Homage to España

I spent one week in Spain in December. I went there, like I went to Athens, barely knowing a thing about the country. I'm not sure how it's possible, being around anarchists, reading the news, knowing some things about twentieth century history. I even read For Whom the Bell Tolls on my own at the end of high school, though I found it monotonous, like a lot of Hemingway. I don't know how I was fortunate enough to have friends to visit in Greece AND Spain, where seeds of revolution have been planted for so long and not actually know a thing until I got there.

But this is not a post about bitter lament. This post is about Spain. I finally got around to reading Homage to Catalonia, which I'm about halfway through now. On the drive between the Zamora-area countryside and Vigo, I was tired from travelling but still totally fascinated by the stories of Irati's father. Apparently, back in the 70s, he and her mother were dedicated Marxists. He was telling me all about Anarchists during the Civil War and suggested I read this book. I'm glad I'm reading it now, late as it is. Orwell is a gift to the English language and all of human literature. I'm actually quite in awe of how a person who spent only 47 years on this Earth could have experienced so much and graciously left it with the rest of us bystanders.

I'm not going to go as far as saying that I regret not sticking to Spanish as I had planned and tried and not applying for the Spain assistantship. I am merely saying that when I can catch bits and pieces of real understanding, I feel lucky and privileged.

OK so this is not entirely about Spain. More to come.

***

I finished the book. Orwell's gift for language also extends to his ability to write so much in so few pages.

Back to Spain, where I started 2011. Some of the most beautiful views, captured more deeply in my memory than in these images:

Baoina, Galicia

After meeting Marine at CCL, the way we really connected was through our tiny Spanish class at the Union Française de Jeunesse, which I took seriously for quite some time. There was one point in Spain where I had to dig up my Spanish skills, just to communicate with the family. I imagined the possibility of applying to be a teaching assistant in Spain and now I'm wondering if that wouldn't have been a good choice. But that's not my journey right now. That is Rebecca's journey.

I also had imagined going to the Primavera Festival in Barcelona at the end of May, to see Pulp together on stage for the first time in 10 years. I had so many ideas of going back to Spain, after just one week of being there. Amazing how much can happen in one week. There was even a Korean girl there, and already then I was laying the foundation for the idea of teaching in Korea.

Irati told me about this farm, run by French people. I wanted to go there and help out over the summer too. Spain, why did I abandon you?

August 2011 Houston - The Dark Place

Houston, Texas

A place I haven't been to in quite some time. Different than the late fall troubles and the winter blues in Lille. Different even than post-Calais. Different than high school boredom and desperation. Different than pre-Cambridge Coop depression and frustration about the future. Different because I have just hit 24 years old, still quite young yet too old to be where I am now. The dark place. A place where all my small errors, huge mistakes, rash impulses, overanalyzing, bridge-burning, awkwardness, social ineptness, making heaviness out of lightness, melodrama, self-absorption, inconsideration, cruelty, feeling/thinking over action, travel burn-out, political awakening, city blues and perpetual state of loss hit me like a ton of bricks. The dark place. A place where all the beautiful/painful memories I have purposely or unconsciously repressed, the problems I never resolved, the childhood/adolescence insecurities, the broken family pieces, the personal and professional "failures" that I haven't recovered from, the displacement in a familiar place overwhelm me to the point of numbness. The dark place. A place where I doubt all that I have accomplished, the connections I've made, the foundations I've laid, the good times I've shared, the changes and progress I've decided on. The dark place. A place where I must "breathe the air and walk around." Where I must accept exactly who I am, own and take responsibility for each one of my actions and the fact that they affect my family, friends, acquaintances, strangers, everyone I come across. The dark place. A place that can teach me more about humility, compassion, love, laughter, risk, respect, communication. The dark place. A place where I can plant new seeds and strike new matches. The dark place. The underground bridge between two continents, civilizations, huge pieces of land in huge bodies of water, a huge shovel digging out fat worms feeding on fertile earth.

Who hasn't gone to this dark place? Who hasn't experienced so much that they are unable to sift out the flowers from the shit? Who hasn't taken their created suffering out on others, trying to unload the weight on those who don't ask for or deserve it? Who hasn't sunk their head so far below the water that they start growing gills? Who hasn't run on empty for so many miles that the shock of stalling, crashing, burning is hard to admit or accept?

And this is all the psyche. I am healthy. And loved by my family that I get to stay with. And supported by amazing individuals who have no obligation to be patient with my neurosis. Food in my belly. Roof over my head. Blah blah blah. "First world problems." No, just internal.

In no longer than six months, and probably only three, I will be in South Korea. I won't escape myself and this time around, I won't pretend that it's possible. But I know that there, with all the concrete new things to do every single second of every day, the dark place won't welcome me with open arms. It will lock me out and push me away from the door.

So while it's still possible to be here. Welcome to the dark place. Breathe the air and walk around.

May, June 2011 - Three Weeks of Greek Mountain Magic

At long last, I have found the courage to gather together my best photos from WWOOFing at Peliti. As I look back on them now, I definitely feel the magic in full force. I can also see things more clearly from distance and time and of course there's quite a bit of sadness. But also the realization that I was pretty self-centered and childish, even during this time. I like to think that I learned about love, generosity, patience and humility during these three weeks through the actions of others. I hope that my mistakes and inconsiderate behavior were not judged so harshly by the wonderful people I met, as I now judge them myself. In any case, I can still say this was (one of) the best experiences of my life, with awe-inspiring natural surroundings, spirituality, delicious food, truly great human beings, dogs, seeds, quiet village life. So so much.

May 16, 2011 I arrived in Mesohori, a tiny Northeastern Greek village in the Rhodope Mountains. 

Of course, it was not quite a smooth arrival, knowing me. I took a 3.5 train ride from Thessaloniki, somehow managed to not get off at the Paranesti station and ride all the way to Xanthi, the end of the train line. I managed to leave a message on my host's telephone and he did pick me up in the evening. I must have been quite busy and awestruck the first day or two, because I didn't start writing immediately. From my first journal entry: 

May 18, 2011
I'm afraid that I will leave this place before I am able to grasp the entire, immense beauty of it all. Today, we planted "Peliti," the Ponti dialect word for "oak tree." Just a few small pots with tiny oaks will grow to become gigantic trees over years and years. Amazing.

Today, we also got the bike going and I am determined to go as far as the thermal springs if I am allowed. 

I am starting to fill up my body with nutrients again - spinach and local rice, salad greens and raw milk. Honey and fruit and walnuts. I am eating just enough to keep me full - maybe I will actually trim down a bit after 3 weeks. 

There is no other time in my life when I will have the chance to live next to old Greek women with whom I can only communicate with short words and gestures.

May 2011 - Last Day in Sofia

May 13, 2011
Directly from my journal, with added links

I am staying an extra (4th) night because there is yet another talk tonight at the The Red House, on women immigrants in the labor market. I came at a fortunate time, it seems, right in the middle of the TransEuropa Festival, where lots of international guests are giving presentations in Haspel, the social center, and the more centrist Red House. Yesterday, I left Raia's place late (again) and walked to the Court House, from where I walked to the end of a scavenger hunt of Haspel's neighborhood, a "quartier populaire" it would be called in French with a mosque, synanogue, church, public baths and a Roma family squat across from the social center. I want to explore this part of the city more today before the debate, as it seems really cool and it's nicer out than the other days. Yesterday was also really intense because I spent the entire day from 1:00 p.m. with anthropologists, anarchists and Transeuropa international guests. On our way to the scavenger hunt end from the Court House, I talked with Bulgarian Maria, who just came back from 7 years studying anthropology in the States and her guest, Mary Taylor, an anthropology professor at Hunter College in NYC. Mary studies Hungary, speaks Hungarian and will talk about Hungarian social movements tomorrow, after I leave. Also two guys from the center, friends of Raia's, gave me a good history of Haspel's founding and Bulgarian anarchist history. It was fascinating to listen to and learn from these few active radicals in Sofia, the only real activist spot in the country, according to first-hand accounts.

Things got more intense when I learned about Oleg Mavromati, who was also at the Roma debate, and his fugitive status in Bulgaria. He is fleeing Russian persecution for a performance art piece that he did, an anti-religion commentary in which he was crucified. It was funny to speak Russian with him and Nika, a Russian woman living in Berlin, who came to speak on socially-engaged art with Oleg at Haspel last night. It was also a fascinating talk, complicated by the Skype-from-the-U.S. presence of Oleg's wife and translation across Russian, Bulgarian and English. I learned about right-wing tendencies in Russian political art and how things like this don't really happen in Bulgaria, perhaps a more pacified or apathetic place, especially after ascension. After the talk, I was happy to go back to the pizza restaurant and get another delicious vegetarian dish. Oleg turns out to be an 8-year vegetarian, for ethical reasons, which is really cool and sort of belies his appearance. Being vegetarian has proved to be yummy and easy in Sofia, but I'm not sure if I can live here, due to the apparent lack of good cycling infrastructure. The orange trams are lovely and the park is beautiful, but I'm becoming such a die-hard cyclist, I would have a hard time.

Anyway, after dinner, we ended up going out for drinks until 3 a.m. with Raia, Sando and three Hungarians, 2 of which were on the Roma panel. It was so fascinating, funny and crazy to sit and listen to their old Communist jokes, stories and shared experiences. I learned a tremendous amount ant it was especially funny when a big Irish guy came up to us at the end and told us about Orwell's description of tripe in "The Road to Wigan Pier" after overhearing the Hungarians talk about the delicacy of tripe soup and its onomatoepia in the Hungarian word. As usual, I am absorbing a surreal amount of life here and I think I've really found my traveling niche. I'm looking forward to seeing Rose the Haitian woman from Paris to speak tonight. Translation: French to English to Bulgarian? Only in Sofia!

May 2011 - First Day in Sofia

May 11, 2011
After a night of eating cheap, delicious Bulgarian food at a cafe (a positive trend throughout my experience in this country) and getting to know my new host at her place, we got up pretty late. It might have been after noon, which became a strange pattern for my four days in Sofia. Here is what I wrote early in the day, reeling after my arrival, later reflections interspersed:

Raia's apartment is undergoing renovation.
I remember stress about the workers coming every day, communicating with the family and not being able to go out as much as desired. She has beautiful views of the city and mountains. Last night, she left her cell phone in a cab, but we came home and drank some homemade wine to make up for it. I feel really good right now. Good as you can feel after surviving and even enjoying a 2-day bus ride across Western Europe to the East, and having someone to greet you, put you up, feed you and show you around a city that you've wanted to visit for years. Good as you can feel wandering this city in late spring, with all the green trees in bloom and the air clean and fresh and the sprinkles of rain coming and going between the warm sunshine. Good that I will learn about the activist movement here, small as it is, and not get the whitewashed touristy angle. Good that very soon I will leave behind the city life for 3 weeks and I will be in Greece again! Tonight Raia is taking me to a debate on the Roma and tomorrow, I will see the social center.

Some of the things I've learned: it's possible to be vegetarian, but vegan is harder. The left is constantly under threat from the fascists, much more so than in the U.S. or France. There is rampant anti-Communism, seen publically in the tags on old Communist monuments, but Communism seems to have been replaced by neoliberal, pro-capitalist tendencies, which continue to marginalize "real" dissidents.

May 2011 Paris-Sofia Bus Ride II

A stream of consciousness retrospective, from more journal scribbles.
May 9, 2011

9:30 a.m. They turn on a movie, subtitled in Bulgarian!
This is a nearly empty bus, I think I'm the only non-Bulgarian...
we are passing mostly boring countryside, racing eastward on an empty autoroute in France.
11:00 a.m.We start passing more beautiful greenery, less cleared farmland - when will we cross a border? Germany?? Lots of wind farms, I think they are ugly, even if they are "good for the environment" and are they?
249 km. to Strasbourg, so that means the border is still at least 2.5 hours away, putting us there around 2 p.m. This is a part of France I've never seen before, wow!
20 minutes stop around noon, we've now just made the same distance as Boston-NYC, barely a dent in the journey, but it's gone by fast and smooth
The weather is nice and the bus is not too hot, especially with so few people! Will more people get on?
12:30 p.m. We just entered a huge, fancy city! BOURGEOIS CENTRAL...is this Nancy? Metz?...METZ, so it turns out, we are making 4 or 5 stops in Germany/Austria before Sofia and the bus keeps going to Burgas! We're picking up people, but it's still a nearly empty bus for now...
Apparently, we're in Germany now, and it's only 1:30 p.m., though I have no clue where in the country. It's been far too long since I've looked at a map of Europe, I feel like I'm in open, unknown space...grateful for the ample amount of stops so far. The dark Bulgarian man next to me is listening to Eurotrash dance music on his laptop, without headphones. He just turned it up, looking to have a party with the beer he just bought. We're driving through some quaint German countryside now and my cell phone has yet to lose service. I am confused! I'm reading the bike journal I bought at the anarchist book store in Houston and it's really been worth the wait, making me determined to rent/borrow/cheaply buy a bike in the East. ça y est, the cell phone is MIA! The man is now taking video of his friends on their journey. Bulgarian seems to have the same intonation as Russian, yet it sounds different and I definitely can't understand it. If it takes (only?) 6 hours to get to the Western border of Germany from Paris, I wonder how long that bike ride would be?
German cities: Uberherrn, Ensdorf, Lisdorf
3:00 p.m. The signs are pointing towards Luxembourg and the dance music is slightly better, as well as the countryside. Suddenly, we're in a huge ass German city, super urban, I don't know where we are! There are tramlines here, that's pretty real...we've started with the American action movies again, subtitled in Bulgarian.
3:15 p.m. So now we are STUCK at this bus terminal of this still unknown German city and I don't have the courage to ask the Bulgarians where we are. We can't get out of the bus either and that's annoying. I'm not sure why we're standing with the bus still running.
3:45 p.m. We're on the road again and I switched seats with a Bulgarian family. I started speaking in French with the Bulgarian dance music man - he is nice and tells me that we may arrive earlier than expected tomorrow, around 19h. He speaks a bit of Russian, but since he has been living in Metz for 5 years, he has forgotten a lot of it.
4:30 p.m. Woohoo, another German bus terminal
5:30 p.m. I am now sitting next to the Bulgarian man, apparently his name is Tiundjel and he has a 17-year-old daughter named Shenay, who only sees on visits back home. Raia, my host in Sofia, later tells me that his name doesn't sound Bulgarian, he's probably Roma or Turkish. Sometimes we have a hard time communicating in French, since his language skills aren't stellar and I don't speak a goddamn word of Bulgarian, basically.
9:00 p.m. The sun is setting, pink and orange over the green landscape. I think we're still in Germany. The Bulgarians have informed me, the silly curious American girl, that we will also pass through Austria, Slovenia, Croatia and Serbia on our way to Sofia. It's nice to find out surprises on the road. The sign just pointed to Munchen and Aubsburg - I guess there will be invisible things in the night. I just finished the bike almanac - a lovely, inspirational read. I've made it through more than 12 hours on a bus, with a dance music and loud children. Maybe I could have avoided this in the front of the bus, but it's kind of funny to interact with these conventional-minded Bulgarians, one who offers me beer and speaks some French, so sits next to me and goes out of his way to be a gentleman.
10:30 p.m. We are in the MUNICH bus terminal! According to the bus placard, this is the last stop before Sofia, which is strange and maybe isn't true. I am watching the Munich metro go by behind the fence on my left. I want to go! There is something wearing about travelling alone long distances after a while. I think I sort of stand out, a lot more than I had expected. I seem to be the only young single female traveller. There is a young straight couple who boarded at the same time in Paris and the girl stares at me strangely, as though she doesn't really understand. Of course, the language barrier doesn't help things, so you can't really tell what people are thinking of sometimes trying to explain. Hand signals need to be read carefully and sometimes I am also not very good.
11:00 p.m. We're about to get moving again. I think if people would quiet down a bit, I could get some sleep with my earplugs, scarf over my eyes and the seat back. It's been awhile again since I've gotten proper sleep. I'm dreaming of 3 weeks of physical labor at Peliti, with restful nights. But I'm going to miss biking!

May 10, 2011
6:00 a.m. We're at the Croatian border! (NO BORDER) They took my passport to stamp it, LOL. For some reason, they check twice. This time, the lady cop come around with a stamp, though I already had one. I slept badly, as in barely at all. I'll try to continue sleeping through the morning. I just missed a photo of the "Welcome to Croatia" sign. It's a beautiful morning, with green hills in the distance.
9:50 a.m. Slovenian border, another document check. So many freakin' stamps in my passport. Now it seems that the bus driver is collecting IDs. Also, I am totally lame and didn't realize that Bulgaria isn't on the Euro, but has its own currency, the leva. Way to travel to a foreign country without knowing a goddamn thing!
10:00 a.m. So apparently, we bypassed Slovenia and now we're at the Serbian border. So many lady cops. You'd think that with all the non-feminist conventional cultures, there would be less women in these roles, but I guess they've increased. Lots of women join police forces - I wonder how they feel working alongside men, probably steeped in sexism? Guarding a border - a seemingly monotonous, bureaucratic job. Their faces are never kind, never someone you'd want to go out for a drink with. These are special kinds of cops, maybe the worst. Apparently the Bulgarian border is supposed to be really nasty.
11:30 a.m. It's still hot and sunny out, maybe it won't rain in Sofia as predicted. Where are my notes from Eastern European Politics Fall 2007 when I could use them? I don't remember the colorful details anymore. It was powerful to be in Prague Spring 2008, but now we're passing through former Yugoslavi and it's like some kind of surreal, alternate reality. We're coming up on Belgrade soon.
11:45 a.m. I asked Tiundjel what life was like for him under Communism and the only real answer I got to my actual question - what do you think of capitalism? - is that the crisis forced him to leave his family, his 17-year-old daughter behind to go to work in France.
According to his story, his wife also left him because of the distance. So I guess no wonder he was happy to talk with a female and to drink - I turned down his offer of a beer though. Sometimes he got slightly overbearing, but still a fascinating person to meet.
Because we don't have enough common language between us to talk much politics - and he says he's not good in this domain anyway - I'm not getting a whole lot of insight but I think he's happy to learn about me. He has never met an American before and he says that people in Bulgaria wouldn't believe him if he said he rode next to one on this bus. He's going home for a month with his small team of Bulgarian contract construction workers. He says he earns 2,000 euro/month in France and he doesn't pay for housing.
12:10 p.m. We are passing through an industrial part now, with Belgrade on our left. I want to go! I can't believe we're passing bu all these cities that I can't stop to visit. Tiundjel's friend can speak better Russian and wants me to meet his daughter, studying in Sofia, at the station. They've turned on another violent movie again, this time in Bulgarian.
15:30 p.m. "Face/Off", with Bulgarian voice-over. We're by Nis and we just passed a sign that points straight ahead to Thessaloniki and Sofia to the East. There are lots of mountains to the right and hills to the left. Nis is a huge, red-tiled roof city at the base of these mountains. It seems to be expanding ever further outwards. Now we've passed the city and entered into more farmland (Stara Plenina).
16:00 p.m. Such beautiful views, everyone gets up to look and I take a video. Really amazing cliffs, a rolling river and train tracks. Tiny villages, farmland, the most beautiful views so far, makes you want to get out of the bus! Signs point continuously to Sofia. Red-tiled slums now or rather poor farmers. Now it's all green plains and hillsides all around - I think we're nearing the Bulgarian border.
17:00 p.m. REPUBLIC OF BULGARIA! Another lady border cop! I guess it's more pleasant to have a good-looking woman walk down the aisle of the bus. She was surprised by my American passport - maybe the only one, or one of few, that she has seen here. I don't see any rainclouds - looks like I get lucky with a nice night.
17:20 p.m. To get across the Bulgarian border, everyone had to get out of the bus and walk through the border patrol. They asked me questions and maybe entered something into the computer - real or just to show their authority? Now I'm wondering if I'll actually be harassed at the French border, but I guess I will deal with that later (yeah, there's no French border back in, but they were quite puzzled with my visa when I was LEAVING France for the last time to go to England. Oh, Europe.) Anyway, the sign said 57 km. to Sofia, so we're getting in a bit early. The placard pointed to Athens and Istanbul - those are really far! We still have beautiful greenery here by the train tracks. The sun is really beating down, casting shadows on the forest. Now it's opening up into a sparsely populated valley on the right. Sofia - 36 km, the first part of the journey is coming to an end.
19h - 19h15 - it's actually an hour ahead here. We're in Sofia. THE END.

Raia met me at the bus station, after my dumb ass spent 15 minutes getting oriented to where I actually was. I was nearly ecstatic to be in Sofia, but I was so tired I couldn't really fully feel it. I had wanted to visit this city for years and as we took a cab down to the center and south, I knew I had finally arrived. I wanted to say goodbye and thank you to Tiundjel, for having chatted with me and let me use his cell phone to text Raia, but I couldn't find him again :( Here's to you, Tiundjel, wherever you are. I am really grateful for your kindness, as everyone else's I've met along the way. I hope I didn't come off as the careless American who just left, but mostly, I wish you the best of luck in your life. It's hard. You don't deserve it. May it get better for you and others like you.

May 2011 Paris-Sofia Bus Ride

Paris. 8 a.m. Monday, May 9, 2011. I board an all-Bulgarian Eurolines bus, heading for Sofia. We are scheduled to arrive around 8:00 p.m. the next day. Expanded notes from my journal scribbles.

I can't believe how much and yet how little, time has gone by since my last trek out East. How much has happened, how much I've learned, how much is yet to come! This bus ride to Sofia is a kind of necessary purgatory, a time for overdue reflection, to find out what really hurts, what can be let go of, what can remain in place and what needs improving. In 7 months, I have learned to live deeply, fully, listening more and more to my body, my mind and my heart. The "promise" of Greece has begun to bloom in a real way now as I go back in that direction and know and am becoming increasingly aware of my life's potential and limitations. Perhaps the return to Athens will hurt, perhaps the veil will be lifted. Perhaps it will be even more magical than before. Note: I never did go back to Athens, bypassed completely "The Battle of Syntagma Square" and all the memories. Got carried away with Northern Greece. It is frightening and also liberating to travel alone, relying on the kindness of strangers, accepting that you won't connect with everyone, that you can't do everything right but that when it's right, it's really right. Opening yourself to the possibility of mistakes, even big ones, in the name of learning, growing, pushing forward. Realizing that even those who seem put together crumble, fall, tear to pieces from time to time. Talk less, listen more. Know when each has its place. Judge less, both yourself and others.