I'm not here right now

but if you still want to read about me, you can find me here.

Almost Home

It's official: I'm moving back to the States June 26. I'll be living in St. Louis, finishing up coursework and teaching a freshman composition class until December.

Any last requests from Spain? Think small, my suitcases are going to be busting with books and paper. Not a lot of room for olive oil, but I'll try.

Grabbing Life by the Polar Bears

My friend Jill is in nowhere Alaska doing a rotation for dental school this month and is keeping a blog. Her stories are crazy and vibrant and frequent. It's some of the best blogging I've ever read. Jill is my cousin Jim's girlfriend, the survivor of two open heart surgeries in the past year, and (as my Aunt Pat says) she knows how to grab life by the horns. Check it out. http://www.jillrosellini.blogspot.com/

Liberated by los ladrones: Stealing is for losers

It was a beautiful Saturday morning (well, afternoon) and all was going splendidly. I met Susan outside the Reina Sofia, and we wandered back up Calle Fucar to find some tapas and coffee. We found a corner café and sat at the bar. The gazpacho was refreshing, the chatting was good, we were nearly alone in the bar. A couple of men walk in the bar and move to sit down next to us. I slide over and fail to move my purse sufficiently into view…several minutes later they are gone, and so is my purse. I run out into the street, tourists straggling about, and scream obscenities in my mother tongue at the top of my lungs, hoping this will lure some attention. It doesn’t lure much of anything, except a guy in the bar who says in perfect English, “You need to watch your things.” The waiter looked upset, and suggested we circle the block and check the dumpster, as they may have grabbed the cash and left my things.
Ah, my things. Not in order of importance:

The giant camel-colored purse that Emily finagled a deal on in Chinatown. She worked HARD for that deal.
My cellphone and all the numbers of my friends (irretrievable by memory, because who does that anymore?).
My cute wallet with TOO MUCH cash (don’t ask, it hurts … think RENT) and two debit cards, and my Spanish IDs.
Cute earrings, also from the NYC excursion.
My copy of Thackery’s Vanity Fair (the 700-page novel, not the fashion mag), all marked up with notes about gender so I can write a 20-page paper. Hope that’s helpful information, guys.
The keys to my house. Luckily, nothing has my address on it.
My favorite lipglosses. Yes, I carry more than one lipgloss. They serve different purposes.

Anyway. In my spinning brain, the whole event soon became just something that was bound to happen. I’ve been here for 9 months. Why now, while I was sober and in a well-lit place, not the dozens of tipsy times I set a purse down in a dark bar? Probably now because it was a touristy area—near the Prado and the big train station (Atocha). And because these things happen. As I discovered at the police station, it happened to two other women this afternoon in the same hood. What to do?

Well first to do: file the report. Oh the Spanish. They are an interesting people with interesting ideas about efficiency and logic. At the station, a police officer gave me a form to write out what happened in English. It had NO SPACE to describe my purse in detail, but it did ask for my mother’s maiden name. I filled it out and dashed off to cancel the debit cards before I realized that Spanish reasoning was all over that form: there’s no way that they will know it’s MY purse if it shows up empty or identification. And I still wanted it back, even empty. Susan, who had been helping and calming me through all of this, examining dumpsters and accompanying me to the station, agreed that this was crazy. We went back and tried to explain this to the officer. He said if they find the purse with American identification in it, they send it to the Embassy. OK. Well, what if it doesn’t have an ID? By this point, Susan and I were swapping English questions between our Spanish inquiry and bordering on a mini giggle fest. What the hell were they thinking? I took the form back, drew a lovely drawing of la bolsa, wrote an explanation in Spanish, and left knowing that I’ll never see that purse again.

Susan took me out to lunch at a Galician place in the neighborhood. Within 3 minutes of sitting down, a waitress dropped an empty water glass onto the table and it shattered into my lap and onto my feet. As I laughed and picked the glass out of my toes, Susan looked kind of scared. I don’t believe things happen in threes. Or I would have gone home and gone to bed.

Things that were NOT in my purse that could have been.
My camera. This would have led to many, many tears.
My iPod. More hypothetical tears.
My passport or drivers license.
My journal or notebooks. Good thing I was a lazy writer today.
My credit card with the giant credit limit.
My sense of humor? No, too big to fit in there anyway. hahaha.

Also, I've decided I'm never buying a giant purse again. It was great walking around the rest of the day with Susan, my sugarmama, and NOTHING TO CARRY! The more you carry, the more you have to lose. How's that for a bad, bad philosophy about life.

Not to be totally ungrateful of your sympathy, but please don’t feel like you need to leave comments saying you’re sorry it happened. No pasa nada. Maybe instead you could share: what’s the worst thing you’ve ever lost or had stolen?

The Body Says No

It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this sick. I have a cough (the doctor described it as “barking”), a persistent low-grade fever, a throat that is housing tiny kittens with scratchy little claws that tear out my vocal chords every time I swallow, and a headache that is affecting even my teeth. The rasp of my voice was enough to convince me this morning that it was time to go to the doctor.

This is not a post about “how the doctor is in Spain” because I go to an American university that caters to my every Anglophone need. Student Life called and got me an appointment, and the English-speaking doctor assured me that I didn’t have bronchitis, but that he would give me antibiotics for the kittens in the throat problem.

Littered around my room: lemon and honey concoction that was too icky to gargle, three cups of tea gone cold, snotrags galore in SuperSol grocery bags, a roll of toilet paper and a copy of Raging Bull. Nothing like watching DeNiro getting his face bashed in to put pain in perspective.

Where's the Shire?

Click here to see the rest of the photos from the Camino.

Sadly, I didn't take pics of the prettiest day, or of the dorkiest outfits: On the first day, it RAINED and we did a lot of uphill hiking through stony rural areas that smelled nasty (How many times in your life can you declare Horseshit! and mean it literally?) but were gorgeous. Maryam dubbed it the Shire, which stuck. We also looked like hobbits with our ponchos draped over giant backpacks--creating blue nylon humpbacks of style.

Anyway, that seems like a really long time ago. Now I'm reading Victorian novels and watching Woody Allen films for my respective classes and trying to soak up as much Spanish sun as my skin will allow. I pushed it today and have some hilariously uneven sunburn. More soon...

Caminando

Last week I walked more than 100km in about 4 days along the Camino de Santiago with my friends Susan and Maryam. My knees are still crying about it, but it was one of the most beautiful and affirming things I've done in a long time. Often I catch myself thinking "you can't do that" but very rarely do I actually push myself through those things, especially if they're painful. It helps to have a walking stick and friends who won't let you run into the woods at 7 a.m. to hide and sleep.



It rained bit at first, and then a LOT on the last day when we walked 35km. But we had ponchos and rain pants, and we made some friends who distracted us from the drenching along the way: An Australian man who is writing a book about his monthlong walk. A French Canadian girl with a delightful laugh and a cast of admirers--she lost a couple toenails walking and shrugged about it as "not-so-painful." A cuddling German couple who relied on the kindness of strangers to help them order food. But the best was a pair of students from San Sebastian--an Argentinean and a Dane--who schlepped through the mud with us the last day. Unfailingly positive guys, they were full of good stories and quirks.



Mass at the cathedral in Santiago was really moving, mostly because I couldn't get over the dedication of the hardcore caminantes--the people who walked over mountains and stood in the cathedral square with backpacks realizing it was over. I bet my brother had a similar feeling, as he was rather hardcore starting in Pamplona last year. Looking at maps with the snippet of the trail we walked is humbling. Even more humbling is getting into a taxi to the airport and zooming past half a day's hike in 20 minutes.

I'll post more pics soon. But wanted to say I'm back and in one piece, but a pretty sore piece.

Not-so-short summary: It's raining in Spain

When my boyfriend and mother start e-mailing asking "Where are you?" and "Are you alive?" you know that fun things are happening in Spain. I still don’t have enough time to give an adequate update, so here’s a synopsis of the past month, to be followed by more soon. I promise. Also, I will be in St. Louis this summer! (From July to August) But I don't know yet after that ...

In late March, my best friend Jenny got engaged! And she asked me to be her maid of honor. These are both wonderful things. She’s also coming to visit Spain in June while chaperoning her high school students, and she has a couple nights to sneak away and go out. I can’t wait to see her! Last time Jenny and I were in Spain together it was a bit wild. Have you heard the story about us running from the cops through the streets of Valencia? No? Think that would be a good toast at her wedding?





My mom was here for a week and I realized even more what a patient, vibrant, kind woman she is. And I also realized that though she's rubbed off on me, we are very, very different. In all, it was a lot of quality Claes woman bonding in my cozy apartment and some VERY nice hotels. We soaked in Arab baths in Sevilla, gaped at the Mezquita in Cordoba and went on a tapas tour of Toledo with my friends. Check out the photos here.

Meanwhile, I wrote an (almost) 20-page paper on a book by the French novelist, Colette, aMeafter the worst bout of procrastination of my entire life. I chose not to complain about it on this site and won’t start now. In retrospect, however, blogging is much less destructive than forms of procrastination that involve red wine.






Last weekend a bunch of us went to San Sebastian in the Basque country, which certainly ranks among the most beautiful places in Spain. The pinchos (tapas) were plentiful and deliciously spread across every bar. There were beaches, too, people dancing in the plaza and a carousel on the boardwalk. And my hilarious friends.




This week I’m finishing the smallest yet most painstaking magazine I’ve ever helped publish. It should turn out well: poetry, prose and photos from the students. But it’s taking FOREVER. I am more appreciative than ever of the editors, designers, copy editors and managers who have reigned in my procrastination and nitpicking throughout the years. I’ve heard you chanting in my head all week: DEADLINE!

During the next week I will read Jane Eyre and walk 100 kilometers of the Camino de Santiago de Compostela. This is no great shakes in the grand scheme of the entire path (which my brother Matt walked last year) but I’m pretty nervous that I’m going to get hurt or just whine too much and my friends will abandon me. (Not really.) Friday night we take the train to the city where we will begin our walk. Rain is predicted all week, and my friend Susan just called to say she bought me rain pants and a poncho. Pray for an end to the rain, for strength for my toes and for my friends, who will certainly be sick of me this time next week.

Yes, I'm alive.