when I get to heaven

When I get to heaven, in a section way off to the side somewhere, I know I’ll find a spot made just for me. It looks just like my favorite tapas bar in Ciudad Real.

When I walk in, it’s full like always. And Santi is holding it down all on his own behind the bar, like always.

Though the place is blindingly white (everything in heaven is, you know. It’s the lighting.), there’s still those little piles of used, wadded up and tossed away paper napkins sprinkled along the front of the bar. Things can be dirty in heaven, too. If that’s what your heaven is like. There’s also a perfect sized space for me to squeeze into near the end of the bar.

Santi eyes me and ask-orders in that friendly, gruff way of his, “Díme.”

“Una cañita,” I reply. Almost before I’m finished saying it, he’s sliding a frosted glass filled with a foam-capped amber beverage down the length of the bar toward me. It stops neatly into my cupped palm. I know Santi’s waiting for my food order. I’ll give it to him. But not before I say hello to this oh-so-refreshing-looking beer. I gulp once. Twice. Man this watered down fizzy shit is the best cure for a hot Spanish day. It is perfection. It is life itself.

Santi prods. “Y para la tapa?”

“Rejos,” I reply without looking up.

Santi’s gravelly voice erupts like a low rumble of distant thunder, “Dame uno de REjos!”

Behind the saloon doors leading to the kitchen, hands begin to move. Grabbing the octopus legs, quickly battering them, then dropping them into the screaming hot oil. I wonder if it is the old woman or the young woman working behind those doors today. Sometimes, if it’s very busy, the young woman overcrowds the oil and they come out a little less crispy. I still enjoy them anyway. I’m only wondering.

A few minutes later, the young woman emerges and places the plate at the end of the bar. The door swings open when she re-enters. The old woman is sitting on a small chair in the small space, watching the young woman cook. The doors close and Santi retrieves the plate from the edge of the bar, then delivers it deftly to the space in front of me. Several crisp, still slightly sizzling sections of suction-cupped tentacles are splayed on the plate next to small stack of steak fries. I inhale deeply, the aroma of fresh fried sea critter filling my nostrils. I wait several patient moments for them to cool a bit before spearing one of the little legs with my fork. I bite through the thinnest and crispiest of batters into the tender-chewy flesh of the octopus. My eyes close as I savor the taste that is salty, mildly fishy and sweet all at once. For the next few moments, I, the amber liquid, the crispy fried octopus legs, and the golden creamy potatoes have our own little rendezvous at the end of the bar. At the end of it all, they are depleted. I am replenished.

After the last drag of the beer, I catch Santi’s eye.

“Me cobras, porfa?”

He waves his hand.

“Te invito, yo.”

I smile. Nod my head in deferential thanks. Then get up and make my exit. The blinding white light engulfs me. It’s one of my favorite things about heaven besides the food. The lighting. It’s simply glorious.

traveling solo: what to do when everything goes wrong

Oh, f**k. I am literally stuck in Portugal.

My heart rate quickened a few paces. I hadn’t really allowed myself to think that the worst possible scenario would happen, so now that it was in fact happening, I found myself momentarily bewildered. I’d made the foolish mistake of traveling to Portugal  without my passport, but since I’d gotten lucky on the flight out of Spain, I thought my luck might hold out for the return trip. It didn’t. After trying other alternatives (presenting a copy of my passport, then my Spanish resident ID) that were refused by the airline agent, it became clear that I was not getting on this flight.

My brain began slowly filling with a thousand thoughts:

Shit.

Um. Ok. What the hell are you going to do now?

This can’t be happening.

Ohmygodohmygodohmygod

What if I can’t get out of here? What if I’m stuck in this airport for months or years like that one movie with Tom Hanks?

How could I be so stupid!?

Shit!

This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. Why do bad things always happen to me?

Jesus Christ, I’m sooo stupid!!

I just wanna go home.

*Eyes starting to well up with tears*

If you travel often enough, eventually it will happen. The worst possible scenario. You find yourself stuck in the middle of nowhere. You missed your flight. The hotel booking fell through. You’re lost in an unfamiliar place where you don’t speak the language. Or worse yet, you’ve been pickpocketed or injured.

While I haven’t had any serious travel emergencies yet (knock on wood), I’ve definitely found myself in a pickle more than once while travelling – most recently on a solo trip back to Spain from Portugal. What I’ve learned from these travel blunders is that the best and quickest way out of them is to… keep calm and carry on.

Don’t Panic (Ok, panic. But make it brief.)

After realizing that my pleading with the airline agent was useless, I found a bench to sit on, and let the reality of the situation settle in a bit. I tried to tame my wildly racing thoughts as best I could (repeating over and over to myself, ‘It’s going to be ok. It’s going to be ok.’). Suddenly, a calming piece of advice that a friend of mine once said to me popped up in my mind: ‘Every problem has at least 5 solutions’.

Slowly, I felt the panic begin to subside and a steely resolve take its place. After a few more moments, I went to the bathroom, washed my face, fixed my hair, and touched up my makeup. Then, I set to work.

Gather Your Tools

I knew I would need to rely heavily on my cell phone, so I checked the battery. It was about half full. I started scouting out the airport terminal for power outlets. Then, checked to see if there was free Wi-fi at the airport. No luck. Fortunately, my cell phone data plan worked, and the signal was strong.

Once you’ve calmed yourself down, take inventory of what you’ve got to help you get out of this situation – cell phone, map, GPS, snacks, the phone number of ‘a guy who knows a guy’. Use whatever you’ve got within reach to help you get yourself out of this predicament or weather the storm until you do.

Using travel tools proactively can also be a big help in case of a travel mishap. For example, take pics of your hotel, the hotel stationery, or the street you’re staying on in case you get lost and can’t communicate where you need to go. Save emergency contact info into a notes app on your phone. Save text versions of walking directions to/from your hotel on your phone to use in case you can’t access GPS. Download maps that are accessible offline. Download travel apps you can use to book last-minute flights and hotels and find bus and train schedules.

Brainstorm & Prioritize Your Options

What’s the thing that needs to happen first? What’s most important right now? What’s the fastest, most efficient way to get that thing done?

My 3 main options were: Getting on another flight, finding a place to stay, or finding another mode of transportation to get back to Spain.

After a quick search online for other flights, I ruled out that option. Even if I could get past security for another airline (sans passport), the cost of the flight would be ridiculous. Since I was already out of the money from the lost flight, I didn’t want to pay more than I needed to.

My next best bet was finding an alternative way out. Lastly, I’d look for a place to crash, if finding a way out took longer than I hoped.

Be Resourceful – Know Where to Go for Info or Help

Thankfully, I had apps for Renfe – Spain’s railway system, BlaBlaCar, and Skyscanner on my phone, and I’d bookmarked the site for Portugal’s railway system. I used Google to search for buses going between Portugal and Spain. In under an hour, I’d found info on the next trains, buses, and rideshares going to Madrid. But online bus information can often be out of date, so I ended up consulting with both an airport security guard and the airport tourist info office to make sure the info I’d found online was correct (turns out, it wasn’t). Since there was nothing leaving until the next day, I used my handy AirBnB and Booking.com apps to look for a cheap place to stay in the meantime.

Having the right info at hand during a travel emergency makes all the difference, and knowing where to go to find it is essential. In my case, I relied heavily on online travel tools. But the people around you can also be excellent sources of help and information. Information desks or tourist offices are available in most large cities. Bus drivers and taxi drivers are great for helping you find your way – they know the area well. Hotel concierges and desk staff, security guards and police officers, store workers in commercial areas – not only are all of these people good sources of ‘official’ info, they’re also more likely to speak English than a random person on the street.

Think Positively

Even if you do everything you should do in a travel emergency, there’s no guarantee that you’ll get out of the situation quickly. No matter what happens, though, keeping a positive mindset and being able to laugh at yourself will help you make the best of a bad situation.

In the end, it took a few hours of searching for and confirming transport and lodging, an overnight stay at a cheap but centrally located AirBnB room (15 euros), and a 5-hour BlaBlaCar ride (30 euros) the next day from Oporto to Madrid. During that time, I encountered some rude and unhelpful people, took a walk through what – at first glance – looked like a sketchy area, and suffered a late-night bout of gastrointestinal distress. I tried to view the whole ordeal as a comical adventure, which kept me from getting too riled up or freaked out, even though there were several times when I wanted to do both. In the end, I made it out of a sticky situation without too much incident, feeling like I earned a merit badge in the process. And a ridiculously hilarious travel story to boot.

prickly pears

Every day, 2 times a day, I pass the house with the bountiful prickly pear bush full of fruit. And every day, 2 times a day, I covet. Tell myself, “Imma stop and knock on the door and ask them if I can have some of those prickly pears… they ain’t doin’ nothin’ with ‘em.”

Today, on the 2nd passing of the day, a man was out in front of the house, harvesting the big, plump purplish fruits. I hesitated for a moment. Do I really have time to stop? I’d told the service technician I was on my way to meet that I’d be at my house before he got there. I reasoned with myself, “At least I can slow down and holler out the window at the gent. Maybe he’ll be ok with me swinging back by later.” I slowed my car, let down my passenger side window; spoke: “I’m glad to see you’re picking those, I’ve been wanting to get some myself!” He smiled broadly. “Oh, yeah? You know what these is? You wanna get some?” Me: shocked and delighted at the ease of the invitation, pull over the car and put on my hazard lights. Hop out and deftly avoid the cars passing me to join the man pulling the ripe fruit from the tops of the cactus. The box he was depositing his harvest in was almost full. I eyed it, thinking I’d save my ungloved hands at least a little distress if I harvested from the harvest instead of directly from the plant. As I prepared my second request, the man spoke: “Yeah, I knocked on the door to see if somebody was home, but nobody answered. So….” Wait. What? This isn’t even his house!? I’m dying laughing on the inside. Emboldened by his boldness, I ask, “Can I just get a few outta the box?” “Yeah, gone head,” he cheerfully replies. I’m too far gone as an accomplice to be shy, but I restrain myself from taking too many of the fruit. “Yeen got no bag?” He queries. “Oh, I’m sure I have one in the car,” I say as I take my 2 handfuls back towards my trunk, where there is indeed a stray plastic bag inside. I deposit my pilfered booty, wave an enthusiastic goodbye to Mr. Prickly Picker, re-enter my ride and escape the scene of the crime with the evidence staining my hands.

#fortunefavorsthebold #ripeforthepickin #aclosedmouthdontgetfed #afunnythinghappened #swatl #swats #roguish

expat problems: 6 stages of repatriation

Coming home after a period of time living abroad isn’t always easy. Things aren’t the same as you remember. You aren’t even the same. Finding your place again when everyone and everything has moved on can make readjusting to your new old life seem a little bit like learning to walk again. Plus there’s the emotional toll of leaving behind new friends and abandoning what had become your new normal.

To make matters worse, unlike many other major life transitions, repatriation doesn’t always come with its fair share of support and understanding. The opportunity to live in a foreign country is often seen as just that – an opportunity. Something that you’re lucky or blessed to be able to do. On one hand, that’s true, but like any other self-initiated, out-of-the-norm endeavor (e.g., going back to school, changing careers, becoming a parent) it’s also a matter of sacrifice, risk and day-to-day struggle.

Yet, to friends and family back home (and thanks in part to that steady stream of stunning photos in exotic locales on your Facebook and Instagram feeds) you’ve been living on vacay for the past few months or years. And since ‘coming back from vacation’ isn’t exactly a struggle, you may be left to navigate re-entry back to ‘the real world’ on your own.

I’ve been through the repatriation process twice now – actually, you could say that I’m still going through it – and while I don’t claim to have the science of it all figured out, I felt compelled to share my own process of dealing with and ultimately triumphing over the repatriation blues.

6 Stages of Repatriation

Reverse Culture Shock

From the moment you step off the plane, everything about your home country seems familiar, but in an eerily unfamiliar way. It’s like you’re in The Truman Show or The Matrix. You recognize it all, yet it all seems just… a little… off. Things that you once took for granted as completely normal are now shocking, weird, amusing or maybe even offensive to you.

In my first two weeks back in the US, I had the following moments of reverse culture shock:

At the airport, waiting on my bags:  

Why is everyone so fat and poorly dressed?

When greeting old and new friends:

Must remember to shake hands, NOT double-cheek kiss. I almost made out with that guy just now.

Shopping for groceries:

Gawd, it’s expensive here. I mean, $8 for a bottle of wine… and it’s not even good!?

Catching up on TV shows:

Seriously? Is EVERY commercial on TV for a prescription drug?

Getting behind the wheel for the first few times:

Wow. Atlanta drivers exhibit a LOT of aggression.

At any given moment on any given day:

This feels suspiciously comfortable. What is all this knowing where I’m going and understanding what everyone around me is talking about?

Even though seeing an old place through new eyes may initially be disorienting, eventually your vision adjusts and things begin to appear a bit more normal.  It may take a while, but it will happen.

Mourning / Loss

Once the excitement of being home and the disorientation of reverse culture shock start to fade, a new feeling may settle in. It may come on as just a bit of a funk or it may swell into full-blown depression. For me, this stage was much like the aftermath of an amicable breakup.

At the start, it was all too raw and tender. I’d be prone to spontaneous outbursts of tears, complete with shaking my fists at the heavens wailing, “WHYYYYYYYYY!!!?? Why can’t we be together anymore? Why did I have to leave you so soon? We were just getting to know each other! Will I ever see you again?”

Even after the initial pain had dulled and I found myself only thinking of my long lost other home maybe once a day – I couldn’t bear to look at pictures of the place. The images brought back too many emotions, too much of that feeling of loss. I couldn’t stand to hear anyone else speak about my host country or talk about what they knew of my once-beloved. When others told of their trysts with my ex – whether good or bad – I’d invariably think to myself, “But you don’t know it like I do. You can’t possibly. It was mine! All mine!”

Melodramatic? Yes. But true nonetheless. The feeling of grief that I experienced on returning the US, I found out, was common for many returning expats. Expats interviewed by the Wall Street Journaldescribed their own feelings of loss as: “a punch in the gut,” and, “like having somebody dying.” Though I didn’t know that my feelings were common, I did know that they’d have to pass eventually. I remembered an old rule-of-thumb I’d heard ages ago about how long it took to get over an old flame. According to this completely water-tight scientific rule, it takes one week per each month of the relationship to get over post-breakup heartbreak. I tried to use this as a point of solace as the days on the calendar crawled by.

Comparison / Nostalgia

“It’s 11 o’clock here. If it were 11 o’clock there I’d be….”

“What I wouldn’t give for a churro or a cortado or some boquerones right now.”

“The eggs here are nothing like the ones I could get at the stores in Spain.”

 “You know what I never had to worry about there? Mass shootings.”

This stage could be part of the mourning and loss stage or it could be a separate stage all its own. This is when you begin comparing even the smallest details of your daily life with your life in that other place. And invariably, your old life is always much, much better than your new life back home. Or, at least, that’s how you’re remembering it now.

Suddenly, all of the little things that used to absolutely irritate me about living in Spain were forgotten. I could only remember her virtues. While America, my home country, suddenly appeared to be riddled with flaws. In my mind, I was only verbally registering all these little humdrum things that I’d taken for granted while living in Spain, things that now had value since I no longer had them. But I’m sure I sounded like I was constantly kvetching. Either way, friends and family are likely to find you insufferable during this stage. Some may even let you know it.

Isolation / Withdrawal

You think nobody wants to listen, so you cut them off. You don’t go anywhere. You don’t speak to anyone. You’re starting to feel like you can’t talk about anything that happened to you in that other place. You think you’re only sharing tidbits about what’s been your daily life for the past months or years, but you know all other people hear is you bragging – yet again – about how awesome your time abroad was. Your friends all talk about what’s been going on in their worlds for the time you’ve been away. Parties they went to. Dates they’ve been on. Jokes they’ve shared. You don’t think they’re bragging. But you do feel like you keep walking in on the middle of a conversation where you have no idea what anyone’s talking about, yet you’re still expected to follow along. So instead of going out, you’d rather stay at home and Skype or Whatsapp with friends from that other place, or watch movies in your host country’s language. Or, if you’re lucky enough to know another former expat, you’ll only hang with them.

In small doses, a bit of isolation can be good. It gives you time to examine your own thoughts and feelings, take a break from the sensory overload and recharge your batteries. But too much isolation and withdrawal can be detrimental, so it’s important to keep up with regular social activities, even if it’s only with one or two close friends.

Memorializing

You don’t want to forget or discard all those memories you made, the lessons you learned, all the beautiful people and places you saw during your expat life, but you know that you can’t keep living in the past. Sharing stories with friends isn’t going over like you expect it, so you begin to think of different ways to capture and honor your experiences. Creative projects like writing, scrapbooks, and films are good ways to preserve your travel experiences. Speaking engagements at local schools or clubs offer opportunities to share your travel stories to more receptive audiences. Even speaking with a therapist can be a much-needed outlet for your memories and emotions. The most important thing is that you find a suitable medium that lets you express the highs and lows of your expat experience in a way that can be appreciated over and over again, not forgotten.

Integrating

In the final stage, you recognize that you don’t have to completely abandon everything about your old life in order to adjust to your new life. You begin to adapt the things you gained from your expat experiences or things that you miss about your life in your former host country to new contexts and your new locale. For me, cooking has always been a passion. After my return from Spain, I began cooking more and new dishes in my kitchen – not just Spanish tortillas and paellas, but dishes I’d eaten at restaurants and in homes that were German, Ghanaian, Moroccan. After getting used to a daily bike commute in Spain, I began biking more upon my return to Atlanta. I noticed that I was now able to understand every single word of the Spanish conversations that I overheard when I was shopping at the farmer’s market or paying a visit to my favorite Mexican taquería. I was even unafraid to reply back in Spanish (something that used to make me nervous). I felt like I had gained a superpower! One that would allow me to engage with the world and its inhabitants in ways that I couldn’t have done before. All of a sudden, I started to feel less sad that I didn’t have Spain in my life anymore, I was simply grateful to have had it. For weeks, the lack of it was all I could think about, all I could focus on. Now it felt like a playful streak of color in my hair. Something that added just a little pop of interest to my backstory.

And in the end, that’s what each expat experience is. It’s an extra patch on your personal quilt, a new sworl in your uniquely patterned self. You have been irreversibly changed by it. And you will carry it with you always.

why travel to europe when you're black?

Why Europe?

It’s a question that many a black person who has travelled extensively or lived in Europe is likely to get from other black people. What you’re really being asked when you’re asked this question is, “Why would you, as a black person want to live in a place that’s so full of white people?”

In America, the ground, the very earth that i walk on is soaked and layered with generation after generation after generation of blood and suffering an oppression of people who look like me, people who i came from. There is a history of fleshly violence whose remnant energy radiates up from where the soles of my feet fall each day all the way up to the very top of my head. This is not something to be dismissed, even though i doubt that many ever consider this. I, and those like me, have been unwittingly surrounded by, inundated with and permeated by this energy since we were conceived. The cells and dna of those who made us carried this energy.

Imagine growing up in a house. A house where your loved ones live. Your mother, your grandmother, your great grandmother. They love you, care for you. But they have suffered, and they are depressed. The pain of whatever caused them to be in this state of depression has never been remedied or resolved, so the air of the house you live in with these people you love is filled with this heavy depression. It is the only thing you've known all your life. So of course, you too, will feel this depression. You will know it as normal, as just how things are.

Imagine then, that you have the opportunity to leave this house where you’ve always lived. To go away for 2 or 3 or 6 months, perhaps. To live among people who may not love you like your family, but are not depressed. For you, this may feel like breathing fresh, clean air for the very first time. For me, this is what Europe was like. At first, the untainted air in my lungs was too much, too odd, too open. But soon, I began to feel a stirring in me that I'd never felt. This fresh new untainted air was changing me. My lungs grew stronger, my skin glowed, I developed new nerves, new muscle. My breasts firmed, my sex hummed. the feeling of my womanness was heady and intoxicating to me. I was filled with such a sense of joy and wonder... it brimmed within me... oozed from my eyelashes, my fingertips, my toenails! I had feelings and sensations that I would never have dreamed were accessible to me... passion, romance and adventure that I could actually reach out my hand and grasp, draw to my lips and drink until I’d had my fill. I became a woman I could not have become if I had stayed in that depressed house. My limbs and leaves stretched and unfurled. In that other place, I would have been a bonsai woman... beautifully disfigured and dwarfed. Here, I flourished unfettered.

Still, I knew instinctively that this was not a forever place. I knew that I would eventually have to return to my loved ones. Was it not then my duty to stuff my pockets as full as I could of this new air, this fresh life, in the hopes of bringing it back home and sharing it with them? In returning to that place with enough light and nerve and muscle to do the work of healing even some of those old pains? Of drawing aside the heavy, dusty curtains in that depressed house and pointing out the window and saying to my loved ones... look! There is more out there than what we know in here. See! I have brought some of it back. Go out and fetch more of it for yourself. We will always have this house to return to, but we aren't trapped here. We aren't doomed to breathe only this air forever. So, when I went to Europe to live the for 6 months... just enough time 2 begin this becoming, Iknew i had not yet had enough. And so I went again. This time for 11 months. And then, a third time, for what I thought might be forever.