I'm doing the thing I've always wanted to do, backpacking in Europe. When I say "backpacking" I really mean lugging around a pink fuck pig, blistering my hands with its metal handle. I am thankful, however, that it isn't the green fuck pig, which is considerably larger and more difficult to pull around. My friend Amanda lent this one to me because of its smaller size, which would be easier to manage in a city like Madrid.
Suppose I'm living the dream. When I say "living the dream" I really mean living out of a suitcase for months. It's like being on tour with a band, except I haven't made any music lately and I've got no band. A life of uncertainty. Suppose my stress level is comparable to one of those small boards used to practice swim kicks with. I used to push them underwater and try to stand on them, pressing them against the bottom of the pool with my feet, trying to maintain balance so that it wouldn't jolt up and burst out of the water. This journey has felt similar to that feeling, holding it all together so that I don't lose it. I'm taking lots of pictures and trying to make the most of it, as well as find a job. I thought I had one in Zaragoza, and I did for a day or two, until they realized me being American presented more problems than they were willing to face. That was disappointing. I took a day and a half to lick my wounds in Malaga in the company of good friends and home-cooked food, discovered the amazing capacity of my friends Amanda and Ashley, and decided to get back on the horse, or better yet, the pink fuck pig.
Now I am in Madrid. I am ready to move on from the south of Spain. I've seen everything I want to see there and don't see myself living there. It's definitely colder up here but I don't mind it. Madrid definitely has the metropolitan vibe. Styles of extremity, girls and guys both dressed to the nines, it's a fucking runway. I watched this woman in her car come to a curve and honked her horn at this man who had his foot in the way. He got pissed and slapped her car, then she got out and released her fiery Spanish fury on him. The only thing recognizable she said was something about getting out of her country. His dark skin lead to the fact that he most likely was not Spanish, and Spain feels like a closed-off place. Different from China, though, because here they choose to be this way.
I look at the locals and I crave to know their language. I haven't had any time to study it, always on the go since day one. I can get by, from point A to B, but I want C and D and so on. Maybe I'm greedy, but I'm sick of feeling like the outside-looking-in. I crave acceptance. I want to know what they're saying, what their voices are, aside from the sheer sound of them. Immersion takes time, I've got the time. But money and a job I don't, which is what I'm going to need if I really want to immerse myself further.
So that's that, in a nutshell. I might move on to Barcelona after this, and possibly Girona after that. I want to make the most of this experience and not go home feeling empty-handed. Keep your fingers crossed for me that I might find some work.
Thanks. Much love. Postcards will be sent this time.
xox
MISU
Suppose I'm living the dream. When I say "living the dream" I really mean living out of a suitcase for months. It's like being on tour with a band, except I haven't made any music lately and I've got no band. A life of uncertainty. Suppose my stress level is comparable to one of those small boards used to practice swim kicks with. I used to push them underwater and try to stand on them, pressing them against the bottom of the pool with my feet, trying to maintain balance so that it wouldn't jolt up and burst out of the water. This journey has felt similar to that feeling, holding it all together so that I don't lose it. I'm taking lots of pictures and trying to make the most of it, as well as find a job. I thought I had one in Zaragoza, and I did for a day or two, until they realized me being American presented more problems than they were willing to face. That was disappointing. I took a day and a half to lick my wounds in Malaga in the company of good friends and home-cooked food, discovered the amazing capacity of my friends Amanda and Ashley, and decided to get back on the horse, or better yet, the pink fuck pig.
Now I am in Madrid. I am ready to move on from the south of Spain. I've seen everything I want to see there and don't see myself living there. It's definitely colder up here but I don't mind it. Madrid definitely has the metropolitan vibe. Styles of extremity, girls and guys both dressed to the nines, it's a fucking runway. I watched this woman in her car come to a curve and honked her horn at this man who had his foot in the way. He got pissed and slapped her car, then she got out and released her fiery Spanish fury on him. The only thing recognizable she said was something about getting out of her country. His dark skin lead to the fact that he most likely was not Spanish, and Spain feels like a closed-off place. Different from China, though, because here they choose to be this way.
I look at the locals and I crave to know their language. I haven't had any time to study it, always on the go since day one. I can get by, from point A to B, but I want C and D and so on. Maybe I'm greedy, but I'm sick of feeling like the outside-looking-in. I crave acceptance. I want to know what they're saying, what their voices are, aside from the sheer sound of them. Immersion takes time, I've got the time. But money and a job I don't, which is what I'm going to need if I really want to immerse myself further.
So that's that, in a nutshell. I might move on to Barcelona after this, and possibly Girona after that. I want to make the most of this experience and not go home feeling empty-handed. Keep your fingers crossed for me that I might find some work.
Thanks. Much love. Postcards will be sent this time.
xox
MISU
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