Sing Me Spanish Techno

Crack.

I held the limp screen in my lap, feebly clinging to the hinge on the keyboard. "Oh girlie, what have I done to you?"

With holes in my jeans and threadbare and sweat-stained shirts I see how rough I've lived this year. I've shed books, clothes, and life's accessories. I've accepted the loss of things that I once believed were necessities and gained a strange sense of empowerment from this fact. Yet, as my laptop lay pathetic in my arms, exposing weak wires, the sound of cracking plastic, and the soft, electric whimper of the device attempting to function. She broke, but not me.

I sat downtrodden, but not devastated in the port. I had just been on four buses in two hours. What I thought would be an easy skip, jump and a hop to Spain turned into a four hour wait at the port unsure if the bus I was supposed to take to Malaga would be in Algeciras when I arrived. Once on the ferry I sat slumped in a corner seat sweating. The women around me were gulping down water and complaining loudly while the men used hats, paper, and shirts as inadequate fans. In an attempt to swallow my worry I scanned the room observing the womens' hands lined with dark swirling henna. I stared down at my own stained hands and felt a connection that to explain would leave me sounding superficial. But the mere fact that we all were bonded by a long tradition of hennaed hands before travel left me feeling as if I was in the company of sisters.

When the ferry docked we clambered for the exit embracing the salty, cool air. After a jumbled line at the passport control I reached the street breathing an intense sigh of relief as the bus stood ready and waiting. I collapsed onto the curb, finally the spark of joy slipped into my thoughts.

I'm in Spain.

It may seem silly but this is a place I've only read about in poems. I had desired to see Spain, but it was always a distant idea that was confined to the "someday..." But what this year has shown me is that someday is the day you decide it to be. You can't wait for your dreams to present themselves to you. You can't be an observer in your life hoping that your life will be fulfilled by happenstance. It's your life. Own it, live it. Even if you never make it to Spain you will have learned, lived, and loved the moments it took to reach your conclusion even if the end is not what you had first imagined. But as I sleepily stared into the twinkling parking lot lights I knew that my somedays were in my pockets.

The bus bumped and I opened my eyes as the driver turned his head to me, "Malaga?" I nodded and before I could wipe the sleep from my eyes I was abandoned on the roadside at 2am in an unfamiliar city without a map or a clue how to get to m hostel. But as I strode, back saddled with my belongings I felt confident and awake. I turned down a side street to a large sign that proclaimed "sex shop" with the one after it declaring "churros!" This was going to be interesting city. After half an hour of wandering and speaking in Arabic when asking for directions to confused Spaniards I gave up and and paid the four euros to take a taxi to the hostel. A friendly Englishman tiredly greeted me as the clock neared 3am and soon I was wrapped in a sheet still wearing my clothes with a fitted sheet rolled up in a ball as a pillow.

I woke up late, missed breakfast, and attempted to obtain some conception of where I was. I hit the streets in search of a supermercado. Malaga is the home of Picasso, beautiful beaches, and amazing views. But I had heard there was good fruit in Southern Spain and gazing at the piles of peaches and crates of watermelons seemed more intriguing than the starriest starry night. Once back in the hostel munching on an apple I fell into conversation (as hostels goers are prone to do) with the other bedraggled looking bunch on the couch. After a few moments of conversation I was walking along the beach with a hungover Asian man in aviators and a pink headband, a solo adventuring German girl, and a man in floral baggy capris and bright blond hair from Denmark. Our mission: Crepes.

Conversation, crepes, and inspiration as the leader of of our expedition (dude with the amazing trousers) explained how he was on a self-propelled project traveling around the world discussing climate change. He had a job and in his time off and vacation would be spent persuing this side venture. When I questioned the logistics of this idea he explained, "you have to do what you believe in, make your own project, with or without support. You just can't wait for someone to come along and make things happen for you." After quickly consuming our food, my fingers sticky with honey, I walked down a small cobblestone street while my crepe compadres hopped into a taxi to head back to the hostel. I stopped in a large bookstore, gazing longingly at the rows of bright, crisp books. I flipped through the guides on Andalusia and wandered over to the English Language novels. Books are expensive, heavy and take up a lot of space. Buying a book means a time and space commitment. Stack sang and tempted like sirens. I should be focusing on other things. The unbent pages would have to be left that way. I walked out with my Andalusia guide book and The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time. I have gained a lot of self-control and discipline, but I broke. Besides, I count this as research for teaching Special education. Reading, joking, and half-heatedly glancing at the action movie blasting the night wound down and I headed to bed.

The next morning, missing breakfast again, I had a large glass of juice and consumed my book as I sunk into the couch while Bob Marley blasted and the cleaning lady threatened to mop my feet if I didn't pick them up. I had a plan to head to a small Islamic village but with a long bus ride and a shining sun I opted fora trip to the beach.

Skin. Everywhere there's skin. Men and women alike with bare chests, breasts, speedos, unashamed and unencumbered by clothing. I was feeling daring in my t-shirt, but a woman wearing a jeweled tube top, pant less and propped up in high wedged heels walked past unabashed and left me feeling prudish in her perfumed wake. I eventually dared to don my swimsuit into the black specked sand in a small beach town near Malaga. Book, music, and waves. A short trip turned into an all day affair as my beach bum buddy repeatedly begged another hour. I watched a group of Arab boys playing soccer near the water. I wanted to join them feeling more at home with Arabic in the air. Soon I realize it's near 6pm and sun dazed we grab our things. I felt a little burned, but didn't worry because I had been reapplying my SPF60 lotion regularly. We headed off to a tapas bar that was highly recommended, but as we walked I became increasingly unsteady. We crossed the street to the front door and my vision began to dance away. I stumbled into a chair, everything bright oranges and shadows. My head fell into my hands as I mumbled some apology. The waitress was soon at my side with a glass of sugary coke, pressing me to drink while she held an ice pack on my neck. Bread and more coke appeared at my side, but I felt too sick to eat. After a while the dizziness had not receded. My German hostel friend got me into a taxi and we drove back. I lay down a bit and scribbled a letter to her in thanks and shared some Morocco advice. Feeling rather sick and helpless I mused on the incident. It was one of the first times that I had let someone help me without protest. I had no other choice, but it was a lesson in humility. It was a lesson in learning how to take.

I remember standing in the restaurant kitchen in Chefchaoen with my Spanish friend when he loudly questioned, "Do you feel guilty?" We had not been speaking, but were waiting for our turn at the cutting board. The inquiry more than surprised me. I stumbled out the affirmative. "Si, I could tell. Just by the way you stand." Later as we sat on a hill sipping the setting sun in a field of tall grass he returned to the subject. He explained that a large component to my unearned feelings of guilt were that I could give easily, but I did not know how to take. Learning how to take means you see yourself worthy of receiving something, of needing others, and having others see that they are needed. It creates something very strong and connecting. It makes you human. It makes you better able to give.

The next morning when I had regain my balance I examined my skin. My abdomen (or belly as is more appropriate when describing my torso area) was the color of a boiled lobster. Soon welts formed and I would be forced to know areas of my skin that I had ignored and taken for granted. Not only had my day in the sun given me a lesson in accepting help from others, but I was educated in the necessity of respecting and taking care of your body. My body is something that I have spent the year abusing, ignoring and pushing without much sympathy or care, but as I winced attempting to apply aloe, biting my lip to refocus the pain I realized that even if I do not love my body as a temple or adorn, primp, and dote on it as others do I must respect it as an instrument. My body's been neglected, beaten, burned, and battered. My skin's been cut, covered, ignored, and dirtied without care. Though I usually reject my body as anything more than a vehicle that I must keep functioning, fed, and warm I shouldn't ignore it. To find the light in this scorched place it became an opportunity to take care of myself and see that the new self on the inside will be accompanied by a new skin on the outside.... after a very painful week and several bottles of lotion and packages of ibuprofen. But really the main lesson I am taking away from this is not just about learning how to take or respecting my body, but about how god was punishing me for wearing a bikini. Never going to happen again. I promise.

My Andalusia adventure itinerary: Malaga, Granada, Cordoba, Sevilla, and Madrid

I have so much to say, drunk on words, music, anecdotes and sangria. But it may take a bit to get to: Poco a poco, shwaya shwaya, little by little. Until I can tell you of all the wonderful foods, castles, gardens, and minarets turned bell towers here is a poem written in one of the most beautiful gardens I have ever been in. Granada's Al-Hambra is a glimpse of what paradise could look like.

Rose petals embrace sunlight, glow pinks, sparks of light despite shade

Cyprus tree towers sway in soft, cool, breezes

Jagged teeth to the wide-mouth sky of endless blue

Sunlight painted on ivy drips from stone

Vines like veins stretch from soil to soul

Water in your eyes is thawed mountaintop snow

Silence non-existent as the water trickle stream sings

Leafs a choir of soft shush and sway

Twang church bell echoes, background melody

Honeysuckles overspill falling onto our heads

Smells sweet, strong nostalgia

Fingertips brush boxed hedge bushes

A key to memory- grandmother's eyes, perfume, wrinkles

Magnolia thick trunks with milk white blossoms

I write her name upon a golden magnolia leaf

Let it drift onto an earthly heaven

Trees much older than her yet it seems as if

They were planted just for this moment

A reminder the universe conspired long ago, happy harmony

Planted seeds of purest love, simply for my second of sight

Hundreds of years from its conception a connection

Stretches finger tips to soils deep, earth, mud, and kinship blood

Shukran,

Kelsey

PS- Spain pics:

1. http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2038108&id=35501566&l=c9ad47d4a

2. http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2038158&id=35501566&l=292bbd1206