Nostalgia

"Nostalgia does not strike one as an altogether satisfactory word for such fascination (particularly when one thinks of the pain of a properly modernist nostalgia with a past beyond all but aesthetic retrieval), yet it directs our attention to what is a culturally far more generalized manifestation of the process..." Frederic Jameson {Postmodernism, or, the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism}

Last Thursday, after writing my blog, receiving feedback from some of you and seeing the preparations for a festive holiday across an ocean, as I had students wish me a happy turkey day even though they aren't quite clear what we do and it didn't matter because I had to work so it wasn't officially a holiday, for me anyhow, I got my sweet and sour taste of nostalgia. That surge of memory that we get from time to time when we least expect it. The glance at on old photo that takes us back, the song that helped us through our heartbreak, the smell of a fading perfume that travels to that trip that changed us somehow or the crook of your mother's neck that always smells the same and doesn't ever change...the voice that we fear we will forget someday.

As I drank a coffee this afternoon with Mellie, the Hondurian 31 year old who immigrated to Barcelona 3 years ago, she painted her very own picture of nostalgia for me and it was so painfully sweet, so rich that I realized that we all have our versions of it. As long as we have memory, we carry that feeling of the past, that long definition that does not fit in the four syllable word nos-tal-gi-a which ironically is the same in Catalan, Spanish, Italian and change the final a for an e and you have it in French. Yet, depending on the person, that very word carries a different weight and sentimentality, making it one of a kind. And so as Mellie told me how she had received an 8 pound package from home this week with fresh cheese, homemade chocolate and a picture of her newborn nephew, her eyes welled up with tears and she looked at me and said, "I tasted home Heidi". And then she stopped and said, "You know what frightens me the most? That I will forget their voices, my mother's, my brothers' and sisters' and so I call home. I go down to the internet cafe and waste the little money I have left for the week on phone calls. I call each and everyone of them and guess their names when they pick up the phone to reassure myself that I still remember their voice. Then when my mom finally gets on she reprimands me for wasting my money on calls and little does she know that I am trying to save her voice, because right now it's all I have." (footnote: Mellie came to this city in search of a better paying job to help her single mother and extensive family. She has not been home in 3 years and does not plan on returning until she has enough money, according to her standards. Mellie bought a one way ticket and stayed.)

As Mellie's eyes welled up with tears, I realized that I never thought of 'losing' someone's voice, in fact, I think I can still hear each and everyone of you. But instead I fear losing my holidays, the food we eat, the smells I so love and so I try to reproduce those dinners, have guests from abroad bring me my lotions and listen to the music that links me to you.

On the contrary, the days I was suffering from a bout of nostalgia, I asked a good friend of mine if she ever felt "it", you know that sickening feeling that goes away by the next morning and she looked me in the eyes and sincerely answered, "No, I am okay..." and I worried that perhaps I had a problem for feeling this way after living here for almost 4 years and being 'okay'. But after analyzing this I realized again that of course we all have it, but it comes in different dimensions. And it is so personal, so private that perhaps sometimes we don't know how to word it. How to spell out those syllables and tell someone that I simply miss "that", the back then, but it doesn't mean I want it back because for some reason, we are doing what we are doing now and not what was back then.


On that I note, I close up with November and welcome in December. Today, finally, winter arrived to this city and I was able to put on my wool scarf and heavy coat and welcome a new season after a weekend of gourmet cooking with Oriol (he made Octopus(slurrp slurrp)!!!) I was sure that someday, I will be nostalgic for this as well, but does it really matter?

(Mollie waiting for something, anything to fall...I bet you she feels nostalgia too)

Something to be Grateful About

"There is no use in trying," said Alice; "one can't believe impossible things."
"I dare say you haven't had much practice," said the Queen. "When I was your age, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast". Lewis Carroll




Tis the season to count, days until the end of the year, lists of things to do for the holidays, people to remember to call and on and on, but most importantly this week in particular is a good time to count all of those things we are grateful for and I'm not talking just about turkey and pumpkin pie.

Tuesday November 25 was particularly one of those nights in which I thought how incredibly lucky I am and it not only inspired me to count all those things I am grateful for, but to also make a comeback at this blogging thing. I know it's been a while, people have asked, "What happened? When will you return?" And I thought, today is a good day...this week is ideal. A week in which we can gather round the table and share without the pressure of gift giving, date keeping etc...It is simply a time to eat, drink and laugh. My very favorite things to do.

Where should I begin? How about with my own version of Thanksgiving in Barcelona. Last week, yes a week early, I decided to celebrate an authentic Thanksgiving dinner and share this holiday with those that have continued to make my life an adventure and full of excitement. And so, as a gift I took a shot at making my very first turkey! Not just that, but I asked everyone to bring a dish to add to the festivity. The table was laid out with mashed potatoes, an autumn salad, canapes, tiramisu, pumpkin pie and the Turkey, stuffing, gravy, the works and it was truly magical.
As we sat down to cheer the things we are grateful for I realized how truly lucky I am and how proud it makes me to be sitting with people who have never celebrated this event but managed to make it so authentic and special for me, almost as if I never left home. Those who have continuously made Barcelona feel like home to me.


And then Tuesday night was the final wrap up of how much I love living. I am sure you all know what it is like to receive a message or a call saying, "You probably know this, but just in case, your favorite musician is playing tonight." And no, I didn't know Andrew Bird was playing and yes the concert was completely sold out and after calling the place to see if there was any chance at all I could get in and the very tired and dry receptionist telling me clearly, "No.It was sold out days ago and you would be a very lucky girl if you could get in with no contacts or ticket..."and I heard that word no and I thought, "perfect", I'll give it a shot. I gathered all my energy and made my way down to the Apolo, knowing I would probably have to wait a couple of hours...(did I mention I had never done this before and he is very high on my favorites list??). And so I counted my lucky stars and headed out. After speaking with a few of the door guys and having them repeat to me that I would be very lucky to get in, 45 minutes of waiting, in the distance I hear,"Is anyone looking for tickets?" Me ME MEEEEEE!!! and he looks at me and says, "But you're alone and I have two and I plan on only selling it to two people." And the tourist, a young and quiet boy who only spoke English and had also been waiting for his moment of luck standing next to me, says, "It's my last night in Barcelona and it would be a dream. I want one too..." And after some negotiating, I, Heidi Schmidt, got to see Andrew Bird. Live, front row because Barca was playing a major match and the guy and his girlfriend preferred to see them and not the show.

(Pica d'Estats--the highest point in Catalunya)
Once I was seated and Andrew Bird whipped out his violin and got the megaphones spinning, tears welled up in my eyes and I thought, yes...this is when the impossible becomes possible. Which led me to think about all those impossible things that have made up my life up until now. The meeting of you, reading this right now, the moving to my dream towns and somehow making it work, not just work but happen incredibly well. The climbing two enormous mountains this last year to prove that my height of fears is simply a fear, the grabbing of a surf board in the waters of the Basque Country and standing up against all odds on the first day, learning a new language and the culture that comes entitled with it, the feeling that no matter what, somehow things will all work out, even if they are how or when you least expect them and most importantly, the doing of that in which you most believe in, even if the odds are against you. Then of course the basics, having a home, family, friends, food to indulge in, fresh water to drink and the awareness that not every one has it and so you must ALWAYS share, even if it is just a smile and your last slice of bread.
(Mary Katherine and I in the Basque Country)
As I sat alone in that dark concert hall with the dim red lights that remind me so much of The Filmore in San Francisco, I thought of all of you. Every single one of you and how grateful I am that at some point in your life and mine you have crossed my path and brought the unimaginable to me. Making the impossible so simply and genuinely real.
Thank you
and Happy Thanksgivings...now it's your turn, eat your heart outs and count, the good counting kind...