Tango

Last night I walked from my house to the club in Goya. It's more like a milonga then the dance studio in Lavapies. There are no bars along the walls but there are floor-length mirrors. There are no bright florescent lights. The lights are low. It's atmospheric.

I dance my first tango with Luciano- my professors' son. Everything feels so easy. Luciano dances the way most people breath- instinctually. I know to put my knees together, to keep my feet on the floor, to move slowly- but it is coming from a place deep within me. It is becoming my instinct too. We are fluid and it feels beautiful. When we finish Luciano asks his father, Claudio, if he saw me dancing-

"Yes she dances well" - and I think that's enough. Seven euros is worth one tango with Luciano and a compliment from the prof.

In the middle of another tango Luciano looks up at me and asks me if I've gone somewhere else to learn.

"No- have I improved?"

He nods dramatically,"I can do more with you now!"

"Maybe I'm more relaxed?"

"Hmmm! That could be!"

I can't help but remember the question his mother- Caro- had asked me my first month here in Madrid when I'd force myself out of my apartment to go dance: Why are you so timid?

I didn't want there to be but there was an insecurity behind my dancing and a desire for perfection that was laced with anxiety. It was winter and afterwards I'd walk home alone in the cold staring at the streetlights and looking at the closed shops' window displays wondering how to make this city mine and what it would take to move my life along.

But now- it is months later and I know how to walk to this new place from my apartment. It's summertime and there is a pale white moon in the still light blue sky. So much has happened between then and now. I have learned how to live in Madrid. I have learned how to move across more then just dance floors and now tango is what it ought to be- not something to catapult me into life- but an expression of what I love.

Que es esta? - Luciano says as he imitates me clasping my hands together. What is this?

Esta es 'por favor baila conmigo!" - I tell him. This is 'please dance with me!'

The truly great moments are when we are not talking at all- just moving. And I know that it's different this time. I can feel it too. I'm happy.

Semana Santa

There are times when I wish I could write in Spanish because I want to write for people who speak Spanish as their first language. I feel certain things and experience them in Spanish and it has a certain poetic quality that English does not hold for me. But even memories made in Spanish still translate themselves to English in my head and when I want to write something personal it only makes sense to do so in my mother tongue. So if I could write this in Spanish and say what I wanted- I would. In fact, if I could always say what I meant when speaking Spanish, well, I would do that too. But, for now, English will have to do.

"Have you written about us yet?" - Lucas asked me (in Spanish).

"Yes"

"What did you write?"

"Ummm"

"Ah! You've written so many things you don't remember"

"Ha."

I hadn't yet but here goes- we all met in the hostel in Sevilla on the rooftop terrace when Lucas invited us to sit down and share some drinks. Two Argentine boys and an Italian girl traveling together and then us three girls- British, Italian and North American. The next day we made plans to meet up and went to to the river to drink mate- my first mate since I was in Argentina. I suddenly remembered sitting in Centro Conviven- passing around the mate cup- the fall sun shining through the open windows. Was it really so long ago? And was it so surreal to be in Sevilla- a place I never thought I'd go to- drinking yerba mate with new friends in a new country? From then on it seemed from there on out we were like a family on vacation. We stuck together.

"Can I try some?" I wanted some of Lucas's empanada- I was already so full from the best empanadas I've had in Spain but I wanted to try a caprese one.

"Just take a piece- as if we were friends our whole lives instead of for just two days" he said. That's how easy he is to get along with. I would like to be more like that. I would like the ability to just let people be my friend so easily instead of thinking about the last time I got hurt or worrying about whether I talk too much and if people like me. It must be easier to be that relaxed and it's a more beautiful way to be- welcoming.

Or be more optimistic like Panchi- who seems to have a positive word for everything and a balanced perspective. He seems to have the ability to just take it in and then give it all back. These are the two guys who will dive into the ocean with you and your crazy friend when the weather couldn't be any less beach-like just because you are there.

Then there are the girls, of course, who are so easy to just be with and make me revel slightly in the fact that we can have much-needed girl talk in our second language (with Italian and English thrown in). It's a bit miraculous if I think about it.

I wish I had more time to get to know Silvi better because she has an undeniable and obvious depth combined with a fantastic sense of humor. She is the kind of person you look across the table at and you both know what you are laughing about without saying anything.

The girls I came with who are some of the first people I met here in Madrid and I can really be myself with them. Pepa, my British girl- so sweet and intelligent and Maria- my faithful theater class friend- who looked at me when we are shivering in the sea and said "Who would have thought that when we met in Madrid that we would be here now together?" I don't think I did but at that moment I felt so happy and so grateful.

Meeting people is one of the best possible reasons to travel and I am blessed to have had both the opportunity to travel and really wonderful people to meet. It's other people who allow you to move past yourself and open up your mind to new ways of being and thinking. Sometimes people are the ones that hold up a mirror and make you realize you need to give others the second chances you wish to receive. The guys made me rethink the way I'm not really fair when I'm mean about Argentine men or say that they are too "pesados" because my experiences are and were limited and I'm generalizing too much. I set my standards for the world so high that I forget to let people exceed them, meet them, surprise me. I leave out the positive as if everything good doesn't count but it does. It counts for a lot. I have a lot to learn. It's humbling. And yet, the fact that people have the patience to let me learn along with them in the same way they don't seem to mind bearing with my broken international mess of Spanish means a lot.

Maybe we'll all travel together again or run into each other in some other corner of the world but for now I'm just happy to know that I have these people to add into my memories of this year. Because when I remember Sevilla I'll remember the narrow streets and tiled bars, the flamenco music playing on the radio and when I think of Malaga I'll think of the cold gray sea and clouds but mostly I'll remember the joy in being with this unexpected group and the feeling of new friends.

Perfection

Buenos Aires, Argentina 2009

Deciding to come to Buenos Aires was not an easy decision for me. So much seemed to rest upon this experience- whichever country I chose was going to influence my Spanish more than any other place yet. After I saw Italy I thought I would choose Spain. Europe was so beautiful and inviting. It was like being dropped in a post card. After two summers in the Dominican Republic and three months at language school in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, it seemed to be a logical choice.

But I found myself drawn back to Mexico. I went to Tijuana twice with my college on two incredible trips. For a long time I had hoped I could find some way of returning. My freshman year at Gordon, Professor Lutz set up a Spanish table once a week in Lane. Anyone who wanted to practice was welcome but they might have been a bit discouraged as I used it as a chance to argue over the fact that Spanish majors aren’t actually allowed to chose Mexico as a study abroad location. I remember asking her if the department would let me study in Tijuana. I like to think she enjoyed these interactions and my rather theatrical pleas. I still knew I had to go to Latin America even if it was not Mexico and began sifting through programs, cities and countries. I tried to weigh my motives and reasons for going to Latin America. It began to feel trickier when I began to lean towards the Paris of the South, Buenos Aires.

As my time here begins to fill in and form into an actual experience I am not completely sure why I chose Buenos Aires. Sociology played a role, peoples’ recommendations, opportunities, the chance to do something different, to stretch myself, etc. I do not tell many people this but I actually considered dropping my Spanish major and heading of to South Africa. However, when I really thought about it I wanted to keep chasing this dream of fluency. The most concrete reason, however, is fulfilling the remaining quota of Spanish credits. I would like to think it to be more profound than that but there it is in all of its honesty.

I do know I am being stretched, first and foremost linguistically. Mexican Spanish continues to be the easiest for me to understand. When Mexican telenovelas are on television here it’s a refreshing break from the Buenos Aires accent. I love Mexican accents. Once I was told that I sounded “like we do” by a Mexican. I was on top of the world. Last year when I was in Guatemala on a sociology seminar with Gordon, I made friends with our driver, Oliver. We bonded over our shared love for Latin music. He’d always look back at me in the rearview mirror to see if I knew who the artist was when a new song came on over the van’s speakers. When he told me I spoke like I was from northern Mexico I was giddy with happiness at the idea. He may have been lying or trying to please me because it’s obvious I do not speak that way anymore. Not even close.

Mostly people tell me they can’t identify where I am from, that is, if they cannot note right away that I am American. They tell me my accent is a combination. For anyone who has never learned a second language, imagine combining four accents- a New York accent with an Alabaman accent, and then mix in a few words that only the British use with the pronunciation of a Canadian. I imagine I sound that bizarre at times. I say “yo” like a Dominican and then throw in “ahorita” like a Mexican all while trying to make the “sh” sound when I make the “ll” sound like the Argentines then I slip up and lisp like a Spaniard (blame it on all those Almodóvar films). I am also sure this is amusing but one grows tired of not just talking but striving constantly. I quickly get irritated with patronizing smiles and try to resist speaking in English “just because.” One of the people who strongly recommended Buenos Aires to me told me not to be deterred by the accent. “Your accent will always be a mix” he said. I knew that was true but I did not want it to be. My host mom, Claudia, says she likes the way I talk. She added that the most important thing is that they understand me. So is it just vanity then that I want a pure accent- fully one country or the other?

I had this idea that I could develop into a fully bilingual human being with two complete identities in both English and Spanish. When I was seventeen this was incredibly much more plausible. Now, I’m twenty-one and not to be all fatalistic, but I am getting older. It is not nearly as easy as it once looked to my big blue eyes.

I am desperate to move beyond the typical and comfortable topics like the weather (yes, New York is cold and no, I do not like it) and music (no, I am not a huge Charly Garcia fan and yes, I like reggaeton). But I want to sound intelligent when I talk about politics or someone asks me to explain what we are studying in my Latin American social thought class. I do not want to talk in haltering sentences or look to someone else in search of the word I need to make sense.
My identity is more English than Spanish. I knew this but adjusting to the weight of this statement takes something out of me. I’m running up against a wall. There are things that I cannot ever change about myself. Even if I looked Argentine I will never sound Argentine. I am a native English speaker. I am not Hispanic by any means. Even if my cultural understanding was superb and my people skills were excellent, I am American. When I put my pen to the page or my hands to the worn out keys of my computer my instincts are in English. When I aim to understand a thought or an intellectual idea my perspective is American. My political understanding, my social norms, my spirituality, and my way of being are inherently American.

I do not know that I will ever feel like I fully blend into this country or even this continent. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe I am being taught a deeper empathy than I have yet to know. You cannot know the difficulty of moving from one place to another until you do it.I am beginning to know deeper parts of my being- some of them beautiful to me and some of them more painful to assess. I have come to no concrete conclusions but that I still want to be here. That is the most important at the moment. I would like to be here and have answers to all of my doubts. I am not yet halfway through my time here so I daresay I will at least have a few erased. Perhaps the other questions and doubts will stay with me- there to remind me that I am only human, and that purpose does not always require perfection.

A Distant Dream Revisited

"Maybe I'll just move back to Buenos Aires" I told my Dad last night as we discussed my various life options.
"No!" he said, "It's too far." It does feel far- too far. Far enough that if I could I'd catch a flight to my Southern Paris just to make sure that it's still there. Last night while in bed I thought about this piece I wrote in January. It still feels appropriate and I figured I'd share it here. Besos!

I remember my second to last night in Buenos Aires and it's like watching a film play across the inner workings of my mind.The glow of the kitchen is pleasant. There are four of us at the kitchen table- my Buenos Aires self in my brown harem pants and tee, Eduardo and Claudia, of course, and one of their American friends- an intense woman with a tiny knowledge of Spanish and a much larger one of tango. She makes me feel as though I am cheating when I say something in English. It's not like I never speak English with my friends or on Skype but I never speak it in an audible voice in the kitchen- at least not in the presence of my Argentine padres. To speak it now feels strange. I'm self-conscious. The words come too easy- the accent is my accent. My vowels are long and flat with a Canadian lilt. I switch back to Spanish quickly- it is suddenly my security blanket. It covers my tongue like a thick caramel and wraps around it safely. The visitor doesn't seem to mind and we all try and make her speak Spanish as we cut through our lomo with steak knives and hefty appetites.
Claudia remarks on how my Spanish has started to retain a decidedly Argentine influence. I agree and we both mimic the most Buenos Aires-esque attitude possible. Eduardo and Claudia laugh at whatever it is I say in my vain attempt at being clever in Spanish.We continue talking of Buenos Aires and reviewing what I have learned together. Claudia thoughtfully assesses my progress like a mother viewing her young child's report card approvingly. She is proud of the way I've learned to navigate the subte and buses elbowing my way through like a true Porteña and how I have begun to tango with a slight but certain sort of confidence. She notes how I've completed my courses with satisfactory grades - a true accomplishment considering I barely knew a thing about Argentine history five months previous."You know so much now", she says. She has tears in her eyes.
The movie pauses. I don't remember what I said. I must have said that I'd never forget. I must have meant it too. Eduardo cuts into my post Buenos Aires self's reflection.
"Soon it will all feel like a distant dream," he says with the wise authority of one who knows. He always challenges my most naive and idealistic leanings in politics, religion and life.
"No!" I say as if saying the word with effort will prevent the inevitable from happening.
Deep down I know he is right. It's exhausting to maintain a forced nostalgia no matter how well loved the people and place are. I knew it was going to feel distant because Buenos Aires is so far away but I never wanted it to feel like a dream that is cloudy and blurred- as if it never happened.Now the experience is not a reality but a film that plays out various scenes over once a while in my crowded out head. It's no longer my present but something finished and fading.
Another scene comes- my last day in the Paris of the South. I'm still wearing those harem pants as I stand over the kitchen table arranging my laptop and camera in my backpack and crying. I can’t control myself. It was strange because I knew all too well that I'd sit contentedly at kitchen table in the family farm house in the North Country within 24 hours. That is not to say that I felt no sorrow in the transition but enough of me was relieved that the move was softened considerably. I thought it might- I took Edu seriously. But the weeks following many of my other trips were often filled with acute longing so I couldn't help but wonder if that would happen this time. When I look back on those other trips now- my memories are more or less snapshots and no longer hold the fluidity of film- and see the teen angst that much of the reorientation home produced I'm embarrassed and think it all a bit ridiculous.
But I really valued the friendships I made and I hated that tearing feeling that came with leaving them. They could no longer be organic once forced to continue through email and the occasional visit. Maybe when you come from a place like I do you don't take such things for granted- it's a fact there are few people here. Our population is one of villages- it is rural and frontier. Either way, the leaving and the mourning that was sure to follow each of my adventures made me feel at the very least human. It was good to care so much and love and miss with so much passion. Now I just feel stagnant. I do not have much feeling at all - perhaps it's because I'm drained from last semester and the work that remains to finish up my college education. I am not unhappy nor happy to be here or to be there. I just am...I cried on occasion once back from Argentina. I cried quietly and seriously but always alone and always at night. I had learned how to be nocturnal under the equator. And then I went back to Gordon. I cried there too. But that was it. It was like when it happened at the kitchen table in Caballitos. I couldn't control it. I couldn't stop it. I let it out and that was that. I didn't sit and yearn for things I couldn't have. I just was...But not even that- it's not like my existence is steady or settled. It's not like I've stopped tossing around questions and pursuing solace in my memories. But I am apprehensive.
Shouldn't I know where I am already?
Or who I am?
I promised Claudia to make a half-decent attempt at continuing tango. I so honestly wanted to and yet as I drive out across snow covered back roads and look out onto collapsing barns and over-grown hay fields my mind starts to wondering about other things in this world. I don't know that dance could heal it even if I could find a place to continue learning how to.
Maybe when I wish to dance a sad tango I could just buy some malbec wine and put a tango on my itunes or listen to my Bajofondo station on Pandora radio in my bedroom just like I did those nights I stayed in back in Caballitos. I wouldn't tango but I'd write and write as the hours slipped by.
Truth is, I don't know that I even feel up to that. I still have that paper to finish. I still have that application to fill out. I have to be up for work. I need to stop and think. Maybe I don't need to miss Buenos Aires so desperately and play it all over in my mind like a favorite movie one watches again and again. It might be better to keep moving. It'd be nice to know that it all matters and not have to trust that it does.
But the trusting part comes more easily now- maybe that's what is softening my many transitions into adulthood and new places. Maybe I'm not really apathetic as much as I am ready. Ready to be filled. Ready to be directed. Ready to be still. Maybe I can have both movement and stillness and both reflection and direction.Maybe I don't have to be scared that I don't feel more and that I don't know more and that I am not more. I suppose it is when we are empty that we have the opportunity to be filled. Maybe now is my chance to be filled with what really matters. It's when we are transparent and translucent that we can either fade into oblivion or let light shine through. That is something real to rest upon.