I spent the last weekend in Córdoba and when I came back, I had a room. I also had a last unpleasant (financial) surprise from my ex-roommates, but nothing could really hold me back from the thought of high-tailing it out of there. So, the apartment is at the opposite end of the city from work, and so, I have to walk through the roommate's apartment to get to the bathroom. The location is closer to places where I actually hang out, everything is new-ish, IKEA-ish, the walls are a cheery yellow, and the roommate herself seems clean-ish and responsible. Both she and the landlady agreed to let me move in a week earlier, so more points to them.Nevertheless, my bubble was burst too soon. You may or may not remember my having tripped on a USB cord, then trying to jam it into the port anyway, and then crashing my motherboard. Or maybe not. In any case, I took it back to the U.S. with me to get it repaired. Now, all fixed up, it's in the hands of Spanish customs officials who want me to claim it with my internet receipt because they think it's a recent purchase and thus want me to pay duty on it. Issue one.
Issue two. I jaunt up to my nearest post office to retrieve a wire transfer. I grin, say I don't have a second name, which would technically be my mother's maiden name. I'm not handed the money over because none of the ID I brought with me states my full name, precisely the one with my mother's maiden name. I jog back to my new place, sure that all that grandeur is on my passport. No! Just the middle initial. I scurry through all the documents I have; an acceptance letter from grad school has saved me. Back at the post office, the very amiable clerk--who likes García Lorca and Machado, he admits during small talk--regrets that he still can't dole it out, due to some spelling mistake on either the sender's or the US post office's behalf. This is the reason I don't use her name.
Issue three, something I've been handling as best as I've been able to, is the illness of the teacher with whom I work, and the school's bilingual program coordinator. She's prepared me with as many activities and worksheets than you can shake a stick at. Last week, other teachers were rotating the disciplining and monitoring duties, and all I had to do was implement the very meticulous lesson plans. This week, the school's even hired a sub. However, it's quite clear to me that I'm so very not a professional and whatever dreams I entertained about teaching languages to primary school children is fast spiraling down the drain. Then again, I suppose that this itself is such a non-issue, and I ought to deal it with the way I do.
Even after these small trials, though, I no longer fear going home. There, I can blow off steam, relax a bit, and wonder how best to tackle the next day. For once, I'm perfectly content in my own very tiny corner of the world. Worry-free, if only for a short while.
I've never pegged myself as a romantic--or as unbearably bourgeois, for that matter. At least, not until I found myself wandering around Plaza Santa Barbara and C/Lagasca, for example. There, looking at beautiful wrought-iron doors and up at soft glows from behind willowing textiles, I felt a tinge of envy for the imagined cosiness. There, my ideal place, my home away from home, a respite from the hustle and bustle in the city, still within the city.
