The sweet taste of instant coffee in the morning

The opposum did not come back tonight, though there might possibly be a mouse above the kitchen.  I’ve scoured the upstairs for signs (i.e. POO), but see none, so I am now convinced they are either in the attic, or in the space between the ceiling and floorboards.  It’s alright; it makes me feel like I’m not the only one here, which is important.

I am the only one here.  I am effectively as isolated as I intended, and I’m not yet sure if I like it.  I do know it is productive.  Yesterday, I wrote from 10 to noon, then went to town, came back and wrote from 4 until 8:30 or so.  Today, I drank coffee and sang kirtan on the porch (the blessings of being so isolated), then picked up the pen (metaphorically) at 9:30.

Here are a few things I’ve learned traveling lightly and alone: eat lightly; and, instant coffee can be your friend.

Yesterday, in town, I picked up missing staples: coffee, milk, and salad.  Having no coffee maker here in the cabin, from what I could see, I opted for instant – the “espresso blend”.  This morning, I boiled milk and emptied the instant espresso into it; it was thick and hearty, maybe even a bit so, and I cut it with a dash of hot water.  It brought memories of Spain, poignantly.

When I was seventeen, I got out of high school early and went to Europe.  I was supposed to be doing homestays and classes in Paris and Barcelona, but I conveniently scheduled them so I’d have two weeks in between.

“It was the best I could do, Mom, with the schedules and all,” I explained, maybe a bit connivingly; after all, I wanted to go see the world and my parents were, understandably – me being 17 and all – a bit apprehensive.  I got my Eurail pass and a calling card, and promised my mother I’d call her once every two days (and, frankly, I still do the email equivalent).

I think I packed too much: my framepack and a suitcase.  I started in Paris, at a homestay, and when I left to go travel, they let me leave the suitcase in their closet.

After two weeks whirlwind – Budapest, Nice, Anglet (the baby brother of Biarritz) and Montpellier are the towns I remember, though I’m sure I stopped in more – I arrived in Barcelona, ready for my Spanish classes.

I think they placed me with a family I didn’t like (I only remembered that this morning), and I requested a change.  The director, obliging, placed me with an older couple whose names I don’t remember.  The woman was short and had that dyed Spanish red hair, that one that is a little maroon at times and impossible to achieve naturally.  The man watched a lot of the news and sports.

They fed me twice a day, but we never ate together.  In the mornings, she would prepare me a saucer of milk, mix in the instant Nescafe, and a spoonful of sugar.  It was thick and gooey and, except for the sugar, exactly like the one I drank this morning.

I was eating vegetarian, so every night she made me a Spanish tortilla, which is effectively a frittata in a single serving, and I ate it at their little bar while they watched the news.  The vegetarian thing perplexed them.

As a homestay, they were supposed to engage me in dialogue.  The one I remember went like this:

“Are you Catholic?”

“No.”

“Christian?”

“No. I don’t have a religion.”

For the old Spanish, Catholicism is culture as much as it is a religious practice.  I think we were watching a state wedding on TV, or the prince and princess doing something or other.

So she asked the only logical follow up: “Well, then, where will you get married?”

I was a mildly standoffish teenager, especially when it came to state-instituted anything. The rest of the conversation was only downhill from there.  And that is what the Nescafe reminded me of this morning, before I started writing, so I wrote this to warm up my writing muscles.