So Long, My Friend

There were moments as my time in Spain came to an end where I wondered who the hell I was anymore. I was going through all the same motions, having the same relationships, in every sense, exactly like I had my entire life, only sometimes now the words were different. Carlos and I would go to a discoteca and it could have been any night back in Austin long ago, except Spanish came out of my mouth and I was able to flirt and talk and do things. I said goodbye to my mother and father like I did my real mother and father eight months ago at a terminal in DFW International Airport. I sat there next to that Argentine girl  in Tenerife and talked about the same tough things -- why smoking is bad and sex important, and what's next in life -- and none of it was hard. If I am asked why Spain was important for me, I would say nothing of old buildings and far off lands; there are old buildings and different cultures everywhere. I would say that I can now live and operate in two different worlds like they both were mine to begin with.

When I think about eight months it feels both long and short, too much and too little. Leaving is always painful, but I have many homes now, many places to go, and I will come back if I decide to. The day before I left Spain, the cycle came to fruition: a new American arrived in the house. All of us ate lunch, and I watched him curiously. He struggled and did not understand as my family and I laughed and talked like Carlos and I had been fighting for mom's attention in diapers. I saw him sitting there with a blank stare, and it was me in a different time.

I think back often to Washington Irving's last words as he said goodbye to Granada. He was summoned back to the US in 1829 for a new job, and had to leave his paradisiacal escape. His words are tragic, and bittersweet, and show both gratitude and sorrow.

"The setting sun as usual shed a melancholy effulgence on the ruddy towers of the Alhambra. I could faintly discern the balconied window of the Tower of Comares, where I had indulged in so many delightful reveries. The bosky groves and gardens about the city were richly gilded with the sunshine, the purple haze of a summer evening was gathering over the Vega; every thing was lovely, but tenderly and sadly so, to my parting gaze.

"I will hasten from this prospect," thought I, "before the sun is set. I will carry away a recollection of it clothed in all its beauty."

With these thoughts I pursued my way among the mountains. A little further and Granada, the Vega, and the Alhambra, were shut from my view; and thus ended one of the pleasantest dreams of a life, which the reader perhaps may think has been but too much made up of dreams."