Sunday, December 25, 2011

a christmas card

I awoke this morning to the sounds of classic Christmas songs and the rare occurrence of a warm December sun filtering through the ironwork of the bedroom window. Any other year, I would grab my sister's hand and jump on my parents' bed to wake my dad up. Yes, at the age of 27 and my sister 24, we still do this. Her boyfriend joined us last year when we were in Southern Utah at my Granparents' home. I don't wanna grow up... I'm a Toys-R-Us kid...


This year, I spend my first Holiday Season on the equator and 9,000 feet up in the atmosphere. Christmas Eve was spent sipping Jack Daniels (a rare treat here due to the incredible liquor taxes) and dancing with my bar mates. As we all know, teachers are tremendously underpaid; so I took a job bartending a few nights a week to put a little plata (money) in my pocket. The Irish owner and Scottish manager have taken me under their wings and I am well on my way to, well... Probably becoming a certified alcoholic. With all of my fellow teachers being back at their respective homes with their families, I joined my kilt-wearing boss (yep, you read that right. It's awesome.) and our motley crew of bar owners and we inhabited one of their bars in La Mariscal (the bar & club district).


Not my typical Christmas Eve. I have grown accustomed to drinking wine and Irish Coffees, watching "White Christmas", reading Twas The Night Before Christmas, sitting around the Christmas tree, and opening a single present, per tradition. Instead I drank Jack Daniels on the rocks, danced to Flogging Molly, took vodka shooters with a Texan and an OU fan (sorry, Dallas folk), and ate salchipapas (garlicky french fries with mayonesa and Ecuadorian ketchup, a fruity red sauce).


With Mariah Carey's "All I Want For Christmas" (the most debated Christmas song of all time) drifting through the halls of my apartment, I began to futz around, dabbling in a little bit of everything on my list of things to do before I leave for the coast tomorrow: packing bikinis and flip flops, cleaning the kitchen, facebooking my friends and family, dancing in my underwear... Hey, I live with two guys, this is the only chance I have. Don't judge me.


My stomach decided that Jack Daniels is not a suitable dinner, nor does it carry over for breakfast, and I grabbed my keys and shuffled down my empty street to find the one place in Quito that might have a person manning the stove or a counter. The insanely empty streets were only occupied by the warm, equator sun and this gringa with a rumbly tummy. Even Jerry, the local tienda German Shepherd, was probably lying underneath the family table waiting for the 10 year old son to drop some pavo (turkey) or papas (potatoes). Only the guard halfway down Echeverria, who always calls me niña or mija, was around to greet me warmly as I wandered to Ave. America. Crossing the massive intersection was remarkably easy with everyone being occupied with families, and the absence of the unrelenting horn-honking was the best Christmas preset ever.


As I handed over my $1.50 for a large bowl of pork, mote, mice (corn), avocado, tomatoes, tostada (roasted corn), onions, potatoes and plantains and smiled at the thirty-something woman who stood proudly as the lone vendor in the streets of Quito. As I walked back to my apartment to once again bask in my favorite Christmas songs, no longer blinded by hunger, I started noticing there were a few stragglers making their ways here and there. A small girl of probably 7 and her mother, presumably, ate the same sustenance that I carried, but out of small, yellow, plastic baggies (fairly common when eating in the streets, as it creates less waste) and sat silently on a half wall in front of the closed farmacia. This is their Christmas.
Christmas Breakfast
I thought back to running down the stairs at 7:00 in the morning, though I'd been up since before dawn out of pure excitement, and my parents video taping my sister and I freak out over packages and stocking stuffers. I remembered the huge turkey dinners and endless amounts of sides surrounding the grand bird. I sifted through my Christmas memories, even those with past loves and their families, and I was filled to the brim with gratitude. I have been so fortunate in not just my holidays, but in my life.


The smirk I had on my face as I giggled to myself about having fritadas on Christmas morning quickly disappeared, and for the first time in a long time, I gave thanks to the universe for my $1.50 styrofoam bowl and little green plastic spoon. I walked home silently, no longer humming "O Come All Ye Faithful" and waited until I was in my home to properly appreciate every delicious bite of my Christmas breakfast. Yes, I miss the traditional cinnamon rolls (I CALL MIDDLE!) but, I must admit, this was one of the best meals I have ever had. When I finished, "Carol of the Bells" rang through my ears and my heart, and out of gratitude and understanding, I wept. I smell like cilantro (and probably a little whiskey), my alarm won't stop beeping, I am alone in a foreign country, and I couldn't be happier with knowing this is where I am supposed to be and yo tengo mucho suerte... I am so very fortunate.


Wherever you are, whatever iPad 2 or Kindle you unwrap, be sure to hug those that surround you for just a few more seconds. Hug them for me. Give extra kisses to parents and grandparents. Kiss them for me. Bask in the sunshine, sip a Bloody Mary (another Christmas morning tradition in my family) and actually feel the sun. Stand in the snow a bit longer, so your hot chocolate or Baileys & coffee (love you, Mom) tastes that much sweeter and warms you to your core. Raise a glass of Egg Nog and appreciate your family, your life, and the simple, beautiful things.


From Ecuador, I send my love and best wishes. My 2012 be the year you finally say "Yes" to your heart and to helping others find theirs. To my family, both blood and acquired by living, you are missed, you are loved, you are appreciated.
Suerte y amor para todos....


xx.a

Sunday, December 18, 2011

home is where the whiskey is

It is often said that home is where the heart is. There are elements of truth to this sentiment, however it raises additional questions as to the literal and metaphorical meanings of this saying.


Let's start with "Home". The literal version, being where you live, is fairly obvious. However, over the years, I have noticed that I haven't always used the term 'home' to describe where I lived. I often said, "I left it at the apartment" or "I'm at the house" instead of labeling my residence by an emotional term: home. I really liked where I lived (sometimes), but it felt as though it was a fallacy to thrust such a strong, evocative term upon them... It was if I were to call a man I had just started seeing my 'boyfriend' and it would change the entire dynamic of the relationship. I feel as though I need to "date" a place before committing to it, let alone dropping big words like "home" and "love".


Someone very close to me said that in all his travels, his bed was the most important thing. When he moved to Melbourne, Australia he prioritized his bed as the most important aspect of his residence: it wasn't home until he had his preferred bed. My back agrees with him. I told him I needed a place to call my own: a door to shut to be alone and a place to put my stuff so I could live & explore.


I remember my first house in Santa Ana, California relatively well, especially considering I was 4 when we left it. It was a sweet, one story home on a street lined with huge trees. It had a brick front porch (laid by my parents I believe) and when you walked in, the dark carpet lead you to the hallway on your right with all of the rooms, as well as the living room straight ahead. The kitchen had linoleum floors and I remember staring at them when it hurt to eat my chicken nuggets and, shortly after, my mom told me the doctors needed to take my tonsils out. I remember a dark brown, wood coffee table that I pushed my baby sister off of onto that dark carpet and got in trouble. It was that same table I hid behind my dad when we watched E.T. Extraterrestrial because that damned alien was going to chase me. It was this home that I remember putting on heels and packing a suitcase to go to work just like my parents, though child labor laws discriminated against me. I have these memories, I can see the house, I remember Jesse, the little boy next door, but none of this makes it a home.


My house since March of 1989 feels like home. That house saw twenty birthdays, three proms, countless dates, a half dozen boyfriends, my first kiss with a girl, my second kiss with a boy, my absolute worst day ever, some of my favorite days ever, life coming into the world, life leaving the world, and life moving on. I remember my sister and I being in trouble and we sat in our doorways and communicated silently about absolutely nothing, just to do it. I remember sliding down the once blue carpet of our 14-step stairs on my bum making random noises just to see what it would sound like as I went faster and faster. I know the slope of the front yard well enough to be able to close my eyes and let the grass tell me before I stub my toe on the cement sidewalk for the hundredth time.


Conversely, it is not just that I grew up in this house in Corona that makes it home: it is in fact, my family. Our memories make it home. Returning to this vault of memories after five years away, my room was completely different from paint to pictures; but I still slept better than I had in years. The energy, the memories, the love...


Since I left home at the age of twenty, I have lived in 11 apartments and houses, including my place in Quito, Ecuador, where I currently reside. That's seven years, folks, and a lot of shifting, packing, storing, moving, unpacking, repacking, and stacking. I. Hate. Moving.


I do, however, love traveling. Lately I have been pondering the reasons why I am so comfortable being über-independent and why I crave traveling the world as much as I do. I'm 27 years old, shouldn't I be looking for a mate and to settle down with all the trimmings (i.e.- house, car, kids, etc.)? I have pondered if the fact that the only constant in my life over the last 7-10 years has been change has allowed me to grow accustomed to inconsistency.


"The only things certain in life are death and taxes."


And change.


I moved to Ecuador two short but life-filled months ago to teach English as a foreign language. I visit various companies and teach their HR departments, general managers and top executives Business English. Every day is different for me: the classes I teach, the people I meet, the things I see. Every week someone in my life leaves or a new person enters. The temporary nature of the career may be exactly what I need to get my fix of change without denying myself (or others in my life) the importance of steady life.


In all of the eleven places I lived in the last seven years, the one that felt most like home was the only place I lived alone, my apartment in Irving, Texas. It was absolutely mine from paint to pictures. Now, here in Quito, I find myself feeling at home more and more as time goes by. Perhaps, it is the two incredible people I have found myself living with. Both of my roommates, though respectfully different, managed to charm their way into my heart. Today, I found myself chatting with them both as one streamed American NFL games and the other prepped to shoot a music video and I was sewing their clothes that needed mending and offering to cook breakfast. When did I become a housewife to an American and an Ecuadorian? I'll let you know when I finish the laundry and the dishes...


That brings us to "Heart". All of those things make me happy. I am beginning to think that people have a huge influence on whether a domicile feels like a residence or a home. But wait... That can't be. I am ridiculously hesitant to depend on others for anything... Especially my happiness. So, where does that leave me? My heart- my true soulmate and companion in this life/ is always honest with me and I listen to it way too much- shows me what makes me happy. When I am happy, I am home. I suppose that at this point I must admit that a cliché is actually something I can't scoff at, dammit.


What makes me happy? Jesus, that's the question of the century. The list I have developed is a red hot, dichotomous mess. It's awesome. Perhaps it is a little more personal than I'd prefer to venture in this blog, but those AP Lit students out there can tap their deductive reading skills and make their own conclusions from previous blogs. Basically, anything involving travel, friends, food, whiskey, wine, beer, art, surprises, writing, or education is a fair shot. If you can combine any of those, you're in great shape.


There are things that I miss dearly that make me feel at home: whiskey (so expensive here I can't afford it) In-n-Out Burger, Sriracha, Tapatio, good cheese (that melts), Pho, Pandora, good spaghetti sauce, being able to carry my iPhone in public, buying booze on Sundays, and Red Bull. Some have decent substitutes and some do not... Please, dear readers, go out and indulge in these in my honor.


As I have traveled to eight uniquely amazing countries, I have left a part of me there, as a thank you to the country and its culture. I have also managed to take with me a new part of me that I was unaware existed. If I am leaving a part of my heart in places like Japan, Ireland and Italy... Is it then possible that my home- which resides with or within my heart- is then everywhere as well? I believe, with all my heart-pieces, that it absolutely is.


My home, with my family, will always be such and I am grateful. My home, within myself, is something I need to remember is very real and very beautiful. My future homes- be it alone, with friends, or a mate- will be a fantastic chapter in my life and I am eagerly (but patiently) anticipating that time.


I know not where my next house will be, let alone my next home, but I do know that wherever it stands, it better have room for my heart. And a bottle of whiskey.


Missing home, but making a new one... Hearts and stars to the States.


xx.a
Quito, Ecuador.... My new home....