Flying without a Quilt

With her pink bikini and suntan lotion, Mom stretched her legs in the warm summer air, inviting the sun’s tanning rays.  Melanie lay on her share of the quilt, knees bent, feet flopping gently as she turned the tattered pages of Little Women.  I sat cross-legged perusing Little Lulu and Richie Rich, but my eyes were drawn to the multi-colored patches of the quilt on which we three lay.  Over the years, Mom occasionally shared a memory the quilt inspired – “I remember this was one of Dan’s shirts,” or “I think Mom (my grandma) got this piece from Mrs. Leightner.”  I loved to imagine the many lives of the patches, to pick out my favorite pieces, to find the colors that suited my mood,  and to study the intricate pattern that brought the kaleidoscoping colors together.  

Our picnic quilt offered the best seat in the house for the annual televising of The Wizard of Oz, and lucky sisters sitting on that quilt in front of the rabbit-eared TV enjoyed cheese popcorn as only Mom could make it.  For outdoor play, it made a dandy tent with swing-set poles and clothespins, and when we played Little House on the Prairie, it provided a most realistic prop. (Though not quite as impressive as neighbor Julie’s yellow pioneer bonnet after which Melanie and I lusted openly!)  Like the friends who move in and out and through our lives, the old quilt played a regular but almost unnoticed role in our lives.  It kept us warm, it shared our sunshine and our play, and it gave us a space in which to be ourselves.  

Here in Spain, AJ and I are flying without our quilt.  The sights awe and amaze us, and the opportunities challenge us every day.  We share laughter and frustration, victories and fears in our tiny pis. We grow wiser, stronger, and more fluent every day . . . and it’s all good. 

But at the end of the day, we have only our borrowed sheets to warm our hearts.  More than any food or any American convenience, we miss our friends. We miss those daily conversations about nothing.  We miss Billy and Elliot guarding AJ’s goal, we miss Don’s questionable fashion statements,  John’s endless knowledgeable chatter, and everyone’s hugs.    We miss school – where the halls ring with voices we know in a language we understand without thinking.  I miss the hallway conversations, the late night telephone calls, and the chats on the driveway.  Every friendship has a history linked to our own, and I miss knowing I can pick up the phone and find the friend to suit my mood -- Polly and Karen to advise, Liz to laugh, Mary to scream, Mom and Mel to be my family.    E-mail keeps us updated, FACEBOOK distracts us with trivia, SKYPE reduces the distance. But nothing  provides warmth and comfort like the intricate, kaleidoscoping colors of our friendships.    

El Edad del Pavo

"Hola Chico," I stand in the bedroom doorway where early morning moodlight barely reveals my once little boy, now that oddly man-like form whose arms and legs struggle for space on the remarkably tiny single bed. 

Nada. No response. No movement.
 
"HOLA CHICO,"  I call, still leaning in from the doorway, unwilling to cross the threshold into that realm where socks, AXE, and dust bunnies come together in a chemical compound known to mothers everywhere as "stinky boy smell."

Nada.

In the movies, this is where boys roll over, groan, offer up mumbles indicating, "In a minute" or "I'm coming," or "Ahhh Mommmmmm." 

En mi casa?  Nada. 

Dear Lord.  Am I going to have to go in there? Surely the Good Mother Handbook includes no such mandate.  Not even Mary-Mother-of-God had to walk into Jesus's stinky teenager room!

"AAAA--JAYYYYY,"  my soccer-mom voice rings through the tiny apartment as the bedroom's overhead light flashes in desperate warning.  "OWOOOGA!  Mother on the verge of crisis!  OW-OOOOGA!"

Nada. 

I am NOT going in there.  Not happening. Nope nope nope. 

With a disappointingly soundless crunch, my bare feet deflate a ball of spiral-notebook paper, the fuzzy edges tickling my toes as I do not walk into his bedroom, do not look at the pens, paper, headphones, gum, and Euro change scattered on his desk,  and definitely do not inhale. I also  trip on a ridiculously large basketball shoe before reaching the sweaty form (why doesn't he open the WINDOW???) and shaking him none too gently. 

"AJ, it's time to get up.  You have to go to SCHOOL!"

Discretion being the better part of motherhood, I quickly escape from the boy hovel, retreating to the kitchen where my coffee waits for  milk and the lovely carmel powder that converts Spanish coffee into something this wimpy American can swallow.

Eventually, the boy emerges.  Amazingly, I still have to remind him to take a shower.  Why do thirteen year old boys still think showers are optional?  And, oh, by the way, showers involve SOAP and SHAMPOO?  Carumba!  Oh, yeah, and those clothes -- from yesterday?  You can't wear those again today.  Seriously. 

So, how is school going for AJ?  Well, let's say it's not the best thing in his day.  He says that it's hard and most of the time, he doesn't understand what is going on in class.  He wanted to go to a school where everyone spoke Spanish, but now, he sort of wishes he has asked to go to an English school.  He likes his friends.  He has to be at school early so he can talk to his buddies.  The girls in the back of the room use their highlighters -- to color their hair.  The boys all play soccer during break, and that's the best part of the day. The Language teacher is crabby, he likes his music class but the teacher is kind of strange, and French is really hard. 

When I share this report with my Spanish friends, they all smile and nod and say, "My kid says the same thing -- and he speaks Spanish fluently!"  Here, this age is called "El edad del Pavo" -- the age of the turkey. The glorious years when our teens don't know which way is up, when they like almost nothing, eat everything except vegetables, and never have any clean clothes to wear.  The girls act dumb, and the boys . . .  well, in many ways, at this point,they really are dumb. We all pray that they come out of it, and my mother assures me that by age 50, those boys become pretty decent men. 

Often, I see a glimmer of the man to be.  This morning, showered, dressed, and breakfasted, he leans down (yes, down) to give me a hug, and he still has a bit of that sweet boy feel to him.  He hugs me hard, says, "Te amo, Mama," and heads down the three flights of stairs to the street.  As I turn back to the kitchen, I hear him nattering in Spanish to our landlady as he shuts to front door.  And then, I see his math book and his lunch, left on the kitchen table. 

El edad del pavo.

Ode to Sevillan Street Cleaners

Let us have a moment of silent praise for the men and women in blue pants and orange tops.  Let  us admire the orange and white bands under the knees, and let us mute our voices in the faces of  their brooms, dustpans, and rubbish bins.  I give you the Sevillan Street Cleaners.

. . .      . . .    (silence)
 

In Seville, street cleaners have job security my teaching colleagues would admire.  You see, Sevillanos don't seem to have an issue with trash on the streets. Or in the parks. Throughout Sevilla, industrial size dumpsters stand as inconveniently as possible along major roadways.  When we apartment (piso) dwellers take out the trash, we carry our bags to the dumpsters where we can sort it into paper, plastic, glass, metal, or just "trash."  Fairly simple and efficient, right?

Bear in mind that Spaniards live as if they were on borrowed time.  "Tomorrow may never come, so let's relax today and deal with all that silly paperwork tomorrow!" So,  if a Sevillano has something to toss that doesn't fit into one of these categories or into the dumpster, he just leaves the item (or items) somewhere in the general vicinity of the dumpsters.  Likewise, if a Sevilliana finishes a pack of cigarettes outside but at any distance from the dumpsters, she thinks nothing of letting the package drop to the ground where it apparenly disappears from her sight and her mind.  Honestly, in those shoes and that dress, we certainly did not expect her to pick it up, did we?


Seriously, these people are just too darned beautiful and too busy living to worry about what happens to the trash.  Besides, if they picked it all up, what would the street cleaners do?

I'm just asking. 



Adding to the street cleaners' job security, local grocery stores pay workers to deliver flyers (junk mail) to apartments like mine.  I have watched from my terrace as the delivery person tries doors and mailboxes.  If the flyers he is delivering don't fit in the box or under the door, he just leaves them in the general vicinity of the intended door-- on the sidewalk, on a door step, or even on a patio wall -- from which the flyers blow in the breeze, adding colorful clutter to the cobblestoned streets.

I have previously  discussed the dogs who hacen caca (poop) in the tree banks.  But bear in mind that just like young and old humans, sometimes young and old perros have trouble getting to the treebank in time.  As a result, a certain amount of caca adds to the adventure of walking and to the job security of the street cleaners.  To be fair, some dog owners do seem to carry plastic baggies with them on their dog walks.  As far as I can tell, the objective is to take said bag into a park, wait for a big breeze, and let it fly.  I've never seen a dog owner actually use the bag to collect any caca. 

On the off chance that Sevillanos learn to put trash in the dumpsters and the slightly more likely chance that their perro friends become potty trained, one last cultural phenomenon guarantees the street cleaners' pension -- the Bottelon.

Now, in Spain, the consumption of alcohol is prohibited for those under the age of 18.  True.  However, as any Sevillano will tell you -- It's prohibited but accepted.  Read openly accepted.  In practice, this means that while the under 18 crowd can't order beers in a bar or buy wine in a store, they can stand on the street or in the park and share their bottles with no fear of social condemnation or legal consequences.   Hence, the bottelon.

As far as I can tell, "bottelon" is both a noun and a verb. Young people will gather, to "bottleon" in planned or spontaneous groups, and pass a bottle.   When the "bottelon" is over (ie: the bottle is empty), the bottle falls to the ground, either bouncing harmlessly in the grass or shattering resoundingly on the brick roadways or sidewalks.  Given the number of whole and partial bottles I find in the street each morning,  I guess the botteloners prefer the crack of glass on stone  to the gentle thud of glass on grass. 

Thus, the flotsam and the jetsom, the caca and the glass, the discarded doors and plastic bags all fall to the industrious street cleaners who, armed with nothing more than brooms, dustpans, and rolling rubbish bins, make the streets of Sevilla safe for the next bottelon.