:” walking to get coffee at Rue de La Course, riding shotgun through narrow streets, iced pecan praline coffee from PJ’s, heading straight to the right aisle in my old grocery store, listening to Kermit Ruffins and eating gumbo in the sun, dining al fresco on Magazine with an old friend.

Sunshine, family, music, river breeze, happiness. (April 9, 2011)

When recapping my short trip to NOLA, a friend pointed out the obvious: Going to New Orleans is like going home.

I don’t have to do touristy things or see the sights — I’m happiest just stretching on my aunt and uncle’s porch, breathing in the jasmine and morning humidity. Or drinking Abita and eating cheese fries (2 nights in a row) at my favorite hangout. Or laughing with my cousins in my aunt’s kitchen.

I came home with strong coffee, sunburn and a full heart. I can always go home. And when I can’t, I can brew some strong coffee and think of it.