To start, it was a whirlwind of crazy since I left the family in Granada, Friday I think it was, after classes had finished, I was invited by Paco to climb outside. We met at the fountain again, in the almost hot sun, and I akwardly explained my motorcycle virginity. He chuckled and gave me the big helmet while he had a flimsier helmet that I would wear on my bicycle, let alone on a motorcycle. After putting on the warmest clothes I brought, the helmet that swallowed my head whole, and the gloves that he loaned me, I climbed on the back of the motorcycle nervous both for the life-threatening ride ahead, and for the akwardnes that comes with the territory of hugging an almost stranger.
My mother, who works in a hospital refers to motorcycle riders as “organ donors”. I hate to say it, but even if it shortens my life, I feel like the short life I have will be augmented enough to make it worth it to own a motorcycle. To begin, the feeling of freedom with the wind flapping so hard at your body that it feels like you are going to fall over was incredible. As I mentioned before, the sun was shining, so thankfully I wasn’t as cold as I could have been, and the air was clear, permitting crystal clear views of the Sierra Nevadas, the Sierra Something Elses, the town of Granada, and the rolling hills of whitewashed villages and olive trees. It was the same kind of overwhelming feeling that reminds you of your humanness. What I mean is that there is too much feeling and excitement to hold in your wordly body.
The rock we climbed was a bit crumbly, but we warmed up on some easy routes, and then hit a couple 5.10-5.10c’s, which Paco made me lead. In response to me mentioning that I was a bit nervous as the wind was howling and making it seem like we were much more exposed that we actually were, he told me in Spanish, “about cowards, nothing is written”. I responded that I would rather live a long life than have something written about me…
Not tired, but knowing that the sun would go down soon, we descended quickly and rode back to town. "Hasta la pasta" and I was on my way to pack my things and meet Jose at 8:30. The time on my phone showed what I thought was 8, but was really 7 and so I barely even said goodbye to the family, sure that I was forgetting something, but in too much of a hurry to care. Upon arriving at our meeting place I realized that I was a whole hour early. As I sat in the park with my mountain of red luggage and my grungy clothes on I watched all the impeccably dressed Spaniards walk by and reminisced about my wonderful day, trying to hold back my excitement for my next adventure. Jose gave me a fright by being 20 minutes late. To be honest, I was pretty nervous that he would “darme las calabazas”, or stand me up, and I would be stranded at the gas station with too many bags to walk to a hostel and no where to stay. I tried to let go of control, holding on to the idea that no matter what I would be okay, that I was learning to go with the flow, and that I was a capable woman who could figure out how to take care of myself in whatever situation I found myself in. Thankfully, I didn’t even have to test that theory out because Jose did show up, and we headed to his “Padel” match, which he lost. Padel is this super fun game that is similar to tennis only with glass walls on four sides off of which you can play. That night his parents decided we were having pizzas that we would put our own toppings on. His mom pulled out the pizza crust and asked playfully if it would be enough for me. I playfully replied that one might not be enough but that I would start with that. As I put my toppings on half of this huge pizza I found it odd that Jose kept spreading all my toppings out, but thought nothing more than that he just wanted some of what I had cut on his half. As we sat down for dinner his mom placed two pizzas down on the table and retreated back to the kitchen. Jose told me I should start, and I insisted that we wait for his parents. He told me that they were waiting for their pizzas and that we should start because our pizzas would get cold. It still took me a few minutes to realize that he was not joking, and that they all expected me to eat an entire pizza on my own. I explained that the only reason I had said I wanted a whole one was because I was sure they were joking as well! We had quite a laugh, and no, I didn’t eat the whole thing. That night we went to bed early, one o’clock in the morning, so that we could get up early to go skiing the next day.
Jose’s uncle works in the Sierra Nevadas as a ski patrol so he picked us up in the morning to drive us to the slopes. I have still not gotten used to the tradition of “besitos”, where one gives a kiss on each cheek to strangers in place of a handshake, and was caught off guard when his burly old uncle turned around in the car and asked me kindly to kiss him on the cheek. The same way that to wear a pink shirt in the United States says, “I am so masculine that I can dress in a feminine color and it doesn’t threaten my masculinity”, so too does the tradition of besitos to me. Later that day after we returned from the Sierra Nevadas I introduced Jose to the wonderful world of pancakes, as he had never eaten one in his life. Jose is studying English and we both love to learn and so we spent the whole afternoon translating songs, recipes, emails, and movies. He loves Brittany Spears so we spent a good portion of time on her lyrics to “Womanizer”. Don’t worry Brittany, you may have lost your fans in the U.S. but you still have the Spaniard men. We stayed up way too late once more enjoying our language exchange and new inside jokes and because of this I had a very hard time getting up on time the next morning. After coming close to throwing water on my head in order to get my to move my butt, Jose rushed me to the bus station, demanded that I let him do all the talking so I could get to the platform on time, and I was on my way to Santander. Not fully knowing what was ahead of me, I had a hunch that it would be both exciting and trying.
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