BURN AFTER READING:
contraband news from Madrid
I would like to begin this letter with a hug.
[THIS IS A HUG]
There. That’s much better, if I say so myself. If you caught that hug correctly, you already know everything I’m about to tell you: about the desperation and exhilaration of bungee-jumping into life overseas; about the pain (and that is a weak word) of denying ourselves our mother tongue; about the castles, the palaces, and the paradises that I live in, and around.
A good hug should do that.
Before I begin in earnest (and I must type like the wind, for I have to get myself to the Parque de Atenas in just a mediahora), I should tell you that this note is the largest body of English to have seeped out of me in awhile. In a long while. Already I can feel something stirring, sleepily; the old tricks are rumbling to life. And so you’ll have to forgive me two things: that I had a weak moment, and wrote home in English; and secondly, that this note is less-than-grammatical. The code of silence has put a serious hurt on my English skills, for sure.
*
Every day, I wake up in my room on Calle Virgen del Puerto, in the centery-westy-part of Madrid. Think Upper-Row-type distances from everything I need. Marisa, my host mother, is invariably awake -- she jumps out of bed by six. As soon as she hears me, she starts the tea. As soon I hear her, I get out of bed, and try to fall asleep in the cramped, lineolo-tastic shower.
Marisa and I share toast and tea, and watch the morning news. We converse in Spanish. She tells me about how to get to that-new-place, and where she-said-he-said is living. I currently understand approximately 80% of what she says, I think. I am occasionally suprised to find out that I have agreed to things unknown, in my haste to greet every question with an earnest ¡sí!, but it’s happening less. We spar on politics, and I try to make overtures to leave, only to be steamrollered by the rat-at-tat-tat of her castellano.
I leave for school late. Invariably, and without exception. Getting to school (the International Institute of Nosequé) entails three big chapters: running, busing, and metro-ing. The science of the 25-minute commute (a golden goal) is more of an alchemy: it seems like no matter how much time I feed to the bus stop, the walk, or the train-ride, it’s never enough.
And so I start running to the bus station. (Look at the Brasilian run!). (But seriously, I’m not Brasilian). I jaywalk across the last road. I shake my fist at the picaro who ran his light. I do the left-right sidewalk tango with an old codger. I climb on board a bus, any bus -- as far as I can tell, they all f#@% you over about the same -- and wait until it seems appropriate to get off, or I see signs that have the Metro diamond on them. I push the button. I get off.
The train to the Center is free, thanks to the Bings. As is, I should say, all public transportation in Madrid.
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| THANK YOU FROM THE |
| BOTTOM OF MY HEART, |
| HELEN AND PETER BING |
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The Metro is a minefield of stares. Spaniards love to stare. LOVE to stare. I secretly rejoice that I am building awkward-immunity: when I return to America, life is going to be so much more comfortable.
And that, I suppose, is the theme of this letter. I’ve laid a heavy bet that this is worth it; I’m hoping that at the end of this, I’ll be able to write home in castellano, without spellcheck. If you are at Stanford, and wonder what life here is like, I would ask a boon of you: pick a day to do with your off hand. If you’re a rightie, use your left hand. And vice versa.
Be very strict about following your new, highly-arbitrary, educational rule. Eat with your off-hand. Piss with your off-hand. Write with your off-hand. Catch that pencil with your off-hand. Type using only your off-hand. Wave goodbye to your parter with your off-hand. And so on. Seriously. I'm being earnest: you should try to meaningfully switch.
If you did that, it would go a long way towards explaining what my hug left out. I think. It’s hard to be sure of anything, writing in English. By the time the idea is shaping up nicely, the sentence just gives out at the knees. If you did that, we are mostly up to speed. The rest is just my baggage.
Con un abrazo fuerte,
Roberto
