This will be my last entry of 2008, as I will be away from a computer until the 3rd.
This year was a year of change. It´s beginning and ending could not be any more of a contrast. It began with me clocking in 20 or more hours a week at Fat Jacks, while dealing with an incomprehensible amount of problems at home and school. In the span of a year, I lost and regained my family´s trust; changed from a boy to a man; and died to be reborn from the ashes. I am sitting here at the family laptop, looking out the window at the sprawling mountains of Mallorca and its gorgeous blue sky. I could not be any farther away from that BBQ inferno; both figuratively and literally. For the first time in my life, I have realized my potential (better late then never) and with it I have gone through a metamorphosis of sorts. Super Andreas.
But Super Andreas does not have the power to avoid loneliness. These past few weeks have been almost torturous. Homesickness has finally taken a hold, as well as anxiety. I have applications to do, people to call, gifts to buy (or make) and all the while keep a happy, Christmas persona. To make things even worse, I went on a "date" last night that couldn´t have possibly ended worse. All of these things combined have lead to a lack of sleep and some medication.
For the first time in my life, I am not looking forward to Christmas. The whole day will be spent in transit to Salamanca and there will be no normal holiday cheer. I didn´t even realize it was Christmas eve until I looked at the calender. The traditions are different from the US, and I don´t pick up on the gathering holiday spirit. No box of decorations to take down, no Christmas tree, no reruns of the Grinch Who Stole Christmas on TV. Christmas will come and go, and I wont even notice it.
The only thing I am looking forward to is the New Year. I need to start it right, and happy. It will officially represent the changed me. 2009 Andreas will be so much better then the outdated, 2008 version. I promise.
I wish you all Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. All of you are in my heart and I hope you all start the New Year right.
Bones Festes
miércoles, 24 de diciembre de 2008
sábado, 13 de diciembre de 2008
Death in the Time of Catalan
This entry is not so much about my life in Spain, but about life in general.
A girl in my grade died last week. I didn´t know her. Not even her name for that matter. Cancer. Only 17. Naturally, my school was devastated by the loss. Crying. Weeping. Sobbing. Biology was like a wake; Philosophy a burial. Whenever I thought the grief had subsided, one girl or another would break down hysterically. The morbid feeling was contagious and I even found myself feeling sad.
The funeral was last Wednesday, but I didn´t go only for the sole reason that I had nothing good enough to wear. I did however say a prayer that night for her family and friends. As I lay in bed, I pondered what her funeral must have been like. Glorious I imagined, with flowers and incense. All the trimmings. The priest I pictured too, giving his sermon in Catalan. Her grieving friends expressing their condolences, in Catalan. The well deserved obituary, broken by wailing, in Catalan.
Its strange to picture a funeral in Catalan; almost comical. The language drives me crazy, but for others, the words are sacred. Mort (dead) is just another word to translate. Just another hassle. No real significance to me. But to all who loved her, it means something more; one lost laugh, one lost smile. In my mind, her successes were described to a room full of mourners, in Catalan. I understand the language a bit, but not nearly good enough to understand a whole life story. The words fall on my deaf ears. Her story, to me, unknown. I don´t even know her name.
How many life stories will I never hear? How many people will come and go without my faintest knowledge? Her path and mine crossed at IES Ramon Llull, and yet I will never know who she was. I mean really was. Have you looked at the newspaper today? How many dead in a "blast that rocked Baghdad"? I will never learn their names, only a passing number. I know its impossible to retain this much information, but a life is still a life.
Then I imagined that it was me in her casket. Andreas Gambardello, edad 18, se morrió en Palma de Mallorca este viernes por la tarde... I imagined my sermon and obituary in English, but everything else was the same as hers. Glorious, with flowers and incense. All the trimmings. The girl, or how I imagine her, was sitting in the front row. My class was there too. Teachers and all. And they were all grieving, in Catalan. Yet, my life story fell on their deaf ears. Dead. Just another word to them. Something to translate. A hassle. My life to them would be a mixture of sounds, and nothing more. They would never understand it completely. My story would be forgotten.
I have been living here for three months now, but I wouldn´t really call any of the people I hang out with "true friends". I don´t think they would take a bullet for me, and I can´t say I would do the same for them. The only place in the world that my death would be really felt is Haddon Heights. A little obituary in the Retrospect. A little funeral in a little church. An immense amount of sorrow, but spread only amongst the few people I know. The knowledge of my death would be essentially limited to the English speakers of Camden County.
No one will grieve for me in Catalan.
A girl in my grade died last week. I didn´t know her. Not even her name for that matter. Cancer. Only 17. Naturally, my school was devastated by the loss. Crying. Weeping. Sobbing. Biology was like a wake; Philosophy a burial. Whenever I thought the grief had subsided, one girl or another would break down hysterically. The morbid feeling was contagious and I even found myself feeling sad.
The funeral was last Wednesday, but I didn´t go only for the sole reason that I had nothing good enough to wear. I did however say a prayer that night for her family and friends. As I lay in bed, I pondered what her funeral must have been like. Glorious I imagined, with flowers and incense. All the trimmings. The priest I pictured too, giving his sermon in Catalan. Her grieving friends expressing their condolences, in Catalan. The well deserved obituary, broken by wailing, in Catalan.
Its strange to picture a funeral in Catalan; almost comical. The language drives me crazy, but for others, the words are sacred. Mort (dead) is just another word to translate. Just another hassle. No real significance to me. But to all who loved her, it means something more; one lost laugh, one lost smile. In my mind, her successes were described to a room full of mourners, in Catalan. I understand the language a bit, but not nearly good enough to understand a whole life story. The words fall on my deaf ears. Her story, to me, unknown. I don´t even know her name.
How many life stories will I never hear? How many people will come and go without my faintest knowledge? Her path and mine crossed at IES Ramon Llull, and yet I will never know who she was. I mean really was. Have you looked at the newspaper today? How many dead in a "blast that rocked Baghdad"? I will never learn their names, only a passing number. I know its impossible to retain this much information, but a life is still a life.
Then I imagined that it was me in her casket. Andreas Gambardello, edad 18, se morrió en Palma de Mallorca este viernes por la tarde... I imagined my sermon and obituary in English, but everything else was the same as hers. Glorious, with flowers and incense. All the trimmings. The girl, or how I imagine her, was sitting in the front row. My class was there too. Teachers and all. And they were all grieving, in Catalan. Yet, my life story fell on their deaf ears. Dead. Just another word to them. Something to translate. A hassle. My life to them would be a mixture of sounds, and nothing more. They would never understand it completely. My story would be forgotten.
I have been living here for three months now, but I wouldn´t really call any of the people I hang out with "true friends". I don´t think they would take a bullet for me, and I can´t say I would do the same for them. The only place in the world that my death would be really felt is Haddon Heights. A little obituary in the Retrospect. A little funeral in a little church. An immense amount of sorrow, but spread only amongst the few people I know. The knowledge of my death would be essentially limited to the English speakers of Camden County.
No one will grieve for me in Catalan.
jueves, 4 de diciembre de 2008
The Holiday Season
Well, my last entry turned out to be the big blog for the week, and then some. I´ve been so busy with school work (9 tests in two weeks) that I havn´t been able to update. Sorry to have kept you waiting.
Maddening is one of a few adverbs that come to mind when thinking about this time of year. The Holiday Season, or living hell as many call it, begins for me the day after my birthday (two weeks ago). Coincidentally, the Ajuntament de Palma (local gov´t) felt the same as me, and put the Christmas lights up all over Palma that day. And yes, I said Christmas lights. In Spain, the Catholic Church (and only the Catholic Church) is funded in part by the government, and hence Christmas lights (not Hanukkah) can be placed around town in public locations. Now sure, the lights don´t scream Christianity, they are after all just generic lights, but the humongous posters of the Three Wise Men on camels with Som Nadalenc ("We are Christmas" in Catalan) accompanied by the government crest, does.
But this is aside from the point. It doesn't matter what religious symbols are plastered all over town, or how many Nativity Scenes one can fit in a shop window; Jesus has left this holiday. Again going back to the hypocritical Spaniards; they point fingers at the US and say that we are overly materialistic and that we don´t know how to have a real Christmas. Excuse me? Here, Christmas sales and commercials started in October, which is early even on US standards. Traditionally, Black Friday kicks off our shopping season, but by the day after Thanksgiving, the Spaniards have had a month head-start.
Its also funny to see how companies here benefit from the economic crisis. Precios de Crisis! Rebajos Crisis! Estamos en Crisis, Precios Pequenos! The combination of these and the Christmas posters is enough to make one lose their mind. And the way people spend here, one would think the "Crisis" is about as real as Santa Clause.
As for details on my birthday: I went out with some friends from school, partied a little, but overall nothing too exciting. Don´t get me wrong though, everything was spectacular. I got a new pair of Chucks from my real parents, and more importantly my Lego magazine. My family here got me an Amaral CD, which I have fallen in love with.
More importantly, I cooked Thanksgiving dinner all by myself (practically). (I called my dad for advice the night before, and Marie Angeles helped me set the oven, but other then that it was all me) I don´t mean to toot my horn, but I cooked a mean turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and apple pie. I also insisted that we eat at 6 in the evening, like normal Americans. They begrudgingly obliged.
Maddening is one of a few adverbs that come to mind when thinking about this time of year. The Holiday Season, or living hell as many call it, begins for me the day after my birthday (two weeks ago). Coincidentally, the Ajuntament de Palma (local gov´t) felt the same as me, and put the Christmas lights up all over Palma that day. And yes, I said Christmas lights. In Spain, the Catholic Church (and only the Catholic Church) is funded in part by the government, and hence Christmas lights (not Hanukkah) can be placed around town in public locations. Now sure, the lights don´t scream Christianity, they are after all just generic lights, but the humongous posters of the Three Wise Men on camels with Som Nadalenc ("We are Christmas" in Catalan) accompanied by the government crest, does.
But this is aside from the point. It doesn't matter what religious symbols are plastered all over town, or how many Nativity Scenes one can fit in a shop window; Jesus has left this holiday. Again going back to the hypocritical Spaniards; they point fingers at the US and say that we are overly materialistic and that we don´t know how to have a real Christmas. Excuse me? Here, Christmas sales and commercials started in October, which is early even on US standards. Traditionally, Black Friday kicks off our shopping season, but by the day after Thanksgiving, the Spaniards have had a month head-start.
Its also funny to see how companies here benefit from the economic crisis. Precios de Crisis! Rebajos Crisis! Estamos en Crisis, Precios Pequenos! The combination of these and the Christmas posters is enough to make one lose their mind. And the way people spend here, one would think the "Crisis" is about as real as Santa Clause.
As for details on my birthday: I went out with some friends from school, partied a little, but overall nothing too exciting. Don´t get me wrong though, everything was spectacular. I got a new pair of Chucks from my real parents, and more importantly my Lego magazine. My family here got me an Amaral CD, which I have fallen in love with.
More importantly, I cooked Thanksgiving dinner all by myself (practically). (I called my dad for advice the night before, and Marie Angeles helped me set the oven, but other then that it was all me) I don´t mean to toot my horn, but I cooked a mean turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and apple pie. I also insisted that we eat at 6 in the evening, like normal Americans. They begrudgingly obliged.
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