Let's go for a paseo.

There are some things that grow on you, others that don’t. When I was little, I hated eating raw broccoli-I used to spit it out in my napkin, hide it under the table, and sneak off to the trash can after dinner when I thought my dad wasn’t looking. I still loathe the bitter, dry taste of raw broccoli in my mouth, but I also try to force it down every so often in the name of calcium. With that said, there are some things in life that only grow sweeter with time.

As a girl, I also strongly disliked going on walks without a destination. To me, the idea of spending all that time and energy to walk in a circle, or a straight line, or whatever shape aimless walks seem to make, was as pointless to me as driving somewhere and turning back around immediately after arriving at the destination. Naturally, I hated hiking as well, which was infinitely more boring due to the predictable green and brown scenery.

Thankfully, I grew up and grew out of my narrow-minded views on the art of walking. Little by little, I learned to appreciate my ability to wander. When I was fourteen, I was stranded in bed for a week after a car accident that damaged my upper back. It was the first time I ever experienced immobility, and it opened my eyes to what it’s like to be trapped: I wanted nothing more than to simply go outside and move.

I thought I had learned my lesson, but four years later I developed a stress fracture in my hip from running too much and was confined to crutches for two months. It was one of the hardest experiences of my life, but I sure did appreciate walking after two months of going without. In fact, I loved walking so much I would find excuses to go on walks. Soon after I was off my crutches, I walked forty minutes to the beach and forty minutes back twice in one day.

At this point in my life, I didn’t think I could become any more of a walking aficionado. But then I met my boyfriend, Tim, and I soon realized that I was mistaken. In my mind, five fingers in mine equals walking to the fifth power- it is exponentially better than taking a stroll solo. We’ve had many amazing walks together over the past year and a half: we’ve sauntered through Sunday morning Mexican flea markets in LA, strolled along the beach in San Diego, ambled along the star-lit roads of Bend, Oregon, and marched through the rainy residential streets of Portland.

When I first arrived in Granada to study, I was so very lost- literally. Both of my parents are directionally challenged, so it’s no surprise that it wasn’t until the third grade I finally had the whole “left hand”, “right hand” thing down. With that said, my anxiety to venture out and explore the city on my own was, in my opinion, very valid.

Soon after I arrived, month-long language preparatory classes began. Tim walked me home from class everyday, even though he lived on the opposite end of the city, about a thirty-minute walk each way. One of the first times we walked to my house together, he stopped in the middle of a plaza about a mile from my house and told me to direct us home. I turned to him with a smile, but soon realized he wasn’t kidding. “It’s for your own good,” he told me.

Initially, I was a little mad at him. Tim knew I was horrible with directions, and that I still hadn’t oriented myself with the city. Nevertheless, I started walking to the left, down a narrow street painted with shadows. “Is this the right way?”, I sighed sarcastically. Everywhere around us, people were hustling home from work, or picking up their kids from school. It seemed like the whole world was out, itching to make it home. And I was right in the middle of it. The arches of my feet ached, my back hurt from carrying my bookbag, and I suddenly I felt overwhelmed from the crowds of people that enclosed me.

Somehow, I managed to find my way home. I admit, Tim had to help me a little, but nevertheless I made it back safely. After that experience, something changed. Little by little, I learned my way around the city. I began to wander the infinite collection of alleys without reserve, and begged Tim to go on walks with me in the old Muslim neighborhood, The Albaicin- a maze of whitewashed homes and walled gardens nestled in the hills next to the Alhambra (an ancient Moorish castle).

In my mind, every unknown neighborhood was transformed from its previous form of an eerie breeding ground of danger to an infinite playground. I would saunter past store windows to peek inside at whatever treasures were held inside: sewing shops with an antique dollhouse in the window, tiny clothing stores with handmade dresses and local artwork, and warm bakeries with mouth-watering pastries displayed in glass cases.

A few days ago, Tim and I decided to wander through the Albaicin’s shopping district, filled with Moroccan teahouses and street vendors selling colorful quilts, lanterns, and leather slippers. We climbed up the steep, cobblestoned alleys and soaked in the warm afternoon sun, stopping at whatever shop or wall of graffiti caught our attention. As daylight began to fade, we sat on an ancient wall in the Albaicin and watched the sun’s shadows stain the Cathedral in the distance. We walked home in the dark, stopping at a park along the way with a lighted fountain and past a gang of stray cats who scattered when we passed by.

We walked for about four hours that afternoon, up and down the streets of Granada. We had no place to be, no reason to hurry. All around us, people were rushing to get home, as usual. But when I looked closer, I realized that many people weren’t in a hurry: cute old couples strode side-by-side with groceries in hand, hippies with dreadlocks were out for a walk with their dogs, and young fathers and mothers proudly pushed strollers with the newest member of their family nestled inside.

In Spanish, the word for “walk” is paseo. Recently, I came across a travel book of Spain on the bookshelf in my bedroom. It explained that, in Spain, a paseo is more than a normal walk. In essence, it is a walk with no destination- a ramble. Every weekend, you see hundreds of Spaniards out for their weekly (or daily) paseo with friends and family, even though all the stores are closed on Sundays.

After living in Spain for two months, I now have a new definition of walks. I think “paseo” is so much more fitting. You “walk” to the store, to the school, to a destination. You “dar un paseo” around the city with someone you love, aimlessly wander, let the sea of people on the street wash you up in the rhythm of shuffling feet. I really believe that there is no better way to see the world than to walk everywhere and soak up each neighborhood you enter.

Today, why not go for a paseo? Take in the sights, the smells, the sounds- the good and the bad. People watch. Walk. Stop and pet random people’s dogs. Walk. Wander through corner shop without anything in your pockets. Walk. Watch a sunset. Walk until your legs are heavy and your feet feel like they are going to fall off. There really is nothing sweeter. And finally, when it’s all said and done, add the word “paseo” to your vocabulary. Let’s start a paseo revolution ☺

Girls become lovers, who turn into Mothers

Everyday, I become feel like Granada becomes more and more like home. I’ve grown to love the little things everyday that characterize my life here. I’ve memorized the ring-tone of my host mom Carmen’s cell phone, who is more chatty than a high school girl when a friend or one of her grown children is on the other end of the line. I’ve also grown accustomed to the little sounds of the house: the three cranks the front door lock makes every time I enter or leave, the eighth floor neighbors directly above us who move their furniture every evening around 11 PM like clockwork. There’s also very distinct smells in the house, some better than others. For example after someone takes a shower, the water drips out onto the floor, and the steam mixes with bathroom smells to create a quite rejuvenating sauna in the sense that the smell definitely wakes you up. But I do love the smell of Carmen’s cooking, but not for the reason you might expect.

To be honest, I don’t really enjoy her cooking all that much. She does make some mean salmon soaked in garlic sauce, lentil soup, and fruit salad with olive oil and honey dressing. But I’m not in love with many traditional Spanish staples like fried baby sardines, chorizo bocadillos, and tomato salad. With that said, I am always drawn to the kitchen when the scent of olive oil wafts into my room. I stand in the doorway while Carmen cooks in her shiny orange dress and black apron that she ties under her arms like a strapless dress. What I love most about being in the kitchen is how Carmen’s maternal love becomes most evident when she’s cooking. Although that might sound odd, it is just one of those things that fills you with a warm feeling. I often ask Carmen if she needs any help, and she’ll point to the napkins on the top shelf, and tell me to get the water jug out of the fridge. She takes care of the rest.

And this is what makes me feel most at home in Spain: the love of a mother. I miss my own mom everyday. But living in a home adds a new dimension to my experience here, which is something very unlike my two years living in the dorms far away from home. Here, I am constantly reminded of my mom through the care and concern Carmen demonstrates towards me. But more importantly, I am reminded what selfless love looks like.

Sure, Carmen gets paid for hosting students, but it is not simply her actions that demonstrate love but her attitude behind it. I love being greeted with a smile when I come home, and laughing at Spanish television shows with her, and seeing my laundry sitting on my bed when after school, folded with care. It is nice being cared for, being loved. And these are all ways my own mom expresses her love for me when I am home. I miss sitting with her down in the basement at night watching TV together, going on neighborhood walks with our dog Tucker (though he’s really only her dog), and driving in the car with her to run errands singing Bette Midler songs.

My mom is a determined woman: she will never, ever let me forget how much she loves me. The past two years when I was away at college, she would sent me at least one letter or card in the mail with comic strips and articles she’d cut out from The Oregonian, Bible verses, stickers, and reddish-orange leaves from the fall that I miss while I'm gone at school. It makes me feel connected to home even when I am a thousand miles away. And then there are always the little notes she writes me in her slightly messy cursive handwriting that took me about 16 years to decipher: “Remember to take your vitamins,” “Good luck on your race this weekend,” and my favorite one of all time, “I love you.”

As I prepare to live in an apartment with friends next semester, it is becoming more and more evident to me how much hard work goes into taking care of a home, being on your own. I’m a little nervous for that next phase in my life. Although I have experience living in the dorms, it is not quite the same as living independently when you have an intercom system in your shoebox room that alerts you it’s quiet time or that there’s paperwork to fill out down in the office.

No, living out in the world is the real deal, and real fears come along with it. Sometimes I’m worried I won’t be able to make it- that I will not have the capacity to balance running and school and my social life as well as housekeeping and cooking. And that’s when I think about Carmen and my mom. Both of these strong women have been such great examples in my life; they are great homemakers, but they are also very selfless people. My mother’s love has shaped me into the person I am today, she’s taught me how to take care of myself through how she’s cared for me. In the same way, I learn new things from Carmen everyday about the world, and life lessons, and what it means to love your children.

About a month ago, I arrived home from school, walked down the hall, and shouted “Hola!” to Carmen who was somewhere in the house. I turned the corner to find her in the kitchen making French fries and chicken. She turned around from the stove, smiled at me, and in her thick Andalucian accent said, “Hola, Mi hija!” (Hello, my daughter!). Instantly, I felt my heart fill with joy, because I knew that was Carmen’s way of saying she loved me. And just when I thought my heart couldn’t possibly get any fuller, Carmen led me into the hallway and pointed to a thick envelope on the table with my name on it, written in the beautiful, loopy handwriting of my mother.