neurotica_redux

The Quick & Dirty

Well, it’s safe to say I’ve been pretty terrible about updating this blog and I sincerely hate that the last post was a really negative one, so I’m going to fix that RIGHT NOW.

Heading into Barcelona in an hour to do a bit of last minute shopping, have one last lunch with the residency ladies who have also left, and spend one more night in the big city before heading off to San Sebastian. So lucky that I’ve met such wonderful people here – am staying with Rachel at her gorgeous little flat near Placa Catalunya. And will probably be drinking wine on her rooftop terrace in about six hours.

As for how things ended up with the residency, after that week long period of total volatility, things calmed down quite a bit and everything seemed to right itself. The managers sensed our anger I think and backed off the party party and we were all able to get some work done. Not to mention went into Barcelona on the night before the big Fiesta of Sant Joan which was so much fun. It was one of those nights that remind me why I travel and why I’ll never stop.

Overall, I’m sad to leave (incurable case of sentimentality here) this beautiful little town at the base of the mountain. I went for a walk at 7 this morning before the already sleepy town was even awake and it was beautiful. It really is a magical place and I don’t use the word magical, like, ever.  Yesterday evening there was the most incredible thunderstorm over the mountain, I just sat in the backyard and watched it for an hour as it slowly made its way to the farmhouse. I have countless scenes like this stamped indelibly in my mind from this place.

Beyond the scenery I’ve gotten a lot done, embarked on a new novel (yep, you heard me) and had a couple dark nights of the soul which are always good for me, as torturous as they are while I’m going through them.

I also made several decisions about the rest of my European trip that I feel good about. In the end I decided not to go to Africa – a decision that I’m still not 100% happy about, but I feel like it was the right thing to do. My gut was barely audible on this one, but even when it’s whispering it’s still good to listen, even if you don’t like what it says. Of course, as I was saying to my friend here, nothing is set in stone and all plane tickets are changeable! So that’s that on the Africa front, and instead I’m going to spend two weeks at the end of July exploring Berlin and continuing to write. In between now and then there will be a lot of drinking of good, cheap wine, eating yummy seafood and lying on the beach. Life ain’t half bad. The biggest challenge in the next two weeks will be keeping up the writing groove. I had told myself I could take a break after the residency but I find that I really don’t want to. So in the end I’ll make the time. Which is exactly as it should be.

I will say one other thing about traveling that is hard for a sentimentalist like myself: Meeting people you really get along with and who add something to your life (even in small ways) and then parting ways with the understanding that you probably won’t ever see them again. I know, ultimately, I’d rather have met them and enjoyed their company for this short period of time than not have met them all, but still, it’s a bittersweet reality.

 The other thing I don’t like about traveling is not having my own personal butler. The hill I have to hump up with 60lbs of luggage does NOT look small right now.

Ah, sacrifices.

 
 

 

  

 

Trouble in Paradise

Well, the horse was only the start of it I guess. Things a la rancha have gone rapidly downhill, in an almost absurdist manner. Just yesterday I told someone I felt like I was in a SNL skit about drunk, thoughtless, boundary-less Spaniards. So much for discretion I guess, but hey, I’m not naming names. And my zone of respect has been breached like a motherfucker in the last three weeks. So whatevs.

The universe balancing itself out is quite a thing to behold. The first two weeks here were great, and the few quirky oddities and annoyances that abounded were taken with a grain of salt. Some things haven’t changed, the place itself is stunning, the mountain and the walks I take everyday are nothing short of therapeutic. The other residents here are wonderful, talented, and edifying and all that you could hope for. But, like I said – yin – yang – etc.

The last two or three days have been a circus around here. I don’t think the people who run the place got the memo that artists work on the weekends. Yesterday was the family birthday party in the yard, all. Day. Long. And when the Spanish have a party they do it up, we’re talking like three courses, half a dozen of bottles of wine, champagne, espresso, the works. There were nine of them but it sounded like 25. They overtook the kitchen, the living area, and the yard. Which is fine, nice even, if this was their house. (Or if we were invited.) But it’s supposed to be a retreat, a residency, a place that is quiet and respectful of the work that is being done there. At least that’s what we paid to come here for (or our university’s paid for). Instead, we were all shut up in our rooms all day because we felt like guests in some one else’s house. Even there we weren’t safe because they felt it was okay to give the fam a tour of the upstairs studios and rooms while they were at it. Knocking on doors and barging in with no warning.

The thing is if this were an isolated incident, no big deal. We’re not assholes. We can deal. But the steady stream of randos in and out of the place at all hours of the day, the impromptu friend parties right outside our windows, the manager watching Desperate Housewives (yup, you heard me) on the couch all day sleeping off his hangover, his don juan-wannabe friend crashing in the room next door with some chica, and the temper tantrums about us not buying their overpriced wine is all a little much. Cumulatively speaking.

Just to be clear, they’re very nice people. They’re fun and warm and very welcoming. They have definitely gone above and beyond in a lot of respects, but it’s just that they don’t seem to understand the essential things to go above and beyond about. I also understand we’re working from two totally different cultures, and also different worldviews. The people that are running the show are not artists, and have only been doing this since January. That’s a pretty steep learning curve. They very well might not understand our expectations culturally or professionally. But, they bought into the legacy of the place which billed itself to us a certain way.  This residency has been around for almost twenty years with a solid reputation and that’s what we counted on when we accepted stipends and bought plane tickets.

As I write this I am listening to god-knows-who outside. Who’s coming for dinner? Who fucking knows. And my fury is renewed and my guilt about posting this is assuaged.

Mostly I just hate feeling like this. I can’t be an adult and say anything because the male of the situation has been retaliatory in terms of speaking up. I’ve tried it before. Not a position I want to put myself in. And therefore I can’t actively make the situation better. Which leaves one option. We’ve all been talking about it, and it seems we all have different tolerance levels and situations. Some people are giving it a couple days, some people want to present a united front and lodge complaints, etc. I for one hate how pissed off I feel, or irritated I guess. I just don’t like the person I become in those moments. Life’s too short, so I went for a long walk and sat in front of the mountain for a good long time.

If I’m honest a couple of things are bothering me. I still haven’t made a decision about Africa. The contingencies and caveats get more numerous by the day and I can’t seem to fight my way through the facts to get to how I really feel about it. I have committed to a traveling situation/companion to Bilbao and San Sebastian that while fine, and cost effective, is giving me a little anxiety because at the end of all of this I feel like I just might really need to be alone for a few days before meeting my mom in Italy. And as for the writing, I’m doing it, and some days are great, and some are hard, but mostly I’m working on three different projects, I haven’t committed to one thing. But, I’m trying not to judge that decision, I’m just doing what I have to do to keep sitting down at the computer and writing every day. At the end of it I guess this is the life I lead, and the one I’ve chosen. Whether its in Spain or San Francisco, or Maine or South Africa, there are decisions to be made, and they’re not always easy. Although I do feel guilty complaining about having to decide whether or not I should go to Africa to travel or Berlin to write, to leave my imperfect Spanish residency or go to Basque Country a little early. But, pain is relative, even mental pain, and lord knows I’m good at putting myself through the ringer.

 What I did get from the mountain (if you listen closely it whispers to you through the olive trees) was that life is too short to be angry or feel obligated or worry yourself sick over whether or not you’ll regret something. So, I’m attacking this in chunks. I’m giving this place two days to shape up, and if it continues to be a zoo, I’m peacing out. The mental energy it takes being pissed off and irritated completely eats up the creative energy and it’s just not worth it. I came here to work, and I can do that just as easily in a quiet rented room, sans the headaches. So that’s the first step. I’m also going to try and assess what I really want to get out of San Sebastian and decide whether or not to break my word on that front. It could be awkward, but ultimately that’s not what’s important. As for Africa – that too will be decided in the next couple of days. I take time, I drive myself nuts, this is the way of the lorraine. And so it goes.

Oh MAN....

...If I hadn't just been to Coachella and saw all of the headliners I would be all over this. As is, I'm having to restrain myself. Full day pass is only 40 euros. Doesn't help that my iPizzle was stolen and haven't listened to a bloody tune in two weeks. ARGH. 

Ah well, maybe I'll go check it out and see if I can bamboozle some Spaniard into letting me in for free. Heading to the big cit-ay either today or tomorrow for a bit of urban renewal.

Despite the horse incident, I'm in danger of staying here forever. 

The Day I Ate Mr. Ed

Wherein I become incredibly unreasonable and irrationally pissed off:

So, I’m not super squeamish about what I eat. I would say I’m somewhere around a 5 or 6 on the squeamish scale. I’ll try raw things, I’ll try organs, I’ll try whatever. But there are certain limits, certain psychological boundaries me and my stomach don’t want to cross. Especially against our will.

Well, tonight I ate horse. I thought it was beef. We all thought it was beef. At least the carnivores did, the vegetarians, it turns out were in on the joke. Ha fucking Ha. It looked like beef, tasted like beef – although I will say a little tough. It was fine, nothing out of the ordinary in terms of our meals here at the residency. Nothing to be suspicious of.

Then over mint tea and Nutella they break it to us. I think my exact words were, “Are you fucking shitting me?”

 We were had. Sneaky fucking Spaniards.

For the record, I don’t think it’s cool to serve people you don’t know that well, things that are considered taboo in their countries, and pass it off as something else. I’m not completely horrified, or spiritually offended. But I could be. Mostly I’m just annoyed. I really don’t like to think about the way horses are “put to pasture” in general, and I certainly don’t like to think about them ending up on my plate. Dog. Cat. Horse. Human. Those are pretty much the only meats I am opposed to eating. In order of offense, I might add. Not impressed that I ate it tonight. And I know it’s psychosomatic, but I’m completely nauseous right now.

 I’m sure they knew we wouldn’t eat it if we knew (right-o), and were trying to push our boundaries. I’ll know they’ll say, “Oh but you liked it when you didn’t know what it was!” But that to me misses the point, I don’t really appreciate having cultural boundaries stuffed down my throat. I do enough boundary pushing on my own, thank you very much.

 Okay, this post ended up sounding a lot angrier than I meant it to be. I dunno, I think I am also just was annoyed by the whole conversation that erupted after dinner about meat production/killing/industry in general. The vegetarians’ (yes, they’re like a voting bloc) point was that that horse was probably killed more humanely than most cows in the U.S., and blah blah blah. And yes, fair enough (Although it’s still HIGHLY speculative from my point of view), but it again misses the point. Ultimately it’s about choice and access to knowledge and it makes me think about how much deception and misinformation there is about the meat industry in general. A topic that when I think about it too much is bound to make my stomach turn on its own. The fact is that for the last year or so I’ve been mostly vegetarian, I eat meat and often fish when I go out to dinner, or when I’m at a dinner party, but I rarely buy it for myself. When I do it’s not commercial beef or chicken. That shit grosses me out.  

In Europe, from what I hear, the regulations are better, and commercial farming just isn’t as prevalent. Since I got here we’ve had meat every night except one, and I’m starting to get really turned off by it. Not that it’s not good, but more and more I find myself really aching for the vegetarian dish. The fish here is really good, and that’s what I crave.

Or, maybe I’m just a little shell-shocked by Mr. Ed.

Grooooan.

Ronaldo? Where for art thou Ronaldo?

Well, it was bound to slow down sometime. The last three days I’ve been a writing machine, finally getting into a story that I’m really excited about and feeling good about the words I’m stringing together.  It was going so well in fact that I passed up a tour of a cava winery to stay at the farmhouse and write. Insane? Maybe. But I needed it. Today was a bit slower, a bit more challenging and a lot less satisfying. It’s always a delicate game, tip-toeing around yourself, wondering when the muse (or whatever you want to call her) will start to get bitchy and need a nap. Today was the third day of rain and she’d had enough, clearly.

The weather has us all feeling a little ripped off. It’s JUNE. It’s SPAIN. Rain? Damp? Cold? Really? Starting to feel like San Francisco up in this piece. But, on the bright side it is easier to work when it’s not so tempting outside.

I’m getting very used to our little routines around here. In fact I’m due to cocktail in about ten minutes but I might forgo it in lieu of beerz and world cup soccer.  We’re not sure what the situation is in town though, evidently in Spain they’re all about charging you for the big games, i.e. you won’t find England v. U.S.A. on a public broadcast channel. So we’re not sure any of the “bars” in the village will have paid for it. We’re gonna give it a shot with France v. Uruguay tonight and see if a bribe for tomorrow will be in order. One of the other writers (a mystery writer no less) is a big soccer fan too so we’ll try and rally the troops. 

Booked my flight from Bilbao to Rome the other day and I’m starting to get excited about Italy with mom. It will be so fun so experience it with her. In some ways I’ll be experiencing it for the first time too, after all I was a wee babe of 21 when I went with Meghan all those years ago. At the very least it will be much different, then we were doing it on a shoestring, mostly concerned with the vino (okay, so maybe that won’t change) and kind of naïve (those gladiators outside the Coliseum? Yep. They totally got us). I’m beyond ecstatic that the euro has tanked and that all of this won’t cost me an arm in a leg. Apres Italy is still up in the air, not sure if Africa is happening although I’m keeping my fingers crossed. I’ve pretty much decided that even if I don’t end up going to Africa I’m going to spend a couple weeks over here after Italy. Right now Berlin and Prague are the frontrunners in my mind. My plan is to sublet a little place, write all day and explore all evening. Kind of like an extension of here without the free food. Somebody mentioned this morning at breakfast that there are only three weeks left. We groaned and told her to shut up. No one wants to think of leaving

Of course, it’s not all perfect. There are some random annoying things about the place that I won’t get into here simply for discretion sake. But, that being said, the good outweighs the bad. I have to remember that as I sit here in my funk. I’m grumpy about the writing today, and the yoga this afternoon. Neither went very well, my mind and body weren’t cooperating. I’m tempted to chalk it up to the dreams I had last night; they were incessant and varied. Just about every former boyfriend/lover/interest waltzed through my head last night for no apparent reason but to torment me. Here I am in the “gourmet nunnery” and I thought I could get away from thinking about boys for a bit. Evidently not. Maybe I’ll just roll with it and go into town tonight to find my own personal Ronaldo. I think maybe Kimmy had the right idea.

 

Five hours round trip, 4,000 vertical feet, one black madonna, NBD.

Because I climbed up to this today while everyone else took the sissy funicular, I'm begging off blogging duty and going to bed. PEACE.

 

 

The Day a French Girl in Bowling Shoes Kicked My Ass

Trying desperately to get hip to the Spanish biorhythms but it’s not going well. We eat at nine every night and with two or three glasses of wine in me I’m ready for beddy-bye at 11pm. Probably due in large part to the fact that I can’t seem to sleep well past 7am, which if you know me, is cause for concern. But, I’m drinking my writerly tea and talking to you so, hey, I’m trying.

 I really love this place. The writing (thus far - I’m TRYING to be optimistic people) is challenging but everything else is fantastic. The food, the people, the outdoors, the mountains, the change of pace. I’m in love with it all. This is what I crave about traveling. Scratch that, what I love about living abroad. Because living is different than traveling. I consider traveling what I did my junior year abroad when Meghan and I traversed four countries in four weeks. Living is what I did in Argentina two summers ago when I explored every nook and cranny of Buenos Aires for a month. I love the unfamiliar becoming familiar, but first it’s wildly unfamiliar, and that stage is so exciting. It’s how I feel right now. Now, everything is different from the milk in the supermarket to the fact that the Spanish eat their salad in the middle of the meal not at the beginning. It’s not a matter of evaluation, i.e. figuring out what’s “better” in this culture or that. At least it’s not for me. I know what I love, I love America (as much as it feels kind of icky coming out of my mouth) it’s my home and I will end up there. I will choose there. But even so I require an awakening every once in a while and that can only come in the form of fear or uncertainty, or just being uncomfortable. I almost didn’t buy a sausage today in this gorgeous meat market because I was nervous about asking for it (we all know how stellar my Spanish is) but I did, because it’s good for you to feel like an asshole every once in awhile. Not all the time, not on the regular, but occasionally. It’s humbling at worst, freeing at best.  That chip on your shoulder about always being right, or in control, or smart, or whatever, gets knocked off in short order when you don’t speak the language – culturally or linguistically. Maybe it helps that I’m a naturally self-deprecating person, I tend to take all this in stride and am grateful for whatever help I get along the way. That’s the other thing. It restores my faith in humanity. People are so willing to help the stupid American who doesn’t know what bus stop to get off at. I don’t care if it gives them an ego boost and that’s why they do it, I don’t care what they’re saying about me that I can’t understand – if that’s what gets them off great, it’s on them, I’ll take the good that they’re willing to put out there for me and leave the rest to them to karmically digest.

 Although, I am sad to say I am a bit of an anomaly here at the residency – among the other five Americans, I’m the only one with basically no Spanish.  I can’t help but wonder if the reason I’m okay with this is a) a deep-seated insecurity b) fundamental laziness c) a craving for exactly the kind of ignorance that in every other part of my life I excoriate.  It’s food for thought at least and a question I feel like I’ll have to answer/mountain I’ll have to scale at some point in my life. Que sera sera.

 Oh! The title. I suppose I should explain that. But first, the disclaimers. Okay, so in my defense the months of April and May were a total disaster on the nutritional/physical health front. There was Coachella, there were sisters in town, there was Bay to Breakers, there were gastronomic delights that I just couldn’t pass up and events that I just had to attend in lieu of running. SO. I’m out of shape. My usual five plus days of working out dwindled to like two or three. So yeah. Anyway, today I tagged along on a run with S, a forty-something marathon runner from Pittsburgh, and L, a french carbon copy of Twiggy (who happens to live in London).  The weather here has been getting hotter and hotter and drier and drier, even into the late evening, which has been great except it makes running a bit of an, ahem, challenge. But, I had a seriously shitty writing day and decided I needed to punish myself do something positive.

 So, I get all geared up and am feeling rather low tech with no watch and no iPod (RIP), and I go to grab L and get shaking. Turns out Twiggy (who is positively the sweetest, most genuine person) was in the same clothes she had been in all day, i.e. a pair of khaki shorts, a pink tee-shirt with a regular bra, and a pair of what can only be described as bowling shoes, slash something Peggy Sue would wear to the sock hop. Cute for everyday living but running? Twigster please.

 I said, “You’re going to run in those?!?” and she said, “Oh yes, I don’t have proper shoes, I keep meaning to get some.” I think I just kind of stared at her for a while as imagined my arches catching on fire and disintegrating in sympathetic response.

 Then we go downstairs to meet S, who is outfitted much the same as I plus the monster GPS watch on her left hand. We conceded that American’s are a little fussy about how they work out, and L, very cutely was like, “Oh I’m out of my league!”

The phrase fait accomplit really pops to mind here. We all know Irony always prevails. Needless to say, L was the pace car the whole run and at the very end took off sprinting for the farmhouse when we were close. S and I were like, CLASSIC. When we rolled on up to the outdoor patio we found our hosts (a married couple, French woman, Spanish man) drinking brews and smoking cigs. Immediately there were jokes about life expectancies etc.  Then out of nowhere L comes up from the path we just got off.  

“But you were ahead of us,” I said.

 “I just went for a bit of a sprint up there,” she says pointing to some ridiculous hill.

 S and I look at each other and shake our red faces, while L spots our hosts with beers.

 “Oh! I’d really fancy a beer!” she says.

 

 Ennnnnd Scene. 

 

 

 

 

 

Live from España, it's Cava night.

As per usual I don’t know where to start, but as even more per usual, if I don’t try I never will. Then the next think you know it will be the end of June and I won’t have written anything about my time in Spain. I’m writing a fair amount in my journal but I feel like this is really the best way to keep people “up to date” about what’s going. Otherwise I would be spending all my time writing emails. Because I’m like, SO popular. Ha. But seriously – it’s a nice way to document my time here. It’s just a matter of having the energy after a day of writing. We’ll see how it goes.

Tonight was I guess what you could call the first real night, in the sense that all the people who will be here for the month of June arrived today. Another woman and I arrived two days ago but we overlapped oddly with a group of Swedish art students. It was actually really great because they gave me an entirely different view of teenagers. I saw what teenagers COULD be. They were all seniors in high school and this was essentially their senior trip. While they were of course focused minorly (and adorably) on drinking and merrymaking they were unfailingly polite, friendly, courteous and inquisitive. Really a true joy to have around. I can count the number of American teenagers I’ve met like that on one hand, and here there were thirteen in the same room. It was really wonderful. I told my mom she should move to Sweden to teach high school - screw whiney, rude Americans. Uh oh, I’m in Europe three days and already I’m hating on my homeland. Not good.

A little about the place. It’s stunning. Not in a perfectly manicured, luxury spa kind of way. Quite the opposite in fact. Ultimately, the word rustic is what encompasses the place, through and through. Which means of course that’s it’s a little dirty, in a bit of disrepair, and heavy on the charm. The architecture, the random art installations around the grounds, the plucky house cat, and the winery-as-annex off the studios all add up to a pretty amazing place. They must think we’re so weird. All the oohing and ahhing. It’s mostly Americans (two French). But the Swedes recognized it too. I was talking to one of the teachers who was chaperoning the kids; we both mentioned how refreshing and relaxing it was to be in an environment that was such a wonderful balance of thoughtful art and disregard for perfection. “In Sweden everything is so perfect, so manicured – here it’s like, whatever. It’s nice!” I couldn’t agree more, guy-whose-name-I-can’t-pronounce. Even more than that it’s kind of a living monument to all the artists who have been here before - there are sculptures on the lawns, carvings in the clay cliffs behind the house, paintings in the bathroom, little nooks scattered on the property with stone desks and swings. Totally random and delightful.

 I’ve only explored a little bit but already I’m excited about the hiking. We’re at the foot of Montserrat, on the other side of the mountains from the monastery. But evidently there are a million and one trails to get there going through olive groves and breathtaking private property with villas galore. (Do you call them villas in Spain? Who cares.)

As far as the writing goes I’m already feeling more centered about it and have gotten some things done. Until tomorrow I’m focusing on applying for another residency (in the Marin Headlands – marginally less dramatic and much more practical) but then I’m going to dive into either the novel or this story that is fast becoming ANOTHER novel in my mind. Lord help me. I’m just so grateful to have the time and the mental space to focus on writing. I don’t even think I realized how much my work life and social life were eating into that focus. That’s not true, I did. That’s why I was so hell-bent on getting here. I was brushing my teeth last night and thinking how much real life gets in the way of writing. It’s kind of ridiculous. How can you live a “normal” life and maintain focus? It’s so difficult. I’m still figuring it out, obviously. At least for now residencies might provide a clearly delineated space in which to engage creatively and more importantly, produce. I barely have time to think in San Francisco let alone write. A lot of that is my own fault, I have a hard time saying no and an even harder time focusing. I guess it’s just something I’ll have to work on. I’m hoping that this will renew my commitment to making the appropriate sacrifices in “real life”. We’ll see how that goes.

 Okay – that’s enough for tonight. I’m sleepy from all the local cava and chocolate.

Tough life.