XXXL

I was right to think that coming to work last Monday was a mistake. As soon as I was on the train to Mollett, the new snow was scurrying, accumulating. So, I waited at the school, Idiomas Mollet, for my 1 hr conversation class students, who didn't arrive, then the teens who come at 6 didn't come..So, I used the time to be paid for coming in and worked on my blog...but as 610 pm approached, and I realized my students couldn't, wouldn't come to class because of the snow, I reasoned that I shouldn't wouldn't stay here in Mollet because to stay there would be to be stuck there..snow-stranded. I waded over slush and snow banks in inept sneakers and saw an unpromising crowd of grim Catalonians, black-coated carrying para-aguas (umbrellas, literally translated "rain stoppers"). The trains were frozen in their tracks..no more runs for the night..marooned in Mollett.
After a moment's whimpering, I returned to the school, where 3 children talked loudly in front of a TV and 2 English teachers corrected tests. My wet feet were numbing, I nervously munched away on a bag of rice cakes, as the teachers and a woman who apparently signs my checks created a crack team to determine what to do with me. Ummmm, taking a taxi is not possible, it costs 100 Euros and you would be stuck in traffic for hours...I see, munch, munch, munch.... Don't worry, you won't sleep at the school..thank you, munch, munch, munch...there may be a bus....Let me look....Do you have any friends who can pick you up?...None of them have a car, munch, munch, munch....it seems that she is prepared to give you 40 Euros, you can stay at a hotel for the night...I would do this if I were you, it is the best option..Let her arrange it, then one of us will walk you there...
I went back up to the teacher's room to troll the internet and consider what a motel in the rubbly town would be like, something told me it would have a Reno-ian style...orange carpeting and deeply embedded cigarette odor.
"Natanya!" Lidia, curly-haired, round receptionist peered into the workroom.
"Tengo un habitacion libre. " ( I have a free room). Lidia, told me the free room was in her parent's house where she lived with her parents, her grandmother, and her 15-yr-old dog. But, I have a free room.
Excelente! Gracias! Venga!
We left. Lidia, Sonia (an English teacher from Mollett), my "boss" (Whose name I still don't know), and another English teacher who brokenly told me about her trips to Nueva York in English, as I brokenly told her what I loved about Nueva York in Spanish: Each of us trying to get our non-native language practice in. We delicately stepped over ice puddles, and mentioned how cold it was during awkward breaks in conversations about how it hasn't snowed in Barcelona in 20 yrs. Then we parted, and Lidia brought me to the gray block, alongside the gray cobbled walkways that was her family's house.
Lidia's mother, expectantly opened the door, in her red, pilly sweatshirt, with an aproned koala bear on the left breast, and urged me to get out of my cold shoes, wet pants, and hat. She touched my hands and shoes and commented on how cold I was. Then invited me into her bedroom, and pulled from the vast wooden armoire turquoise velour pajamas, wedge slippers, and a pink housecoat adorned with bows and a tag on the inside: xxxl. You may have to pull the drawstring on the pants, we are big people. She chuckled. 3 enormous wooden butterflies hung on the wall above the parents' bed. Then I was pointed into the habitacion libre. Lidia's brother's old room, that was now a painting studio for Lidia's mother. Vivid brown and turquoise reproductions from photos of the old west, Costa Brava townships, and Matisse-style abstracts..OOh! That is Matisse? ...Who? They're very good! Nooo! Lidia makes some too! They're great! I especially love this one! I pointed to what looked like Cadaques, the town I'd visited in November with Sinead from Ireland. Ohhh!
Now do "tu mismo". They left me in the room, to do as I would normally do on my own. I was changing into a 65 year-old's pyjamas and house coat at 7:30 on a Monday evening under the watchful eye of a wooden bust of Mary, eyes downward, hands praying.
By 745 I was in the family room, sitting in the floral-print"guest chair" watching a Game show that was a blend of deal or no deal and the price is right, drinking a dollop of tea in a bowl-sized mug and avoiding the jaws of the stool size family dog, which were safely guarded within a lamp shade. At intervals, while watching TV with Lidia and her mother, I would hear shouts coming from another room. As best I understood, Lidia's father suffers from schizophrenia, or post traumatic stress disorder. He begins shouting, "Si Senor!" and counting from his back room. Lidia and her mother tell me not to worry about it, to go check my email in Lidia's room. I do, and soon Abuela comes to say hello, calls me guapa, pinches my hands as I stand to greet her...shorter and round, with a storybook face like Strega Nona, the children's book character with the endless pasta pot. At 945 dinner preparation begins. the table in the TV room is pulled out to the center of the room, a floral table cloth and place settings are put out for the "children" (Lidia and I), and Abuelita, of course.
Do you like fish? Is there anything you don't eat?
I'll love whatever your making.
Mother pours nearly half a bottle of olive oil into a massive sautee pan.. By 10 pm I am excavating a massive cut of fish from its deep-fried shell and nibbling bacon-laden peas.
Us girls have the crispy fish, while Abuelita, sitting across from me, quietly pares down her pork cutlets. The news comes on...Don't worry, there will be sun tomorrow. I'll wake you up at 7:30.
Strawberries follow dinner. Then mother hopes I don't mind as she re-prepares the table for she and her husband to have their 11 pm dinner.
Abuelita rises, farts, and says goodnight to everyone...ooooh, guapa...she pinches my hands
Lidia soon follows and promises to wake me, as her parents settle in to eating dinner. I grab a spanish entertainment magazine and head for the brother's room. Thank you thank you..buen provecha..good night! Reading about Brad visiting Angelina, in Paris, in Spanish, I immediately sleep in the most comfortable Spanish bed I've known..A twin-size bed in her 27-year-old brother's room. Mary's wooden bust reminds me where I am in the morning.

Snow blown Palms

For the first time in 20 years, it is snowing in Barcelona. At first, a novelty that seemed unlikely to persevere past the hour. But now, 6 hours in, the Barcelonians are curious, fearful, bemused. On the train to the job I shouldn´t have come in for today, people were snapping photo after photo of the whizzing snow flurries, the snow sheeps sleeping on the boughs of palm trees, the ice-encrusted station signs. The snow - sunk parked cars, and slush rivers were like the celebrities on the ¨alfombra roja¨ (red carpet, doesn´t alfombra make you think of a rug?...love it!) at last nights Oscars - as the train car filled with the sounds of digital cameras Phssshing....clickin...
I am lucky to be here. On my own terms, alone, and euro-pinching. At least, I feel this way today. I work very little, I am spending money only on working out and preparing for theater work..I just signed up for a week-long physical theater intensive, open only to 12 actors and 2 directors, at the Jerzy Gratowski institute in Brezinzka Poland..This is the first time in my life that I have been truly alone like this, without a boyfriend´s distraction, or even a lot of hours of employment to focus on..I am under my lens. Often, Iḿ critical..thinking that I SHOULD (oof...a therapistś least-favorite word) be at another place in my life..settled, married, in a career, sorted away..having processed childhood wounds and therefore ready to give to a greater good. Heal people, change lives. But having removed myself from my life in California, and being around an international community, I am forced to face the truth of who I am, what I project, where I´ve been, what I want, what my body and spirit absolutely requires, what I want my life to be. This is some expensive, harrowing, incredibly fun and enriching therapy..I am giving myself gifts and lessons that are permeating my whole being...preparing ..it is at once freeing, exhausting, entertaining, and terrifying...lost in the blizzard of becoming...

Februarian

I awoke this morning at 4:30 to catch the 8:20 flight to Barcelona from Paris. At 5:15 sitting in the rank, half-opened Paris Metro station a drunken man, pulling two plaid-patterned carts and wine-sodden breath sidled up near my face to peer over me as I read Eileen Myles' The Importance of Being Iceland. A lesbian, poetess with a Getrude Stein-y honest and observant reverance to life, Myles travelogue inspires my uncertain direction and the inherent revelations lent to the solo traveler. I had just had the revelation that this dawn drunk was about to harass me, so without much provocation (I think he said hello in French and then when I told him I didn't speak French, in French, he said in English "Oh American....") I told him if he didn't get away from me I was going to hit him with my weighty paperback. How did I go from being a curious girl who may've entertained a conversation with the man, to an angry woman. He stepped away, somewhat, although his breath lingered between us, my heart puttered as I continued "reading". Breathe. Breath. Breathe. "Please Kiss me..." I rolled my suitcase away from him and plopped down by the well lit vending machines. My man proceeded to pull out a plastic ray gun that belted "Onward men" along with the manufactured tinny guffaws of play gunfire.

If you know me by now, you know I'm pondering Paris as my next neighborhood. I've just returned from my second visit in 6 weeks, and upon my groggy return to Barcelona, questions hover, sprout, hide... So I've seen that community, that seeking what you seek that uncovering your life purpose brings community and from that community yields your fullest potential. I went to visit the Lecoq international theater school, a physical theater school in Paris; reputable with staff; simultaneously chilly and warm and inviting students all truth-seekers and attention-revelers...such as actors are...And I have already, through previous theater work, absorbed many of Lecoq's concepts somewhat. But to be in Paris. The museum city. A new friend I met at a dinner in Belleville told me that Berlin is a roving instillation, a concept factory, and Paris is a museum. One elastic, the other established. Paris does feel ancient, an institute of deco, literature, gothic texture. I curled up in Shakespeare and Company twice, the creaky stairs and type writer closets spoke of romantic death and Anais Nin, Gertrude Stein, Margeurite Duras - all called here - as I am. But I know my life would be belt-tightening and somewhat unromantic..Paris' project-housing is more likely to be my residence based on my teacher/actor income.
But I've already pulled the bandaid off..I undid my life in California (ohhh beautiful winter dream). I moved to Barcelona, sight unseen - Hence, my unstable self can get thee to Paree. There is such a freedom in the anonymity and instability of my life and work here..there is also a palpable loneliness. I miss California, I miss Brendan, I miss enormous to go coffee cups with stiff all-day-long coffee, tri-weekly mani- pedis. I miss the light in my apartment, my bed, yoshi's, rollerskating, who I was, clarity..Knowing my place in the world..being sorted and tucked away. Only recently have I gauged the brevity of what I've done, and how I won't go back ..Can't go back..All my things are scattered and another man's magazines are in my blue bathroom.
So, I'm focusing on theater creating art. Working on a piece based on my Grandmother's letters, working on singing with Rico, the round atheist pianist who loves America, Jazz, Frank Lloyd Wright, and correcting my grammar. I'm working on sticking to my goals without fear of accomplishing them. Looking to going to Poland for a week long theater intensive at the Gratowski institute in the woods. Looking at putting work in.
All I did as a Januarian and Februarian was work and workout. I've developed a Spinning addiction (Izzy predicted this), mainly because of Merribelle the mini horse-maned blonde with a voice that is uniquely throaty and cheerful. "VENGAVENGAVENGAVENGA" SUBE!" LUCHALO!" Her passion for my pumping the pedals in time with house remixes of Ennio Morricone is the best inspiration of my day ... that and the free towels, soap, and filtered water I deserve as part of my ludicrously expensive gym membership.
If you can't play in the city's distractions you become militant with your money, saving at all costs. I think this conscientiousness about saving money accounts for all the drawn hungry faces and wiry bodies I see in Europe..It's not that they are soo fit - they appreciate the monetary value of all they consume, so consume conservatively. Also, because of their concern with outward appearances, public eating is a rarity, and it seems they would rather throw entire meals away than put them in "to-go" containers for potentially embarassing public consumption at another location. Ohh its true...and yes, it has.
I'd better get a narrow, high-cheekboned face out of all this.