Soy Yo
Europe has reigned in my imagination as a sort of Nirvana. In my cinematic understanding of the world, characters like Maryanne and Amelié and Celine all conspired here, and within the walls of the EU residents frolic in Wes Anderson sets and vacation eternally. To be honest, in some ways I was right. I am fairly certain that the entire population of Spain does absolutely no work, and is spiritually consigned to holiday forever. Families and elderly and executives fill every table at the open street bistros as they take a 3-hour lunch, only ending so that they may go home and nap. Nothing is ever open during the middle of the day, and rush hour is already beginning at 3:30.
I don’t think I’ve ever been more sure of my patriotic roots. I am firmly American: my stomach starts to growl 5 hours before dinner and I tap out at the pregame because it’s bedtime. I miss my pesticide filled ridiculously flavored food and feel no self-worth if I am not productive during all waking hours. The combination of American Depression and Living in Europe is quite unfair. Randomly and without warning, the world beyond my window becomes a foreign enemy, and my only line of defense is silent tears while laying horizontally immobilized in bed. My sister has moved away from home, rendering home even less familiar in my longing, and my youngest sister has been cast as the lead in the school play that I will never get to see.
So, this Monday, I finally took a bow after a 3-week long performance as “socially capable.” Gone are the days of my pathetic attempts at remembering names and faking interest in other’s majors and tolerating repetitive nights out. This week I attempted to remember my core activities, the ones that make New York feel like a fading wet dream, so I can regain some semblance of my sense of self.
I walked and walked, alone and without music playing, losing myself in my destinationless journey. The neighborhoods here change so abruptly aesthetically and I get distracted like in the early days of the Lower East Side. I follow my self-imposed rule of never walking past an open thrift or vintage store and decide there will be no limit as my first paycheck has finally cleared. At a shop that has quickly become a repeat offender, I find pants so perfect, and I must point out that this is not satire, that they make me tear up as I try them on. I wander further to an antique store near campus, one that I’ve made a point of trying to visit (but it’s always fucking closed in the middle of the day so I haven’t been able to) and am finally inside of the attic-scented floor to ceiling collection of tiny trinkets and disintegrating postcards. I scan each case, careful to not leave anything un-marveled-at, and my trance is broken by the cry of a euphoric little boy,
“Mama!” He shrieked in the ear-piercing pitch of a 7-year-old boy. Standing at the doorway, backlit by the beating rays, his smile was proud and joyful, fully showcasing a set of alternating teeth missing. Whenever I hear a child speaking in Spanish I always get a little jealous, like goddammit you're young and so good at Spanish!
“Hola cariño,” she responded, quietly but filled with affection. She was behind her desk, writing on some inventory sheet. Straight brown hair had become frizzed into curls from her low bun and the humid environment. Fittingly Spanyardly-tiny and wearing flattering basics, she kissed the top of his head and sent him off to their apartment, telling him she would be closing soon. He dutifully obliged and dragged his roller-suitcase backpack behind him, procuring a distinctive sound on the ancient wooden flooring. Taking her spoken agenda as a sign, I followed the little boy back out onto the sunny street. As I turned to go, he rang the bell of the apartment immediately next door and stood on his tiptoes to relay a message to the listener.
“Soy yo!”
There is an immediate buzz to unlock the front door and a doting male voice responds through the intercom. The little boy utilizes his entire body weight to push the tall door open, and then he’s home.
And now that I’m done journaling to the void, I remind myself there is no such thing as a completely bad day or a wholly good day, and that beautiful moments exist everywhere in between:
