I suddenly miss talking. I miss talking about how I feel about being intertwined in this crazy, loud, outrageous city. I want to talk about how I am constantly trying to form sentences in Spanish, and how I feel like I understand so much more but that I still lack words, still don’t have time to conjugate verbs. I want to wander around the city before it’s time for me to part, but am always sleepy and tired from class, always starving, always thinking of coffee to save me. I miss the sunny days, the first few weeks when everything was new, every sangria tasted different, every word prettier…I feel nostalgia even for that first day when I cried on the phone, hopelessly lost in contentment, when I ordered a cup of tea outside a cafe and had no idea where I would go next. Isn’t it funny to feel nostalgia when you are content, when you have just begun something, when you are still inside a dream?
I have evolved. I feel strangely optimistic for the future. Despite my love for Spain and this new form of independence, I feel that I am able to go back and not suffer in misery. I like this transformation. Here in Spain, I am always happy. Surly, there are dry days, routines, homework, boring classes, and too much Spanish, but in the end, I like it. I greet the security and the doormen as I enter and leave the building and they greet me back, sometimes asking how I am doing, how my Spanish is. I turn the keys with full confidence, knowing that they will always work. I have made visual memory of important places I go so that I don’t get lost. And overall I am satisfied, really satisfied with being a stranger. I sometimes relish the fact that men call out “guapa” as I walk hurriedly by, completely ignoring them, or that people begin to speak Spanish to me because they can’t tell where I’m from.
Tonight, Senora and I talked about my past a little bit, about my first visit to Europe when I was 11, about the rotten school system in Iran and how as a child I was always afraid to speak up because I was taught to keep my mouth shut. That to this day I don’t like to comment out loud, or to express my opinion verbally. That I still don’t like to make mistakes. I told her that sometimes I forget I lived that life. Me olvide…
I felt good about this talk, felt good that I was challenged to think rapidly in Spanish to recount the past to a woman who’s known me for no more than two months. And now I am writing to say I miss talking.
But the nostalgia will never go away. It’s like that feeling you get when you are in a bus, going home after a short trip to a new place, the feeling of loss as you watch images behind the window as the bus moves. That bittersweet feeling of what you saw and felt, but what you then lost in a moment of transit…

She takes a puff of the cigarette she bought a few minutes ago, exhales and a gush of smoke flows in my direction, diluting the space between us. This bar is dingy, but decorated with a bit of jazz and a colorful wall of art, a shelf of alcohol. Mercedes orders two coffees with milk. While we wait, she talks about her job, teaching theater to young kids and teens. She says the children surprise her with their talents and that they are easier to work because they are forward, open and honest. Today she is wearing a black hat, pink lipstick and boots. We walk up hill to a quiet, clam part of the town where there are small pubs and little stores, antiques and second-hands. This is her favorite barrio because of its narrow streets and tranquil atmosphere. Mercedes says that I understand her very well and that my Spanish isn’t bad. I tell her that I would like to know more Spaniards. She says that I can go out with her friends one night.
“My friends get drunk all the time,” she adds, laughing.
“The better. I like drinking,” I smile as I reassure her.
We talk about cinema, Almodovar, Julio Medem. She pulls out a film magazine so I can decide what we should see one day. Mercedes wants to study in London but is worried about her English. I tell her not to worry, that she is doing fine and will learn in no time.
She takes me to the metro and then we part. The city is gloomy, cold, and yet still full of vibe. The madrilenos are still rushing to get around, and I am now a part of all. I am now a part of the evening rush, the nocturnal sky, the crowded sidewalks, the bricked buildings, the gust that comes after the metro trains, the maddening smoke that the man next to me exhales. I am alone, yet again, writing, but I feel guarded, secure, like they have accepted me as the strange creature that bears the same physique and yet is lost for words. I now order my coffee with more confidence. I walk faster and rarely stop to look. And I want to get to know them. I want to ask them. I want to remember them.
This is the life in the heart of Madrid, where you can stay up until 6, while it’s still dark, the streets still tainted by cigars and beer bottles, shattered glass and garbage. You can stop for Churros after a night of clubbing and drinking at 5 am. Then you can catch the train at 6 when it opens again and walk home, watching Spaniards make out in the corners, still drunk, still wasted. You can be a part of everything and experience what you will never experience again the same way. You can blend in, learn a new route and go on forward…

I meet a lot of people on the metro. People who only gaze at you once, and move on, hopping off to another train. People who hope to read you in what little time they have.
I met a man once, a Spaniard. He was about 28 years old, with a scar on his mysterious face, tired eyes, rough, worked hands. He had a ring on his finger, but not a wedding ring. His eyes were searching for something. He wasn’t an ordinary man, but one of interest, personality, a wounded soul. A man who was not easy to read, who had suffered something deep, something that had left him fatigued, scarred within. I watched him as he got off, walking away to the right, gone forever. I would have liked a moment to see him again, even to talk in what little I knew. But he was gone, his scar forever in my memory.
Everyday, I encounter the oddest, most peculiar faces. I like to listen sometimes, just to hear the sound of their voices, the pitch of their accents, the movement of their lips. I like to see what makes them interesting, what makes them so out of the ordinary, so foreign and impenetrable. Inside the metro, outside under the sun of Madrid, inside the bars and restaurants and clubs, on the sidewalks and inside dense underground walkways…
Today I meet Mercedes, my Spanish exchange partner. She is in her mid-twenty’s, brunet, with a beautiful accent, pink lipstick and a cigarette. She has been a smoker for six years and wants to quit but only when she is ready. She is an actress, playing parts in theater, hoping to get a part in television. Her boyfriend of four years is in Barcelona. This is her longest relationship so far. Mercedes is a coffee addict like myself so we walk to SOL and find a quiet, tranquil spot outside under the sun, order two café con leches and talk. We have divided the time to talk both in English and Spanish, for she too is trying to learn English. We both love the city, but for different reasons. I decide that she is a true Spaniard who loves cinema, coffee, beer, theater, fiestas and all that Madrid offers.
We part ways and I walk back home, content, tired, sleepy, but no longer lost. I once again realize that I have made the best decision of my life, that I have done something extreme and grand. I get off my stop, go up and around, leave the metro station, pass by Penelope’s beautiful poster on the big brick wall and take out my keys. And the sun starts to disappear behind the towers of Madrid.

Madrid is sunny today and I smile as I make my way home. I can’t hide the smile that is forming on my mouth, the smile of contentment. I have been challenged and feel like I’m finally faced with something completely different, strange, scary and beautiful. I feel pretty and misunderstood and lost and happy all at once. My head has been spinning, translating word-to-word, sentence-by-sentence, sometimes forgetting everything. I wake up and there are so many words in my head that I forget where I am.
The sun here hides behind buildings, once in a while reappearing when no one is watching. I miss nothing of who I was and what I did before I left. I simply want to keep walking in the calles and watch the Madrilenos who watch me.
What happens on the streets, on the sidewalks, and everywhere else happens with a certain degree of calmness and tranquility. No one rushes or gets in line to go. No one sips coffee while walking to work. People like to sit, take their time, have coffee breaks and enjoy life, sun, a bit of gossip. Madrilenos are not punctual; time has a different concept to them. As I wait, early as always, they arrive slowly, talking in their sweet, thick accents. Inside the metro, I never worry, never get nervous. Those around me are peaceful, relaxing with music or the day’s paper, or talking quietly. There are times that musicians aboard the train and play a three minute song, get their donations and give thanks before hopping to the next train.
Drinking coffee is a pleasure, a custom of every true Madrileno. One is never served with a plastic cup. Everything is elegant, prepared and warmed. If one asks for coffee with milk, the milk is heated an extra time if one wishes.
I missed nothing today and liked being an extranjero, a stranger…because sometimes you understand yourself better when no one else does.
This is my sweet dream…and I like to keep dreaming.

Madrid, Spain-
I have a new set of keys for my new house in Madrid. I live with Senora Ana Fidalgo, her 16-year old daughter, and my new roommate Becca. Senora cooks dinner and prepares my breakfast: cereal, toast with marmalade, coffee, juice, and a sweet pastry. She has dirty blond hair and blue eyes. She is fascinated by my love for movies and cinema and writing. Sometimes, during dinner, we talk about Iran or how Americans are different from the Spaniards. We don’t always agree, but we somehow understand each other. I speak in broken Spanish and she throws in a few English phrases with her thick accent, laughing amusingly afterwards. After she offers me fruit, I say thank you and go off to my little room.
I ride the metro everyday, following signs and arrows, walking fast, my eyes wandering like a common tourist. The Spanish like to observe. They look at my shoes, my hair. Unlike Americans, they don’t normally smile as you walk by.
A week has already passed. I no longer have trouble with my keys-during the first few days of my arrival I had trouble opening the door on multiple occasions, one including a late night return and waking up the Senora, which was evidently an embarrassment. And I no longer have to ask the Spaniards where Calle Hernani, my street, is. I follow visual signs that I’ve made for myself and take the same route home. I get off the metro at Cuatro Caminos, make a left, cross the street, walk down a couple of blocks, turn left to where there is a huge poster of Penelope Cruz with bright red lipstick above on my left, walk straight to where there is a Starbucks and H&M, turn left and there is Hernani 57. Sometimes I stop by Carrefour, the supermarket near my house by the McDonalds and buy bread and water. The more I go, the more confident I feel. I now know that I have to weigh fruits and put a price sticker on them, that there are two different kinds of baskets and carts, baskets on wheels, normal ones and carts that require money. I also have a good idea of where most things are, which makes me look less like a foreigner.
There are times where middle-aged, old men stare at me openly, turning their heads as I pass through people on the sidewalk. I anticipate this everywhere, for here in Spain glaring is a norm. I have found interesting styles of fashion: women with bright red hair (yesterday I met one with blue hair, I kid you not). I have also seen old ladies with fancy fur coats.
The food in Mardid has been nothing but delicious. Paellas, tortillas, Churros (sweets), coffee and salads are among the many. Because the Euro is expensive and our school fee doesn’t cover lunch, we try to save, so our lunches are sometimes bread and cheese, or in my case, bread and honey!
I wake up at 7:40 and make it to school by 9:00, thirty minutes before classes start. I have a hard time deciding what to wear, for in Spain people dress up. The weather has been a gloomy at times, but Madrid is normally a sunny city.
There is nothing more beautiful than waking up in a strange place, without words or your usual thoughts and worries, walking for what seems like miles and finding yourself in the middle of Madrilenos who read their papers and books on the metro. What’s more fascinating is that everyday you are becoming something else, a fusion of everything you ever imagined of yourself…or nothing you ever thought possible. You wake up in a dream and no one recognizes you and you are obligated to nothing and no one. It’s like this: You are 20 years old and you feel like your life has just started.

In the middle of the night, I wake up from a bad dream and cry. I am holding him tightly as I cry. I can still feel his little body, embracing me. I wake up…it is past 3 am. I am thirsty. I suddenly remember that I am in Madrid, in Senora Fidalgo’s house, that I am alone and frightened. Nothing is familiar…I am not in my own skin yet. But the bed is warm and comforting. I remind myself of the happy streets, the people, the coffee, the fresh air outside, and close my eyes. I lie awake for hours, unable to return to my broken sleep.

A stranger walking in your skin, through the calles, the streets of this beautiful, beating town, Mardid. Women and men observe each other, every move and gesture, every smile. They look at your shoes, your hair and your eyes. I like Madrid.
Today, I became a stranger and walked through the streets of Madrid, searching for nothing. I looked around, lost and content with not mattering to anyone or anything. And the Madrilenos watched as I made my way in and out of the metro stations. I found Mueseo de Prado by accident. I followed a sign; I was bored. Then I found a movie theater, Cinema ideal and asked what I could watch at that precise hour. Death at a Funeral, an English movie. I made sure to read every subtitle line for I had come to learn. I hit the supermarket, the one I found accidentally as I was lost, looking for my house. I wanted to buy apples, but for some reason the cashier didn’t accept them. I didn’t understand what the problem was, but I assumed that, like Belgium, I probably needed to put a price sticker on the plastic bag. I wanted those apples…
Senora Fidalgo is sweet. She is a lovable lady of class. She smells good and dresses nicely. She practices speaking with me and asks if I want dinner.
In Spain, the afternoon starts after 3. One is still morning. So my breakfast is until 11, dinner at 8:30. I was served cereal, grapes, coffee, lemonade and toast today.
My room is lonely, but I like it for it is warm and cozy, warmer than my room at home. I am going to bed now…ahora estoy sueno. Right now, I am sleepy.

Twenty years ago, my mother, no longer a prisoner, gave birth to me.
Twenty years have gone by. We have left behind a thousand pieces of a country stained by revolution and war. We have left behind a dusty trail and have bought a house with a back yard. We have cut down dead trees that were a hazard to the house. We have Americanized and revolutionized into liberated women. We have taken a new faith, one of individuality. We have found our own Gods. We have begun writing.
Twenty years.
My father isn’t the same man. He is thinner, but happier. He lives on a strict diet of fat free. He solves puzzles, gardens, rakes leaves and walks the lawn.
My mother graduated from college with an associates degree in childhood development. My mother is opening a daycare in the basement. My mother stresses over loans and mortgage, but reminds herself that in America, she can be rich.
Twenty years.
On my first day in an American school, I said, “I don’t understand” to everyone who approached me with a question. I repeated my name over and over and heard it back in one too many syllables.
Twenty years.
No longer a teenager, I am bound to follow my mother’s footsteps into becoming braver and daring to live my way. I am bound to adopt my father’s strength, remembering that hard times do end.
Twenty years pass by and you realize that people have revolutionized not only you, but everything that has happened to you.

Tonight, it is 31 degrees Fahrenheit and I am biting into vanilla ice cream. It’s one of those nights where you want to open a bottle of wine and just sip through the bitterness. I found an unopened bottle of Champaign in the fridge, unwrapped the gold aluminum around the top and realized I was too lazy to figure out how to unscrew the cork. Instead, I opened the freezer, grabbed the ice cream and served myself three big scoops of white vanilla.
My sister is in Mexico. I am in her big room, using her sound system, her bed and the comfy red sofa chair, her stuffed dog, Spotty, sitting next to me. I called in earlier to talk to sis. I bravely answered the man in Spanish, assuming he was asking for her room number, I said tres, cero, cero, uno. He didn’t understand, so I repeated myself, then finally he said something else really fast and I knew I was stuck so then he said it in English. I later realized I probably should have said tres mil uno. I don’t know how to prepare anymore. My Spanish is worse than ever. I watched an English movie with Spanish subtitles for a change. I don’t watch soap operas anymore because they talk so fast it makes me nervous.
I am leaving for Madrid on the third. Everybody is excited. Oh my god you’re going to Spain?! Oh you are gonna love it. You’ll have the best time of your life!
I am going to spend four months with strangers. But I’m curious to meet Senora Fidalgo and her two daughters. I am hoping they will excuse my bad Spanish. I have even prepared a little speech upon my introduction with the help of my Spanish tutor. Basically I will be telling her to excuse me for not understanding her, asking for patience until the time that I improve.
I am in a sueno, a dream. Everyday I picture myself walking through the terminal, looking for Felix, the man who will accompany me to my house. I picture our cab, the cabdriver making small talk while I sit there, silently, nervously tearing my fingernail.
But the other part of the dream is the part where I realize I’m finally doing something for myself. Something brave and maybe a little crazy.
I like crazy…
I dragged Mom to the swimming pool on this chilly night. She was too lazy and cold to go for a swim. But we went anyway. Drove to Providence recreation center, got into our swimsuits, and headed under the water. I cleared my head of Spain. Mom cleared hers of the trees that were cut down today in our yard. After a thirty minute swim, a fifteen minute Jacuzzi, and a two minute sauna, Mrs. M and I dragged ourselves out into the cold and got back on Cedar Lane, our eyes meeting, once again, the rein deers on our neighbor’s rooftop and the six-feet snow man on the front lawn.

I’m selling a photo on Ebay. You can also click on the right and see it on Flickr.
Check out the link:
http://cgi.ebay.com/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=300180978890