Rain Comes To Valencia

Last night I had plans to go out with a new friend of mine, Monica from Chile, who I’d met at the weekly Meetup Group that I’ve been going to. We’d been planning it for a couple of weeks and I was really looking forward to it. Much to my disappointment though, late yesterday I developed a whopping headache and had to cancel my evening with her. It is too bad because the nightlife in Valencia is something I want to experience a lot more of, and Monica is someone who I recognized right away as a kindred spirit and who I knew I’d have a good time with.

Valencia in December.  So hard to take.

The headache from hell started while I was out at the train station preparing my return ticket to Barcelona. On my way home I was thinking “hmmm…what’s that feeling I’m starting to have… I don’t like it…”, and by the time I got back to the apartment my head was throbbing.  With my defenses down, I started getting upset about the things that I have no control over. Namely: my ex.  Between him and I there still lay some “administrative” matters, and they tie me to him even if I don’t want to be tied anymore.  So, for example, when I send an email asking him a question and after two days I still haven’t received an answer, I get pissed.  In his defense, from the little communication we have had I know that he has been swamped at work and I’m certain he isn't really trying to anger me.  He is a good man and the deeper part of me knows this.  However, the ego part of me, the undeveloped, childish part of me still continues to have her buttons pushed, and in this one regard it always feels like disrespect.  Knowing that his blackberry is always in his hand, to me it “seems” like he somehow answers everyone else right away and purposely holds off on answering me. Why?  Simply because it’s ME.  Or at least that’s how I see it, or used to see it anyways.  I've actually gotten much better at not jumping to such negative conclusions since having left Vancouver. But sometimes, and for no firm reason whatsoever, those old feelings of being out of control and utterly disrespected (and misunderstood) still come up for me.  And with a killer of a headache and just the right amount of lack of sleep, I turned into a crazy woman within a matter of moments.  My angry Italian Goddess emerged and crammed the air full of violent thunder storms and lightning bolts!  LOOK OUT!  I had a right Flip-Out Attack, I did.  Yup, I’m so cool, so cool that I wrote another email demanding to know why it seemed like he goes out of his way to piss me off, and what kind of a friend does he think he is to me, etc etc.  Then right at that moment, offended, upset, and feeling like my hands were endlessly bound, and my head pounding like a Japanese kettle drum, my wonderful Pisces friend, Manu, walked into my room.  He took one look at the twisted and pained expression on my face, and knew something was definitely up.  He said “What’s wrong?” and I said “LA PUERTA!” (basically: shut the f’n door or I’ll exterminate you!!), and then I lost all control.  I jumped into my bed and covered myself in the blankets, trying to hide away from the world that was caving in around me, and made everything worse by howling like a baby into my pillow.  Manu assumed a supportive post beside me on the bed and waited patiently for me to calm down, probably a good ten minutes or so, stroking my hair and not saying a thing.  I thought I was almost finished crying, and then another stream of anger and frustration would hit me, and I’d punch my pillow, crying “I fucking hate him. I fucking hate him…!” And this Pisces, he is so sensitive and wise that he just knows when it’s NOT okay to speak up.  And yesterday he let me have all the time I needed before he began to talk.  I tried to explain what was making me so upset.  With my limited Spanish vocabulary, I could give him only the basics. Infinitely intelligent, he understood completely without having to go into the fine details.  As only Manu can, he spoke quietly yet directly with me for a short time, me sniffling and wiping away the angry tears that wouldn’t stop falling, my nose plugged, my head ready to explode. In part, our conversation went something like this (in Spanish, of course):

• ME: (dramatically) I just don’t get it! I don’t! He has a blackberry, he receives my emails the instant I send them. And yet he doesn’t respond. He just waits and waits and waits... One line! That’s all it takes. Just one line! One second to send a quick response to me! 
• MANU: And tell me. What will happen to you if you have to wait one more day for a response from him? One more month maybe even? Will you be okay? Will you still live?
• ME: (already getting his point) Sniff. Yes.
• MANU: Then do not suffer one minute more because of him. He knows very well that it makes you angry when he doesn’t reply. But he thinks that you’re being dominant when you say something to him about it, and it is exactly what he doesn’t want, and so it is exactly why he won’t respond. 
• ME: (still angry) But that’s just it! I’m not being dominant! I just want respect! (pounding my pillow) This is MY LIFE. Damnit, I want to be free! Why won’t he just let me be free?!
• MANU: (smiling at me now) You are free. You are liberated. That is clear. You give yourself that freedom.  Not him.  Not anyone else.
• ME: I don’t want to play this stupid game anymore! 
• MANU: Listen, listen. Only you can choose how you will live your life, and only you can choose how you will respond to him. This is not really about him, because he is not a part of your life anymore. That part of your life is complete. This is now only about you. Responding this way to what he does, or what he doesn’t do, is not the only choice you have.
• ME: (quieter, holding my hand up and showing an inch of space between my thumb and pointer finger) I feel about this big now.
• MANU: You are not small. You are big.  
• ME: I’m bigger than he is!
• MANU: You are bigger than he is. You are wiser than he is. And the most important thing: you are more courageous than he is. 
• ME: Sniff. Yeah.

Manu has been for me what my one friend referred to as a “Bridge”; a person that helps you get to the other side.  I am eternally thankful for the day that I met him, for his friendship and for his wise words that calm me into believing in myself again.

Manu

And anyways, today the cramps in my lower abdominal area remind me that I have all the excuses I need to support my horrendous blow up yesterday. Tee hee.

 

Calle San Vincente Martir, Valencia

Also today, and worth noting, it is raining for the first time.  Now when I say raining, you should take this to mean “very light showers”, because that’s basically all it is. The weather here is nothing hard to handle at all, especially if you’re Canadian.  But it has finally changed, forcing me to turn on the portable heater in my room.  Ready for a fight with the wind and rain, a fight that never happened, I threw on my almost-winter coat, grabbed an umbrella, and went out in search of French toast. Yes, today I woke up to rain and a craving for French toast just like my dad used to make it.  And then I wanted the rye bread my mom used to bake, still warm and fresh out of the oven, slathered with peanut butter.  And I’m not talking about the organic kind of PB that has a couple inches of oil sitting on top that you have to stir in when you use it the first time and then keep in the refrigerator afterwards.  Oh no, I wanted the sweet, sticky peanut butter that you can lick right off the spoon like a lollipop.  Squirrel or Kraft, or some other brand equally unhealthy and full of preservatives.  Mmm!  My mouth watered at the thought of it!  Of course, neither of these two Canadian standards are available to me here in Valencia.  So what did I find instead?  PAELLA!  And of course a café solo.  This is my standard now.  Valencia’s claim to fame is their Paella, and it is admittedly very delicious!

One of the many soccer fields in the Jardines del Turia

While out walking the quiet Sunday streets of Valencia, I was thinking of what I wanted to write, the words coming to me and sparkling in my head like little falling stars, a picture here, and a phrase there.  They run through my mind like the reel of a movie. “Oh yes”, I think. “That’s good. I definitely have to write that!” With total devotion to my re-discovered passion for writing, back home I scurry to set myself down in front of my computer, anticipating the feeling of freedom I get, the flow, the joy to be able to express myself creatively in the way I’ve always needed to.

Drinking herbal tea to keep me warm and hydrated, I have the setting just right for a Writer.  It’s quiet and controlled in my room, with candles and incense lit and a south facing window to gaze out during moments of consideration and deep thought.  Ahh, if I could write for the rest of my days here on Earth I would be happy.  There is no point to my writing, no end result.  It is simply continuous, like the journey of one’s life, always unfolding and re-inventing itself over again.  My roommates are accustomed to seeing me firmly planted at my desk now, and they’ve stopped asking me what I’m doing.  To them it appears that I'm always “working”.  Working at something serious and purposeful that I’m actually getting paid for. (I wish!)  They know to leave me be when I’m sitting in front of my computer, typing away with a far-away look in my eyes.  It’s like my birth mom Sheila reminded me: most of the courageous artists (like Van Gogh) don’t have a lot of money, but they are creatively fulfilled.  What a choice to have to make, she said.  She then said how she thinks that men seem to be more courageous in this way, as they don’t seem to have that need for a nest and security… I could not have put it any better.  A Pisces as well, Sheila always hits the nail on the head when it comes to me, she understands life so deeply that her words hit home and actually give me peace.  Peace because I’m unable to express myself as simple as that, peace because in her words finally my feelings have found a home to rest, and rest in a way that really makes sense to me.  Thank you Sheila!

There are definitely some urgings, a bit of tugging on my sleeve that is trying to get me to look at the possibility of a stable life, the possibility of making money now instead of spending it, the chance to be prosperous and to re-create a new life for myself, sans husband.  I am both thrilled by the opportunity to build this life for myself, and deeply torn about whether or not to keep digging my heels in here in Spain, sticking it out till the very end when I will have no money or savings left, and ultimately no other choice but to come home.  And the hardest part is: how can I predict any of it?  How can I say where any path will lead once I've chosen a direction?  At almost 42 years of age, do I choose stability and sensibility, or freedom and flexibility?

Christmas in Valencia

I should mention that I did go to the Gestor’s office, the professionals who are “in the know” about paperwork and bureaucracy in this country.  He basically told me there was “no chance” for a Canadian to get a work permit right now.  He said this with a smile on his face, as if trying to provide lightness to a negative answer he had no other choice but to give. I asked what “right now” meant, and he said that it meant “this month”.  Not only is it about “right now”, it’s also about “where” you apply for a work permit.  If I were living in another town, maybe even a village with fewer foreigners, the police very well could stamp my paperwork and in an instant I’d have my work permit.  It could be almost as simple as snapping your fingers. But I think it is a numbers game.  Perhaps Valencia has already hit its quota of handing out work permits to people other than European citizens, who get one without hesitation.  But for now, I can pretty much dream on.  Still, I paid him 10 Euros to take my simple application to the authorities, and by tomorrow I will know whether they have accepted it or not.  Of course, as he mentioned, January may be a completely different situation.  March could also be a completely different situation.  There is no way of knowing, no way to predict how they might respond to my request, or when it might be most advantageous for me to submit an application.  But if and when they do give me their stamp of approval, it will cost me a minimum 180 Euros just for that one official stamp.  After that there will be more paperwork which the Gestor could fill out and take to the proper office on my behalf, and then even more money will have to be handed over for the privilege and comfort of not having to deal with it all myself.  As I’ve mentioned before, nothing is set in stone.  And that goes for the multiple systems and official procedures that are supposedly in place in this country.  So it won’t be easy.  But I have persistence on my side; Stubborn is my middle name.  I don’t mind going back every month and paying 10 Euros to have him submit a form on my behalf.  Whatever it takes, baby.  Whatever it takes.

There are a couple of distinct directions my life could go in right now, yet I cannot bring myself to hit that “send” button.  Not a bone in my body will let me hit “apply now” until I know for certain.  How will I know for certain? Well, my body will give me the signal.  The pit of my stomach will know first, and then that kind voice will speak firmly in my right ear, saying “GO NOW!”  And then I will know.  So the next two weeks will be very telling, and at the same time I think I’m learning the patience game really well and I’m lining up some pretty cool looking ducks.  The one that floats the longest will be my true friend.  And the way I’m setting it up, I’ve got some good choices in ducks.  And finally after all these months, I've got the emotional and mental strength to line them up in the first place!

And while I’m waiting patiently for time to sort itself out, I’m going to look into taking a quick trip to Seville. Why, I think I’m going to start doing that right now actually.  Join me? 
 
Charleen xo