So here I am, back in Madrid, after three wonderful weeks of comfort, security, relaxation, my family, boyfriend, and best friends back in Milwaukee. How hard this transition has been … completely removing myself from those few weeks of home and suddenly forced to accept and participate in this other life, this new life, I have created for myself these past few months.
Slowly but surely, paso a paso, I am getting used to the daily work schedule once again, though I can never seem to master the Tetris-like configurations of madrileños on the Madrid metro on my hour and a half commute each morning. But I must admit, it´s lovely being back at school with my students. I am now, once again, known as Profe Kah-tee.
¨Where does cotton come from?¨
¨Can you hear the difference in the /i/ sound between ¨sing, wing¨ versus ¨night, fly¨?
I am kept busy with my second graders and their preparation for the Trinity English exam in a few months. There is a true need for native English speakers in the public schools of Madrid, and I am happy to be a part of it.
Yet when the days are rainy and the wind from the sierras makes everything seem colder and everyone more irritable, I find myself dreaming about the trips ahead and the trips past.
How I´d love to go back to London with friends, Euan and Yadira … to fall in love with Big Ben all over again, and drink a pint or two. Or repeat December´s Barcelona trip, to view all of Gaudí´s fascinating works once more, to listen with such fascination to Catalán on the metro, and to stay out until morning, walking and drinking cañas along Las Ramblas. And Granada … to return to La Alhambra and feel its majesty and mystery all over again … to hear that wailing of the late night Flamenco, to smell the freshness of the rich citrus from the orange and lemon tress, and to feel that harmony and eternity of the mix between the Spanish and Arab cultures.
Yet then I think to all my travels ahead and that intense curiosity that continually consumes me and make me anxious to head to Barajas airport and hop on the first plane to somewhere. Dublin and Belfast, to the country of my family, la patria, to learn more about the conflict between Catholics and Protestants, the conflict that has, in many ways, shaped what I believe in, and where I come from. To Italy, for its art, romance, rich food and lively, beautiful people. To Berlin, for the history, for the past conflicts of WWII and the Cold War. To Morocco, Sevilla, Portugal, France, Scotland, Egypt. For? For the experience.
Grampa (spelled as we pronounce it) gave me a charm necklace this past Christmas that reads, ¨Not all who wander are lost.¨ Although I must leave those shores of comfort and family de vez en cuando to fill that seemingly unquenchable desire to know the world in which I live, I am not lost. A wanderer I may be, but I know, from all of my travels, even at the age of 22, that no matter where you go, there you are. And of course, all roads always lead to Rome – or better yet, home.
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