I'm Not Ready, I Say

(sigh.)

At least I'm done with my papers. Here's the thing: I love reading, discussing, gathering ideas, and even doing research. But it takes a scary amount of energy and willpower to overcome inertia to actually write the paper. And that's scary because I'm supposed to be starting a graduate program in August where I will eat, sleep, and breathe writing papers. I have a final tomorrow, and then I'm done. Tomorrow is the last day of class.

Saturday we leave Salamanca for Paris. We spend Sunday and Monday in Paris, and Tuesday we leave to go back to the US. Here's the thing: I'm not ready to go back.

Right now, I'm free. I'm an untethered, unburdened, helium-filled balloon. I can rise. I can wander. No demands are being made of me, no expectations set for me, no responsibilities charged to me. Sure, I had to go to class, read, and do my little Spanish work. Despite my paper aversion, my trusty inner nerd always kicks in. But what did I really do? Who reigned after the inner nerd's job was done? The inner wanderer. What I really did was ascend cathedral towers. I relished long, windy walks over cobblestoned streets. I listened to a centuries-old clock tower ring. I admired the river flowing under the Roman bridge I stood upon. I was dazzled by the Plaza Mayor at night. I savored café con leche and while sipping it, realized that it's not as simple as mixing coffee and milk together. That description doesn't do Spain or the inner wanderer justice, but it's an idea.

Oh, but when I get back, the helium-filled balloon will be nothing more than a deflated piece of latex. You think you're walking anywhere? Fill up that car with gas. You think an apartment comes free? Pay those bills. You think your apartment full of stuff is going to get up and move on its own? Pack up your junk, rent a U-Haul, and handle it. You think your decisions are your own? Look at the smiling faces surrounding you. They missed you. You think you're off the hook? Buy those books. Make those grades. Help that person. Be that example. Smile that smile. I'm bracing myself for the unyielding brick wall of reality with which I will inevitably collide as soon as I step off the plane and the Alabama humidity envelops me.

I wrote a paper for my Latin American Literature class analyzing a short shory by Argentine writer Julio Cortázar called La noche boca arriba. The face-up night. Basically, this guy gets in a motorcycle accident and ends up in the hospital. While he's in the hospital, he dreams of running through the jungle, being hunted by the Aztec who want to capture him and offer him as a human sacrifice to the sun god. When he wakes up, he's back in the hospital, but when he slips back off to sleep, he's back in the jungle. The story goes back and forth between the modern world of the hospital and the ancient world of the jungle. The jungle dream advances to the point where the Aztec finally catch him and they have him bound, carrying him towards the sacrificial altar in the temple. And as the priest raises the knife, the man tries desperately to wake back up, but he realizes that he is awake. Right before he dies, he remembers dreaming of a strange city with lights that shone without fire or smoke, of riding through streets on a large shiny insect that rumbled. The motorcycle accident and hospital stay were the dream. In my conclusion, I suggested that Cortázar's point was that the line between reality and fiction is not as fixed as we'd like it to be. Maybe it's a little blurrier than we're comfortable with. Maybe there's some overlap.

I said all of that to say that it reminded me of my mental dilemma. It almost feels like where I'm at now is fantasy and what awaits me when I return is reality. But aren't they both just different states of the same conscious reality? Forget it. I'm going to the plaza and getting some ice cream. But not before I post pictures of the excursion we took last Sunday. We went to El Escorial, a monestary where all of the Spanish royalty is buried, and Valle de los Caidos, a monument commissioned by Spanish dictator Francisco Franco to honor all of the fallen soldiers from the Spanish Civil War. I also included pictures of my little walk down to the Roman bridge, and there's some other random ones in there too. Enjoy!