Half a World Apart

It’s not that I’ve had writer’s block, it’s just that I’ve been absorbing so much that I haven’t been able to put anything out. Wait, maybe that’s the definition of writer’s block. I’m in disbelief at how quickly time has passed since December 14th, 2008, the date of my last blog entry. Life in Hawaii has been so nonstop with work and play that sometimes I feel like a minnow caught in a strong current that circumvents the globe before I can take a breath.

But still, there’s no excuse for my dearth of writing.

So, I’ll try to start from the beginning.

Spain, while lovely in its unadulterated passion for noise and celebrations, is a place I look back on and think of quiet and solitude. Pinkish-orange evenings on the beach with nothing but my pen and wine grew comfortable after hectic days in the classroom. Sometimes I even felt invisible against the backdrop of boisterous tourists and grunting old men in Pedregalejo, my neighborhood. And sometimes I would make myself invisible on purpose, ducking through narrow alleyways and feigning deafness in order to avoid awkward small talk with neighbors – “I read about that Mormon cult down in Texas!” “You always walk so fast! Where are you going?” Or, my favorite from Javier, a grizzly fisherman hunched over a flaming boat barbecue, “Take some sardines! They’re free! Come on, eat them! And where is your boyfriend?” Of course, this type of small talk was endearing and necessary, but not every time I left my house. The last six months in Malaga, I thirsted for ocean and sunsets of a different vein. With reef-sculpted waves and volcano-strewn cliffs, Hawaii always seemed a place less consumed by societal matters than by nature’s bounty. I longed to charge unforgiving waves, take new risks, and build friendships without a language barrier. The chain of eight little igneous rocks pulled me from the Mediterranean to the Pacific like a magnet to a fridge.

Moving to Hawaii, the sky was so big and blue, it was impossible to look once and be satisfied. I remember the scent of plumeria and strawberry guava wafting through the air in Manoa Valley, my first neighborhood. I remember sitting on the bus, half-smiling at elderly, gray Japanese women whose feet dangled an inch above the dirty floor. Quite a contrast to Spanish busses filled with rollicking teens and pushy old ladies. Riding “TheBus,” as it is aptly named, was also insight into Hawaiian culture. Men really do wear aloha shirts every day to work, and women often wear flowers behind their ears. Right, if single, left if married. Bus drivers smile and sometimes even ask how you’re doing. Depending on the bus route, there’s usually at least one chatty cathy willing to talk your ear off. A couple times I got lucky and heard a live ukulele concert on the way to work on the number 4. And of course, there are the views from the buses that make you crave fresh air and hikes. Hawaii’s home to muddy, serpentine trails that creep along the ridges and offer unobstructed views and free-falls, alike. And then there are the waves. But that’s another blog.

I spent December applying to between forty and fifty jobs. I applied everywhere from hole-in-the-wall bakeries to underground bars to Obama’s Alma Maître. Sending out my resume was like brushing my teeth, I did it out of habit, half-thinking, but feeling minutely productive afterwards. At night I’d find myself partying at the infamous “ape cage,” which has slowly turned me into a tomboy.

I got a job as an English teacher to study abroad students from all over the world. Quite a contrast to my little kids in Spain! More to follow on that later.