Shell Shocked

I underestimated the travails that would be associated with picking up and moving country.

I'm being too kind to myself with the use of 'underestimate', which implies I actually gave some thought to the potential difficulties associated with my little adventure. Heedless of the power of culture shock and overconfident with my moxie, I rushed in ill-prepared.

It's just Madrid. It's like going home.

On a day-to-day basis, I don't think of myself as 'worldly'* but if asked to define myself, changing of locales would figure prominently. My family moved every couple of years (albeit always within the USA); growing up, I went to 11 different schools; after university I lived in rural South Africa where I taught high school; I lived in Madrid where I taught English and did some post-grad studies at the Complutense; I lived in London, and became a UK citizen. I'm no stranger to picking up and going. Therein lies my hubris.

In a mere 5 days, Madrid has brought me down a peg or two.

On Friday morning, the culmination of innumerable little stresses and strains had me in tears. The tipping point: Dog went wild for something foul smelling in the Parque del Oeste. Before I could yank her away, she was well on her way to ingesting what I initially thought was human shit. I pried open her jaws and wiped the remnants of whatever-it-was** with my gloved hand. Irate with a dog's instinct to eat shit, I pulled her home, brushed her teeth, and tried to scrub the odour off her fur. That was how Friday started. At 6am.

The Man called to check in on me at 9am.

At 9:01 I was blubberasobbing.

I instructed The Man, "Pay me no mind." In the midst of my angst, I knew my discomfort was normal; ups and down are to be expected. 10 years ago, I had similar feelings of discomfort in London.

Then, it was trying to find hangers, an extension cord, and an ice tray. Now it's trying to open a bank account without a Foreign Identity Number. Or getting a mobile phone contract without a Foreign Identity Number. Or getting The Dog pet insurance without a Foreign Identity Number.

Holy Fuck. I really need this Foreign Identity Number!

There are other things too. Like accumulating a seeming kilo in change because I'm still struggling to distinguish between the 10, 20 and 50 euro coins when they are jostling together in my change purse. It seems stupid. And yes, I've dealt with this currency numerous times in the past; it never seemed so important to feel like I handled it seamlessly before. Now my fumbling with change feels awkwardly unacceptable.

Then the dog goes and eats some shit, and I have a mini-meltdown.

* Anyone who thinks of themselves as 'worldly' on a day-to-day basis thinks way too much of and about themselves.

** I continued to get wafts from the fur around her head all day and as I smelt and reflected, whatever-it-was might have been fertilizer used by the Park People in the Parque del Oeste. Shit is shit; but I'd rather have The Dog eating cow shit than human shit so this thought comforts me.

***PS - All better now. Please don't go and take this post as something, which should cause concern.

Dog Flies

Of all the things about which to worry, The Dog has been on the forefront of my mind.

Tomorrow morning a stranger will pick her up, put her in a box in the back of a van, and drive her to the airport. She doesn't travel well by car. She loves getting in cars but as soon as the engine revs and the wheels make their first tentative spins, Dog begins to salivate nervously. She looks this way and that and paces (or rather shifts her 40 kilos) in whatever limited space she has. If she has had anything to eat and if the drive lasts more than 15 minutes, she will vomit. The Pet Transport People have assured me that flying generally tests a dog's motion sickness less than driving does. They say it's nice and dark in the custom made cage. Plus they spray the cage with pheromones in order to make the dog relax. I don't get the logic behind that little tactic. I thought pheromones were used to encourage sexual desire. I don't think that's what Dog needs when she's up in the air. Unless it's a tactic to make her think of something other than her queasy stomach. Even if the flight is easier than I think it should be, she still needs to endure a ride to the airport. Then, on the other side, we both have to endure a ride from the airport to the centre of her (our) new town.

I hate to think of her state of mind as she makes the journey. I feel myself worrying as she might worry and no one will be there to pat her head and tell her that it'll be alright.

God, I hope it'll be alright. I just want her to be here already.

(I will worry much less when it is The Man's turn to fly. His, like mine, is a self-determined course of action.)

Excuse me while I go bite my nails.

Night One Buzzes

The stillness of the flat buzzes at an almost inaudibly high pitch. It sounds like a thousand operatic locusts trying to break my wine glass. I know the locusts aren't really trying to break my glass. I know there are no locusts. Maybe my ears are ringing. I don't think my ears are ringing. I think it's electricity. I think the high pitch is the silent sound of electricity coursing through the veins of my new flat. A siren goes by and interrupts the electricity's buzzing silence. I'm glad for the siren because the buzzing silence makes me lonely. I didn't have room for the iPod and speakers; and Spotify is telling me I need an invitation to listen; and the TV isn't hooked up; and so I have to make do with the buzzing and the occasional siren and the loneliness of a first night away.

I'm also cold. I should turn on the heat, but I'm going to go out soon. I should quit what might sound like sniveling because it's really not sniveling just like the buzzing is really not locusts and there isn't a ringing in my ears. This is just me accepting observations of myself and my moods. I'm old enough to be comfortable with a little discomfort.

I can't wait for The Dog to get here.

Farewell Looms

I'll probably not be in the UK the next time I write. Bags have been packed, and Skype online numbers ordered.

After the flack I received when I pleaded for Windows related assistance, I went out and bought a Mac. This is my first Mac post. I love my new Mac. I'm already annoyed with the PC's inability to scroll with my fingers.

I found a flat. I negotiated and agreed a contract. My new landlord will not be there when I arrive. His mother will greet me and take the first month's rent from my begging hands. I hope she doesn't get too involved in my life.

The Dog doesn't understand what all the packing of bags means. Her bed was folded into my suitcase; whereas The Man's things are staying suspiciously in place. The Dog, she doesn't know what's going on.

My mind is awash with changes.

Aunt Astounds and Doesn't

My Aunt leans over and quietly comments that she thinks I should write a book about how I survived growing up in the same house as my brothers. I look over at the brother who's present; it's his birthday, and he sits at what would be the head of the table except that the table is a round table, and I can only imagine that it is the head since he is the birthday boy. I am not exactly sure what Aunt B means. I assume she is referencing the obvious differences between the three siblings.

How could siblings turn out so different from each other?

I laugh and kind of brush off the comment, but Aunt B is fixated on me.

She references a family Christmas when her daughter who is some years older than me - between my brothers in age - came home from a night out with a neck-full of hickeys. My cousin had been out with my brothers and one of their friends. I'm still not exactly sure what my aunt is getting at, but from the tone I gather she's getting at something sordid.

Does she know?

I wouldn't care if she did. It was well over 15 years ago when I called a family (of the nuclear type) meeting and let the cat out of the bag: where I "confronted" my brother (not much of a confrontation because he admitted his "guilt" without protest).

I am an avowed victim of sexual abuse. I talk about it openly if appropriate, if asked. I joke about it. Part of my recovery consisted of blabbing away about it whenever I had the chance. I'm certain I scared a lot of people. It seems like such a 'big deal' to others. I'm over it. So, I don't care if my Aunt knows.

But, does she know?

Maybe my mom talked to her about it. Maybe my mom talked to her brother, my uncle, who in turn talked to my aunt. No matter how, it seems my aunt does know. Despite it hardly being the place to begin chatting freely about the skeleton that's not so much in the closet anymore, my aunt and I continue in private tones.

She shoots my brother a none too friendly look. "I mean you turned out so well. I really, really admire you. You are such a strong person."

I'm speechless. My aunt is almost 70.

How can someone almost 70 admire me?

When I recover from the weird compliment, I realise that I am currently in the position to ask a question about something I've wondered ever since I began remembering.

Someone called social services. I was 10 or 11 or 12. The social services woman knocked on the door, showed me her badge and asked if my mother was at home. The social services woman sat down with my mother and me and let us know that an anonymous person had called in a tip: that my brother was sexually abusing me. When I was 10 or 11 or 12, I denied it vehemently. My guts were wrenching.

They'll take him away.

Worse, they'll take me away.

How do they know?

"That's not true. I don't even know what you mean. Gross."

The social services lady believed me. My mother believed me.

I've often wondered who the anonymous person was who was trying to look out for me. I've sometimes thought it might have been my aunt.

It wasn't.

Grief Strikes

Jet lag awakens me at an ungodly hour when everything is silent except the almost imperceptible hum of the building's life force. I imagine that there must be clubs in the centre of town where people are dancing and sweating to the beat of some amped up rhythm. But, then, I remember I am in Middle America and most clubs would be long shut down at this ungodly hour, especially on a Monday. "No," I tell myself, "this time zone is asleep."

A railway line runs along the edge of Middle America. I don't know how how far away it is. Maybe five miles. Maybe fifteen. In the five or fifteen mile distance I hear the throaty foghorn of a passing train. It's a rumbling bass that from this distance is a whisper announcing that a train is running full steam ahead. You better clear the tracks.

Trains in the UK don't make that sound. Do they?

I think about the train's rumbling steam trumpet, a low wail that sound's nothing like a whistle.

Definitely 'horn'. Whistle is a misnomer.

I pull myself out of the bed that I am sharing with my mother and move to a sofa in the living room where I will put myself to thinking not of the sound of far-away passing trains, but of serious things.

My mother is grief-stricken. The days seem to pass normally with trips to the grocery store and lunches with friends and admiration for the golden sun-shiny days that come in the middle of winter. She gets ready normally for the normal like days. She bathes and drinks tea and puts on lipstick. She combs here hair even though she keeps it short since it's grown back. Short enough not to even need a comb. In short, she doesn't seem haunted or depressed or distraught.

She celebrates cocktail hour as she always does, with a martini. With dinner she drinks what is probably one glass too many of wine. Like me. She doesn't come to bed when I do. I'm suffering from jet lag. My eyes droop. I cannot stay awake any longer.

Later I am jarred awake by her sobbing.

I go to her and put my arms around her and tell her how sorry I am.

Like a crazy person she sputters out words that do not jibe with her apparent state of being.

"I ... I ... I ... am ... am ... so lucky. I am so lucky."

What the hell?

"I am so lucky you are my daughter."

She convulses with a new bout of sobbing and is no longer focusing on how lucky she is because she is my mother but rather on the gaping hole that her partner's death has left. She says she doesn't know how to go on, doesn't know if she wants to go on. Through her blubbering I hear her dark admission: she'd like to be with him.

I can't make it better. I can only wait and hold her hand.

Paranoia at T5

When I looked out the super-sized floor-to-ceiling glass walls of Terminal 5, I saw the gangway that was supposed to lead us to an aeroplane that would lead us Stateside. The end of the gangway was but a gaping hole like the open mouth of a moray eel gaping out of its coral reef.

Where’s our plane?

I wasn’t the only one to wonder at the empty space at the end of the gangplank. I overheard fellow passengers mutter, “Where are we going?”

I’m vain enough to think that I am the only one who imagined that we were lemmings waddling along our course and that we would get to the empty mouth of the gangplank where we would waddle right off the edge and onto the pavement below.

When the airline people took us down some steps and out a door and onto the tarmac, my fantasy changed. We would not waddle off a cliff and to our deaths. No the airline people have something more dramatic. We will follow the airline person with the fluorescent yellow jacket out onto the runway where we will be targets for taking-off and landing jets.

That didn’t happen either.

Instead, I made it onto the plane. watched a movie (Julia & Julie, which made me a little bit self conscious as a blogger), drafted some emails, and have only now realised that my eyes are dry and burning and I have no relief and 6 more hours to go before this aluminium can with wings alights at my destination.