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.