La Chica Sola

I'm gaining a reputation as the girl who does things sola.

I think a lot of people admire my willingness to do things by myself. And normally I also feel that my independence is one of the qualities I value most. It comes with its flip side, however. There are plenty of lonely moments, and I struggle with that quite a bit. I ask myself a lot if it's worth it to leave everyone I love to explore this big world by myself. I have been incredibly fortunate to have friends and families (yes, more than one) who have given their unconditional blessings in all my assorted adventures. Without doubt the question I get asked most is how my parents handle my international wanderings.
The answer is simple: They were the first people who taught me that you have to love with your hands open.
When I cried because I'm represented by a stocking in my family's Christmas picture, it was my mom who reminded me, "But this is who I raised you to be." How humbling it is to realize there are people who love you enough to give you permission to leave them. Seems funny, doesn't it? I only get to be the girl who does things alone thanks to my whole community of people.

Here is where Spanish falls short, however. Sola means both alone and lonely. And I, for one, want to be able to see the difference.

Remember how I got lost when I went to the Alhambra, and my group had to pick me up twenty minutes into the tour? Partway through, we took a snack and bathroom break, and regrouped ten minutes later in the busy area near one of the main entrances. Amid all the hectic crowds and my uncertainty over exactly where we needed to meet (thank you, language barrier), I almost missed my group again and found them just barely in time for the head count. The count came up one short, and my tour guide asked who was missing a friend or family member. One lady immediately piped up, "What about that girl who was here alone?" She'll never know that tiny courtesy is one of the most important memories I have of visiting that world famous landmark.
I was the only person in my tour who was there without someone else, but someone still noticed me and cared enough to make sure I wasn't overlooked. How much more willing would we be to move through the world alone sometimes if we could feel assured that strangers would still have our back?

This idea of myself as someone who does things alone stings at least as often as it's a source of personal pride. Sometimes sola tastes like freedom; other times it's just plain solitude. But I do realize this won't last forever, and that plenty of my life adventures will happen in the company of loved ones. So my hope is that I will remember this 6-month lesson in soledad - in both its senses - when I am back to a place where I have my people around me. That I will remember the true luxury it is to know someone else is looking out for you, and perhaps be someone else's stranger who reminds them we're rarely as alone as we think we are.

Au Pair Confessions

I have a confession: I didn't take this job because I wanted to work with kids.

I've been working with kids in various capacities since I was about Middle's age. Throughout the years I've been a babysitter, a tutor, a nanny, a teacher, and a respite caregiver. I genuinely enjoyed every one of those experiences. In fact, there's a good chance I want to make a career out of working with very small children. But after spending all of college working almost exclusively with adults I got out of the habit of crayons and cookies and Polly Pocket, and I didn't really feel the need to go back.

I decided to be an au pair because it was the best way for me to live abroad. Punto final.
I suspect this might be the dirty secret of a lot of au pairs.

I wanted to live in Europe; I didn't want to spend all my money to do it; I wanted to use my education, but didn't want to be a teacher. That left me with au pairing, even though theoretically the idea of working as a live-in nanny was not my ideal venue.
Now that I've actually lived that role for several months, I can say that indeed it isn't my favorite job. There are plenty of days I'd rather not tutor Little through another science lesson or put in the effort to give Middle an entertaining English class.

But the chance to be part of these three girls' lives for six months has been worth every single minute.

My mom is a nanny for my cousin's three young children. I see her make a serious effort to spend time with them off the clock. She tells me she doesn't want to turn into just 'the babysitter;' it's important that she still gets to be their aunt sometimes.
I've adopted this mindset. I don't ever want me or the girls to feel like they're invading on 'my time' when Oldest asks me to watch a movie with her on a Friday night, or Middle wants to kick my butt at Rummikub on a Saturday afternoon, or Little gets it into her head to undertake making cake pops.

For both my mom and I, our jobs are working with kids, but that doesn't means the kids should be the job.

I have the opportunity to meet each of my girls for who they are and where they are in their lives. The more I learn about them as people, the more I have developed a sense of pride in what I do and who I get to be for them.

The other day, it was Middle's turn to walk Toro, and she only took him for a quick turn around the block in her hurry to go to the pool. Oldest, a dedicated student who was studying every spare minute for all her end of the semester exams, decided to take him for a longer walk because she thought it was so unfair that he'd been cheated out of his usual time. I don't know many adults who have that level of compassion in a situation they just as easily could have ignored, much less an over-stressed high school student.

Middle is going through a rough patch trying to make the jump from kid to teenager. She knows where she wants to be, but hasn't quite figured out how to get there yet, and all too often gets in her own way. Of the three, I've had the hardest time connecting with her thanks to the awkwardness of this transition period, but I fiercely believe in the person she's trying to become. Her sharp wit, sarcastic sense of humor and insane stubbornness are going to be her greatest assets as much as they're her biggest obstacles right now. There's something very important about having other adults you can trust when you go through the inevitable period of butting heads with your parents, and I take that role very seriously.

Little is growing up a little more every day as we approach her eighth birthday. In the last two and a half months, we've built our jokes and routines, and discovered a shared sense of humor that spans the age gap. Every time I think I don't have a drop of patience left, she manages to do something so incredibly sweet or funny I can't help but laugh. We've been working on the times tables all semester, and I taught her the memory trick "8 and 8 fell on the floor, when they came back up they were 64." Unprompted by me, that problem came up at the dinner table one day and she muttered the rhyme to herself before giving the answer. Then she turned to me and said, "You know, Kat, I still don't think I'd remember that one without that." The intense pride I feel in what I do lives in those smallest of moments.

I became an au pair so I could live in Spain, but the real confession is that's ended up being the least important part of these 177 days.

Cuentos de Cuentas y Cuestas

(Stories of Bills and Hills)

I had this problem where I could NEVER remember the word for 'bill' in Spanish. Who knows why, it's just one of those things like how I can always pull out the word for 'hummingbird' at the drop of a hat, but regularly forget how to say 'knee.'
But after my friend recently asked for the 'hill' instead of the 'bill' at lunch during last weekend's adventure to Andalucía, we decided to use that incident as the catalyst for remembering the right word from then on. In her defense it's a very easy mistake to make, considering "¿Cuánto cuesta?" is "How much does it cost?" but "una cuesta" is a hill or incline while "una cuenta" is the tab/bill. One top of that, "un cuento" is a story (And in a great moment of serendipity, I learned today that a cuentacuentos is a storyteller. This just keeps getting better!) Lucky for us, Granada gave us a lot of opportunities to practice all the above.

Monday and Tuesday were national holidays, so two fellow au pairs and I set off Friday morning to spend the long weekend in Granada. I'll call them Alemana and Finlandesa, since they're from Germany and Finland respectively. Three buses, a flight and about nine hours after leaving my front door, I was at my Air BnB without incident.

Founded in the 11th century, Granada is a city of about a quarter million people in Andalucía, a region in southern Spain. Its rich history is based in the combination of Moorish, Jewish, Romani and Castilian cultures. From flamenco and tapas to la Alhambra and winding cobbled streets, Granada is probably most representative of how the majority of Americans picture Spain.

We spent Saturday walking all over the old parts of city. At least from what I could tell, la Catedral de Granada and la Plaza Nueva more or less mark the boundary between the old sections with primarily Muslim roots and the progressively newer sections built anytime after the Catholics gained control of the city in 1492. La Albaicín (Albayzín) is the sprawling Moorish neighborhood with iconic white houses and narrow roads that go two directions - straight up and straight down - surrounding the Alhambra's hill. It's packed with small cafes offering mint tea from squat silver teapots and plenty of shisha.

We wound our way up the hills to the Mirador de San Miguel Alto, a church above the city with a low wall that offers a breathtaking view of the entire city. La Alhambra juts out on a ridge to the left from where you can sit directly overlooking the Albaicín and finally discern the real shape of the cathedral, which is set so densely among other buildings you can't really appreciate its grandeur from up close. The historical areas eventually give way to progressively taller modern buildings that in turn fade into farmland, which disappears into the foothills of the Sierra Nevadas in the distance.

Mirador de San Miguel Alto (photo courtesy of Finlandesa's camera)

Very little short of our ticket to a private flamenco show could have enticed us off that wall. Granada is full to overflowing with bars offering highly commercialized espectáculos de flamenco. Thanks to an invitation through my Air BnB hosts, we got to experience this art form up close and personal in a private home. A co-op hosts flamenco and tapas nights periodically, and we were there for the right weekend. Flamenco includes four essential components: singing, guitar, dancing and rhythmic snapping/clapping. While strongly associated with the Romani, it's a true Andalusian art. Dramatic, loud and energetic, I found it mesmerizing with its waves of fiery motion and intermittent calm punctuated by the tiniest of heel taps and soft cries of olé. Most incredible was watching the connection between the three performers. The singer kept her eyes pinned on the guitarist's fingers, whose gaze was intensely focused on the dancer's heels, and together they could transition from the storm to the calm seamlessly.

We started Sunday with the quintessential churros con chocolate. Pretty much all I've ever wanted is for someone to offer me a teacup full of melted chocolate for breakfast, so this was a hit with me. Unfortunately, Oldest generously shared her cold with me and I spent a good chunk of Sunday sleeping while my companions explored the free areas of la Alhambra.



We had an afternoon appointment at Aljibe, one of the many traditional Arab baths. The baths consisted of 7 shallow warm pools of various temperatures, with a cold pool illuminated in the center. The room was humid and cave-like, lit only with candles and heavily shaded lamps. Clients are expected to be silent, so the only sounds are running water and the soft Arabic music playing in the background. Water, sweetened mint tea and lemon candies were constantly available. I chose to include a 15 minute massage with my session. Alemana thought I'd legitimately passed out at one point, if that demonstrates my level of relaxation.
After that hour and a half, we were only motivated enough to camp out at a tapas bar with cards and a pitcher of sangria. Another of Granada's claims to fame is as one of the last cities that offers free tapas, the hors d'oeuvres-y fare offered every time you order a drink. Its possible to visit the city without ever actually paying for a dinner.

Alemana and Finlandesa headed back to Málaga Monday morning, where they had an earlier flight than I on Tuesday. I stayed for my guided tour of la Alhambra - another misadventure in the life of the directionally challenged. First let me say in my defense that everyone's very kind directions revolved around climbing or descending a hill and I just didn't find that very helpful in a city that is nothing BUT hills. So my tour- which was supposed to start at 10:00 at a cafe at the bottom of the hill- actually started with me calling the tour company at 9:55 in a total panic because I had inexplicably ended up already inside the Alhambra. I was told in no uncertain terms not to budge from the Puerta del Vino and my tour passed by about 25 minutes later and rescued me.


We spent the next three hours exploring the sprawling palace, most of it built 800 years ago by the sultans who were trying to impress the Castilians and fellow Moors alike into forgetting to ask how big their army actually was. We saw the Generalife as well, a second palace slightly farther up the ridge, surrounded by elaborate orchards and gardens. It was the sultans' summer home, since vacationing a nice ten minute walk away was the most practical option when your own people were constantly on the verge of rebellion and the Castilian kings were an ever present threat.

By the time I walked back through my front door Tuesday evening, I was thoroughly glad to be back in Asturias. As beautiful and interesting as Granada was, Oviedo is the place to live in Spain as a foreigner, in one temporary expat's opinion. I'm ready to enjoy my time at home after my mini vacation, and in less than a week now I will be back on a plane to spend the holidays in Germany/Denmark!

"Dale limosna, mujer.

Que no hay en la vida nada

Como la pena de ser 

ciego en Granada."

- F.A. de Icaza

Meet Cutes: Part 2

I've been particularly lonely lately.
My life in Spain is full of wonderful people, but I don't have friends. You know, the people you can call up for a coffee or better yet, do nothing with. I have friend - singular - and she's a responsible student with a job, so sometimes we go a while without seeing each other.

However, I firmly believe that if you go out in public often enough without bringing a screen and have enough patience, it's almost inevitable that you will encounter other humans. Eye contact is an incredibly powerful social networking tool. So I've been out by myself almost every day this week in an attempt to put myself in the position of meeting people.
My fellow students looked at me like I'd lost it when I told them that was how I was trying to make more friends. They think I should stick to exchange student meet-n-greets or get another tandem partner, but I told them I'm determined to meet someone like they do in movies. (And no, that is not code for saying I want my life to turn into a romcom. When I say friends, that is actually what I mean.) It might not be efficient or logical, but I can't help hoping that if I meet someone in an interesting way, they'll be far more likely to be an interesting person. It's like an instant quality control test, right? I do my best to be eternally optimistic. Like I've said, I assume today will be the day I make friends every time I leave my house.
There's an art to finding a place where you're more likely to meet someone when you're by yourself, of course. I've been doing this since the very first time I went to a club after I turned 18, so I've developed a good radar. It has to have the right ambiance, engaging but not too loud. There have to be enough people, but not too many, and it can't be a place that would attract primarily couples or big groups of friends. Weekdays are better than weekends. And you have to go before prime drinking hours. My peers may think I'm nuts, but it works. Whether it's graffiti artists who spray paint your name in an alley or old men in downtown Chicago who spend an afternoon teaching you chess, I promise you'll meet interesting people who make for interesting stories.

Following my own guidelines this week, I discovered a delightful coffee shop by campus and enjoyed a bottle of cider on Calle Gascona - but didn't meet anyone except a waiter old enough to be my father, who made sure to inform me cider is an aphrodisiac. Yikes...
Desperate times calling for desperate measures, I went out last night without even taking a book. I scouted through downtown Oviedo until I found a place that struck the right note, sat at the bar with a beer, and started casing the room. And you know what?
I met someone. 
It took less than ten minutes to find the only other person there alone who wasn't buried in their phone, smile, and ask, "What are you reading?"
We spent the next several hours engaged in lively conversation without a hint of small talk, laughing and scribbling on napkins over a single round of drinks. We even discovered somewhere along the line that he is friends with my classmate's boyfriend.
If that's not worthy of a movie scene, I don't know what is.
I see good friend potential there, but regardless of if anything comes of it, I had a great evening and renewed my optimism.

Then, of course, there's the flip side: The introductions you didn't want...

First, I should explain that the fastest way to irritate me is to try to impress me by speaking broken English and acting like it's my fault when I can't understand you. To be clear, I'm not talking about people who enjoy practicing their second language regardless of their proficiency, or people who honestly think they're being considerate by using my native language. I'm talking about this certain brand of person (Usually male. Usually my age. Usually intoxicated.) who can't conjugate a coherent sentence, but persists in talking to me in English even if I only use Spanish, and treats me like I'm an idiot when I can't respond appropriately. Gah, just the thought of it makes me annoyed. I have enough problems without beating my head against your insane ego.

Anyway, so I finally have the chance to see Mica before I leave for Granada tomorrow and we're hanging out at a cafe when this group of three guys starts heckling us from their table. At first it was entertaining and they were having fun trying out English phrases on me. But then one of them starts being super obnoxious and is getting up in my face trying to have a conversation with me in English, but he literally makes no sense. And the whole time, of course, he's acting like there's something wrong with me because I can't decipher his word vomit. I was being openly hostile after a certain point, but I didn't completely lose my patience until he came back from ordering a new beer, sat down at our table without an invitation, and then immediately picked up a phone call and proceeded to have a full conversation...

So I picked up his full beer and drank it without an invitation.
I may be desperate to make friends, but I'm not that desperate.