Travel Essay Excerpt: Madrid

Here's another excerpt from a travel essay.  This time I have documented an extended trip to Spain. I began this essay years ago. It's a coming of age story based on my study abroad in Madrid. Follow my adventures in Spain as I fulfill a prophecy, get tangled in an age old debate and more. The full-length travel essay appears in The Lily & The Aster.


As I made my way through Barajas International Airport and came down the final escalator, I noticed the taxi cabs just outside the automatic glass doors. The cars were painted white with a diagonal red stripe crossing the front passenger side door. Just as I had imagined them and, more practically, just as I had read in the travel guide.

Just then a man of roughly 50 came up to me and asked where I needed to go. “Eloy Gonzalo 23,” I said trying not to sound too American. “Ay, de acuredo. El centro.” I nodded not having a clue as to what he meant. Just as he went to grab my bag and head back up the escalator, I got smart. “What color is your car?” I mustered in Spanish. “Negro” he said. “I’m sorry,” I said, as I dutifully took my bag from him, and headed back down the stairs.

Sure, he could have driven a private car for clients, but I was not going to take any chances.

On the way to the apartment near the center of the city, I noticed a familiar site. There was graffiti under many of the overpasses. This place was seemingly less and less foreign. It said to me: Welcome to Madrid, a city of 4 million by the turn of the millennium, nearly a half a world away.

When I arrived at Eloy Gonzalo 23, I was impressed by the charming stairway and tiny elevator inside the building where I would live. The elevator paled in comparison to the tremendous size of our elevators in the United States. In the States one can fit several bicycles in a building’s elevator. While in Spain, one would be lucky to fit a small dog in the space. Teresa, my host mother, was there when I arrived. She took my bag and said “Bienvenidos.”

After I explained a little bit about my trip in my non-native Spanish, she explained to me that she had lived in Madrid with her husband and two daughters for twenty years but that she was from Seville. Seville was her home.

I had arrived in the afternoon just in time for siesta. Teresa offered me a snack—a late breakfast of tea and day-old bread—“pan y te.”  This was my first taste of the Spanish baguette.

After breakfast, Teresa showed me to my room for siesta. I was too tired to unpack. As I lay my head on my pillow, I realized that I was completely exhausted. But I did think about what a whirlwind the trip itself had been. As much as I reflected on the past, I looked toward the future.

There was so much I wanted out of Madrid—out of Spain. This was the Old World and study abroad was an open invitation to discover the culture, history and art that lurked around every corner. Immersion was my goal and I was fortunate to be staying with a host family that was generous of heart and of spirit. Not to mention that my host mother was a fabulous cook!

As I went about life in Madrid, doing errands and other day-to-day things, I noticed that American music seemed ubiquitous. All of the clubs, bars and Cortes Ingleses were filled with American music. There were American movies, tv shows and so many other forms of entertainment that were so decidedly American.

I wanted to see something outside of all of this. I felt like such a tourist. If I had a dollar for every time I found myself in a McDonalds, I would be one wealthy woman.  It was too easy to escape things Spanish and I wanted something very different.

One night I watched a movie with my host family called, Leaving Las Vegas. It is a sympathetic look at a romantic relationship between an alcoholic gambler and a prostitute. My host family was less than sympathetic. For Teresa, the story was too indulgent. The two protagonists were losing themselves in their vices, sex and alcohol, and deserved no pity. “Americans are infants,” she noted.  For Teresa, this movie made a broader statement about Americans, our weaknesses and our tastes.

I was so deeply conflicted. I did not fully understand Teresa’s comment. Certainly within the context of the story I could follow her reasoning, but why the broader judgment? It would take getting to know my host family and getting a bit closer to the Madrid I did not know. I knew that there was something missing.

One day, after lunch, one of my host sisters, who was the same age as me, took me aside and told me that my life was going to change. I had only known her for a few days, but we had similar ideas on many issues. I wanted to hear what she had to say.

“You know, you’re just like the last young woman we had here.”  Never reserved with her opinions, she went on, “Reticent, reserved, timid.” She smiled widely and I could tell she was well-meaning even if I was horrified. “Your life will change here in the next few weeks. You’ll be out late, you’ll drink, you’ll make new friends.“

How I longed for a change and how I hoped her prophecy would come true.

It was my first Friday night in Spain and I had the apartment to myself. I greeted the evening with great anticipation and even greater apprehension. I paced the length of the short hallway, taking deep breaths, wondering how I managed to get myself invited to a group outing outside of our orientation schedule. I guess someone in the group had warmed up to me.

At least it was only a short metro ride down to the center of the city—down to Puerta del Sol. I listened to The Roots play, “Things Fall Apart” on my Discman, hoping the group’s songs would inspire me, settle me down. Before I left I put on a touch too much make-up. I must have checked the mirror a half a dozen times on my way out of the door.

Upon entering one of the many bars in Puerta del Sol, I spotted Amy. We entered the bar and met the group. 

We were a small group, which made conversation easy. First we discussed the host families we were staying with. After only a week with our hosts, there were some startling revelations: Joey noted, “My hosts don’t do any cooking.” “My host mother is uncleanly,” said another. Silently I realized that what I experienced with my host family was relative peace and happiness. No one seemed to notice that I had not chimed in to complain.

The group of other American students from Duke University brought out a side of me I had never experienced before. I indulged a more adventurous, wilder side. This was the first of many reunions that would occur in Salamanca, Barcelona, Toledo and other cities in Spain for our group.

The next morning, the adventure took its toll. I had a terrible headache. My host sister said there would be drinking; she failed to mention that I would get sick— a startling oversight.

Key to Spanish culture was the nightlife. Everyone engaged in “la marcha” once in a while. It was not uncommon to leave the house at 12 am and return at 6 or 7 in the morning. This starts at a young age. For kids of 16 or 17, it wasn’t uncommon to go out in groups for dancing and merriment. Being social is critical to Spanish life.

I was quite a shy person, but I loved this about Spain. Whereas I was coddled in my shyness at Brown, in Spain, I was thrust out into the light and forced to face my fears head on. The trip to Spain and what happened there form a fundamental part of who I am.

Fall Haiku

Here is some fall inspired haiku for a frigid fall afternoon:

Fall leaves fly

Off the ground—

Little birds.

                                                                                *
                                                                               

Like a plume of smoke

Above a Cuban cigar—

This autumn sky.

                                                                       



                                                                                 *

A man with a horse:

His whisper caught on the wind

Murmurs of comfort.

Travel Essay Excerpt: Bucharest

Recently I uncovered a travel journal and I decided to put together an essay containing observations from a trip to then newly post-communist Romania. What follows is an excerpt from that travel essay which will make up part of a longer memoir.

We had no trouble with our flight into Bucharest the next morning. We sailed in smoothly. When we landed, I realized how grateful I was to my Aunt Lucy for inviting me on what would be a life changing trip. And immediately as I arrived, I could see that Bucharest was both like and unlike anywhere I had been. I was alarmed at the amount of litter in the streets, at the poverty and how seemingly old the city was. Perhaps it should have come as no surprise but take nothing for granted when you travel. And I was scared. Scared in the way only a 15 year-old could be. Scared of the unknown. I was taking a big step by just coming on the trip.

When we arrived at the house, I was surprised to note the spaciousness of our host’s living quarters. Bob was a diplomat and Teresa was a dutiful mother, but that meant very little to a 15 year-old. They had a son, John, who was not much younger than I was. There were other guests at the house: Lauren, who was just a bit older than me and who had traveled to Romania independently. She would become a trusted ally for me during the trip. Margaret, the Catholic-American nun, who looked after children living with HIV/AIDS during her time in Romania.  She would remain a sage, sharing her insights about Romanians and all matters of human nature. She was a dynamic woman.

Before dinner, we took the car out to run errands, like exchange money and get photocopies made of our passports. And, finally, looking at the relative poverty that existed next to extreme wealth, I had a point of comparison. I grew up until the age of 7 in the city of Philadelphia in Germantown, which had an amazing variety of old architecture next to new. What I was not conscious of at such a tender age was that, like in any city, extreme poverty could exist just blocks away from instances of extreme wealth. Co-existence is typical in any city. 

No example is more appalling than the parliament building in Bucharest, which we visited on our second day. The building is the second largest in the world – second only to the Pentagon in size – and is a stunning feat of architecture and interior design. Gold and marble were used in nearly every room of the building. Moreover, it is a stunning sign of waste and extravagance.  On the second day of my arrival, I witnessed up-close all of a city’s potential squandered in just one building. The juxtaposition of relative poverty to the parliament building was unsightly.

After the parliament building, we visited various churches. It was not unusual to find a church built inside a synagogue, built inside a mosque. My aunt and I came across one such monstrosity, and who was waiting at the front entrance, but a young girl with her younger brother. I will never forget them. They were alone and much too young to be alone. The young girl was wearing red patent leather shoes and the boy had a newly shaved head, exposing large, raised white bumps. One thing I was sure of was that with the demise of communism many government programs broke down, including the healthcare system. What I was not sure of was if this little boy would get the care he needed, when he needed it. First world healthcare was a world away.

During our excursions, we visited a Holocaust Museum which caused me to ask myself, why the Jewish people were persecuted? As I traveled from museum to museum the reasons multiplied. Upon reflection, I recognize just how deep, complex and unfortunate the rift was between Jewish people and some other Europeans.

Through it all, we still found time to shop. There was always time for clothes, shoes and souvenirs. And I found a dress and platform cork-bottom sandals that I adored. The more I saw of this city, the more I became certain of its potential. I admired the fashion sense of women in Bucharest. I wondered where they found their clothes. As I looked at the buildings, I realized that with a coat of paint and a good cleaning, many of the city’s buildings could be quite beautiful. What I could not understand then was that, in such a centralized system, it took the well oiled mechanics of working city politics to achieve that uniformly across the entire city. “What a dream the city of Bucharest would be,” I said to myself. I also noted that poverty did not appear to be quite the problem that I noticed around the airport. As a result, eventually, I felt as comfortable on the city streets of Bucharest as I felt in New York City.

One thing I was sure of was that the average driver in Bucharest drove rather quickly and erratically. Margaret figured, “it was as if the drivers were adolescents getting a new taste of freedom. They were rebelling because they could.”

I think that what Margaret meant was that, because society was not as closed as it had been and the state retreated from everyday life, Romanians were just getting a feel for who they were. That said, I did not witness any accidents during my time in Romania even though drivers drove as if there were no speed limit. Learning to become responsible drivers would come with time.

Richard Wright - Haiku Poet

Did you know that well-known novelist, Richard Wright, who gave us Bigger Thomas in Native Son, is also a prolific haiku poet? Having written more than 4000 haiku and having published 817 haiku, Wright made a tremendous contribution to the genre during his lifetime. I do not doubt that Wright seems capable such poetic prowess given the plethora of artistic works he produced, but the clumsy, foolhardy nature of Bigger Thomas does not lend itself to poetry.

In his book, Haiku: This Other World, the best and most complete volume of haiku that I've read this year, Wright takes notes during his time in exile in France. He spends a year and a half observing his natural surroundings and putting that work into haiku form. What results is a stunning account of “This Other World.” The book is the most complete compilation of his haiku poetry, featuring 817 of his haiku poems.

Written at the end of Wright’s life, in exile and on the heels of the death of his mother Ella, his daughter Julia observed that his obsession with haiku was something of an effort “to spin these poems of light out of gathering darkness.”

What is special about Richard Wright’s haiku is that he has a neat way of turning a phrase and he has a way of making each haiku his own, of reflecting his particular viewpoint. At first glance, I wondered what the big deal was about a few short poems written about nature. As I got into the poetry, I discovered something provocative, artistic and playful about Wright’s haiku. His poetry had a particular magic about it and it captured something elusive. I also noticed that the pauses between each haiku were heavy – full of thought and reflection. This is typical of good haiku.

When reading Wright’s haiku, I found my own voice. I saw in Wright a great challenger, a sparring partner, of sorts. As soon as I came across one of Wright’s haiku that was perplexing or jarring, I tried to come up with something better written on the same topic. I tried to spin a phrase in an interesting manner, careful not to mimic Wright but inspired to write something better. For instance, I wrote the following:

The fog lifted its

Cold, wet feet to climb out of
The bay and up the hill.

Inspired by the following haiku by Wright:

My cold and damp feet
Feel as distant as the moon
On this autumn night.

Moreover, I wrote:

Every year the geese

Journey south and return with
Loud stories of pilgrimage.

Inspired by Wright’s:

High above the ship
On which immigrants sail,
Are departing geese.

To conclude, Richard Wright’s haiku poetry has been an inspiration for my entire book. His witty and imaginative haiku have truly brought out the best in me. You can find more of his haiku at the following link: http://terebess.hu/english/haiku/wright.html & you can find more of my haiku in my book due out April 2012.

Marking An Anniversary

You're in luck! I have a surprise in store. From the archives, the poetry reading I gave to launch Contemplating Eve, my first book of poetry, at Rainy Faye Bookstore. Find out why it took ten years to put this book together. Find out how Toni Morrison's Sula inspired the book of poetry. Today happens to be the one year anniversary of the launch of the book.  Here's your chance to learn more about Contemplating Eve  and to sample some of the poetry inside:

Welcome everyone and thank you for coming to the book launch for Contemplating Eve. I am so happy to be here. This afternoon I plan to share with you a little bit about Contemplating Eve, about me and I would like to read some poetry.

First, I was inspired to publish the 70 poems and roughly 30 pieces of artwork contained in the book last November.  At that time, I realized that over the course of 10 years I had compiled a great deal of work from visual arts, photography and poetry classes taken undergrad. I thought it might be a great project to integrate the art with the poetry. The anthology has indeed turned out to be a feast for the senses. I am proud to present it to you today. Some of the artwork from the book is exhibited here in the bookstore.

So let me tell you a little bit about myself. I have a BA in English from Brown University and a MA in International Economics and Development from Johns Hopkins’ School for Advanced International Studies.  I published my first work of poetry, “Oda al girasol” or “Ode to the Sunflower” in a national Spanish-language literary magazine at the age of 17 and in my high school’s literary journal “The Odyssey” that same year.

Since publishing my work initially, I have taken visual arts, photography and poetry classes at the Rhode Island School of Design (aka RISD) and at Brown University. This book represents the culmination of work done during my undergraduate years and since then.

A point of inspiration for these collected works is a quotation from Toni Morrison’s Sula. Here, close to the end of the novel, Sula, the protagonist , thinks of her best friend Nel as she watches Nel walk out of her life for the last time. Sula, despite the mistakes that she has made with Nel, laments a time when they were close knit friends. And I quote:

“So she will walk down that road, her back so straight in that old green coat, the strap of her handbag pushed back all the way to the elbow, thinking how much I have cost her and never remember the days when we were two throats and one eye and had no price.” End quote.

Here Sula describes a friendship that has endured since childhood, one where she felt a close bond and from which she received spiritual renewal. In the novel love is an all-important escape from the visceral realities of 1940s America and an escape from the gnawing loneliness that can scratch at your insides.

To scale this novel’s jagged topography is to recognize that the spiritual bond of love and friendship has lifelong existential implications.

In Sula, Morrison asks critical existential questions about freedom and power. Are they solely physical? Are they spiritual in nature?

In Contemplating Eve, I posit that freedom and power are importantly spiritual. The power of love in its abundance or in its absence can shape an emotional landscape and form a lasting spiritual foundation. In Contemplating Eve, the reader takes a journey through profiles in grace, love, laughter and barren circumstance. Ultimately, love is freedom, and love, as a spiritual foundation, conquers all. And now an introduction to the poetry that’s inside the book.

*The first poem is, Love, p  41. Have you ever been in love? I mean really been in love? The type of love where care and responsibility march hand-in-hand. This poem is about that joy that you felt when you knew that this is what you were looking for:

Love is…

constant

Love is…

knowing

Love is…

That we cannot hold each other more dearly

Love is…

Joy

Love is…

My joy

Love is…

Your joy

Love is…

Never letting go

You see my parents taught me how to love.

I had forgotten entirely what mattered--

But, then there is you.

And, now there is you.

*The next poem is “Climb” p 122. This poem is about that tenderness that a child can open up for you. A tenderness that may be you didn’t know you had, but one that is profound nonetheless:

Climb into this tender loving place, which are

my arms. Lay your head next to my

heart and hear it beat.

Be lulled, be warmed

soothingly to sleep.

Climb up my bosom and the side of my face,

through my tight tendrils and arrive

dreaming.

Think of my gentle whisper, my soft touch.

Know that as I envelop your lithe frame

that I hold you closely,

dearly to my soul.

 *Next is “Mama/Abuela” p 164. Do you have a mother or grandmother with a steely nature—a larger than life figure who seems as if she could take on the world? This poem is about that woman who has worked hard for her retired days and has known the fight.

70 years of living

of breathing, of pushing through, reaching in

and pulling out the soul, the strength to move on

to journey the darkened caves of despair and

brilliant summits of emotion.

You’ve grown roots,

thick and tangled,

deep.

You are not as they imagine you,

a dried rose,

lifeless, preserved or clung to

like an old photo,

looked on with fleeting nostalgia…

You live

mature,

established,

arrived,

splendid,

in soul and in strength,

an end and an essence.

Woman of many facets and many faces:

happy, silly giddy,

fierce, tough, stubborn,

of easy defiant grace.

Carrier of worry,

burden,

patience,

hope and vision.

Backbone.

Woman of silvered hair

bronzed creased skin

weakening flesh and congealing soul,

you are my comfort,

my beacon,

Mama/Abuela.

Next is “Yawns and Laughter” p 17. Ever tried laugh therapy? I have not, but I think I know why it works. Do you remember being a child and crying & laughing with such ease and frequency? And you would cry. Oh, how you would cry. But because your friend was laughing (at heaven knows what) you started laughing. Hysterically. For minutes on end. Until the tears dried up. Me too, this poem is about those moments. That is, when they happen today:

Yawns and laughter are contagious
child-like laughter
the clapping up of spirits
I can feel your eyes graze my face
as you search me from one side to another
now your silence
evidence of an active inner life
shameless
when I look at you I know
just how ephemeral sadness is
and although you are now gone
even still
your spirit abides in me
go softly, go gently

Finally is “Self-love”. I think that self-love is about self-discipline. It’s a journey. And I found that you need a whole lot of it to get through tough times. This poem is about the dawn of my understanding of that fact.

Self-love is like the sweet juice of a passion fruit:

indulgent and rich. Oh, the joy inside. The richness

within. To accept one’s faults and find the quality

of mind to move on requires such grace. Oh, to get

on with it. To get on with life. The rugged tough-

guy win-the-battle good-stuff. That’s what I want.

I want Clint Eastwood in Unforgiven. I want that

cocksure inward spirit that very simply scorns the

enemy and coddles the friend. A victory without

comes from a victory within. Slay my demons, I will.

All in good time. All in good time.

And, that’s it. I hope you enjoyed getting your first taste of Contemplating Eve. Enjoy the book and the refreshments.  Don’t forget to check out the Facebook Fan page for Contemplating Eve.  Thanks.

So, why haiku?

At its best, haiku is an amazing form of poetry that uses simple imagery to communicate something elusive in few words. My new book, currently in production, includes haiku about love, nature and politics. While the book is composed of more than 150 haiku, there will be roughly 20 short poems also included in the book.


Haiku is a Japanese form of poetry, whose subject matter is typically nature, but which can vary from war, to religion, to love and whose structure is usually three lines composed of 5-7-5 syllables, respectively. Although the work of traditional haiku poets like Basho, Buscon and Issa adhered to the rules of structure, the rules have eased more recently. American haiku poets usually write haiku with 17 or fewer syllables or, simply, short-long-short in the three line structure. The brevity of the poetic form allows for many pauses and plenty of opportunity to digest the written material.


Richard Wright is a well-known modern writer who has made a tremendous contribution to the tradition. His 817 published haiku are substantial, particularly for Wright, who was a novelist by trade. In HAIKU: This Other World, we find him as an exile in France observing the natural world around him. I imagine his haiku writing must have been soothing, even meditative for him not far, at that point, from the end of his life. I recently finished his volume of haiku and plan to write more about what it is I admired about his work. It is Wright's haiku, in particular, that inspired me to get started on my own work to contribute to the tradition.


Writing haiku was certainly meditative for me. The practice of finding some small kernel of meaning and bearing it out in a short poem (or haiku) was somehow very satisfying. The form's flexibility in terms of content also makes haiku appealing as a form, as well. When writing, I can choose to write objectively, remaining neutral and keeping my opinions out of the poem as was common among traditional Japanese haiku poets, or I can write a subjective haiku, making my perspective of what may be going on in a poem obvious. Either approach makes for interesting writing material.


Additionally, haiku's subject matter has evolved to include not just nature haiku, but haiku about love, war, religion and politics. While it might seem that this is a tremendous break with tradition, in fact, in recent years, it has been discovered that many traditional haiku poets wrote haiku on many different subject matter. Interestingly, many of the masters of love haiku were women.


In sum, I chose haiku as the main form of poetry to employ in my new book because of the way the form has evolved over the years in structure and in content, but also because of the strength of the tradition. In addition, writing them is meditative and stretches the imagination. I hope that reading them will have the same effect.

New Projects

I have spent the past few months reading, writing and travelling. Most importantly, I have been working on a new project--a new book. You have already sampled some of the poetry from the book in my blog, Fragments & Other Short Poems... This will be my best book yet. The Lily & The Aster is a book of short poems and haiku. And the much anticipated first chapter concerning love promises to be a memorable one.

Regarding process, reading other poets has again proven crucial as a source of inspiration and to informing my style. I have been reading poets as diverse as Sonia Sanchez and Kay Ryan, Rita Dove and Nikki Giovanni. I have also been reading well-known haiku poets Matsuo Basho and Richard Wright. Their writings have had an unquestionable impact on what I choose to write and how I choose to write it.

In terms of my travels, I was inspired creatively by a performance by the George Weldon Johnson Trio, a musical group in Philadelphia. The jazz trio, consisting of a xylophone, a bass and a guitar, inspired more than words. Performing numbers by Miles Davis, Thelonious Monk and others, I was reminded of my passion for jazz. I was inspired to write several haiku the day of the performance, which may find their way into my new book.

Expect April 2012 release.