not all of these could be happy posts, right?

I almost hit the wall.  I really almost did.  We were on an evening train back to Toledo from Madrid after a weekend that involved mountains and valley of emotion and I almost hit the wall.  And that frustrates me—that it’s even possible to have negative thoughts after being blessed with the ability to experience things such as the Museo del Prado.  (Note:  The Museo del Prado.  Spanish artists, like regular Spaniards, are not afraid to express themselves.  There is something violent about the romance of Spain that comes through in every aspect of their existence.  My literature professor talks about how Spaniards, historically have the gana to fight, stemming from eight centuries of fighting and defending their land, religion, spirit, and culture from Muslim invaders. Their language always sounds angry, their gaze intense, bereft of any sort of sugar coat, even when meeting someone for the first time.  There is nothing gentle about a Spaniard.   There is nothing gentle about the intentionality of a Spanish artist.  The first painting to strike me was a 16^th century work which depicted Judas leaning over Christ carrying his cross.  A crazed, terrifying, thyroid-eyed Judas.  He was not pleasant to look at.  El Bosco’s image of hell sending chills up my spine.  All culminating at Velásquez’s Christ Crucified.  A black background.  An almost three dimensional luminous body.  A bowed head.  A throb of guilt.  Wow.  It came to me, during that visit to the Prado, that the Spanish are my kind of people.  They are not afraid to be and show exactly who they are, even if it means failing to conform to social norms.  El Bosco’s 16^th century works look more like they belong with Dali’s imaginative surrealism and El Greco’s distinct style and soft interpretation far predate his time.  At the same time, they maintain an objective beauty.  They’re all weird, but beautifully weird.  Not weird for the sake of being weird, but weird because it’s strange.  Strange and familiar at the same time.    There is a sense of feeling like I’m exactly where I need to be. But I guess that’s kind of rare.  Continue to main part of blog post). 

But it did happen—that same panicky feeling of absolute non-belonging I will always associate with my first semester of college.  Bonafide culture shock.  Even the presence of my own mother and Older Sister couldn’t help me shake it.  Who is this Denise whose confidence is shaken? Who doesn’t know her way around a city? Who can’t convey anything she wants to—her gratitude towards her host family, her excitement that her real family’s coming, her love of the beauty of Toledo—because her words are simply insufficient? Who can hardly participate in the Mass or reflect upon the homily? Not the Denise I know—and that’s terrifying.

 It took a few things to help my frustrated stomach settle.  Laughter and talk of love and life and the future over a couple pitchers of sangria may have helped.  The best octopus I have ever tasted—Pulpo de la Gallena—induced a couple tranquil breathes.    Having a couple bottles of water and realizing it wasn’t, in fact, impending depression but rather week-long  dehydration (water fountains aren’t a thing in Spain)  causing me to crave sleep as if I hated my waking hours—yeah that helped.  And then, finally, just what I needed—stumbling upon a perpetual adoration chapel.  Walking in, kneeling, bowing my head.  Looking up ten minutes later to see embroidered on the mantel on which the Blessed Sacrament reted: “Yo estoy con vosotros todos los dias” I am with you always.

It’s good to know that Spanish God is just about exactly the same as English speaking God. 

 

I mean, just imagine it in real life. Actually, don't. It wouldn't do it justice.