Sea lions

Malaga Part 2

I've never been a beach person.
I'm pretty sure my dislike of the beach stems from the fact that I've always been a fatty.
Frolicking on the beach has never enticed me because all I can think of is the ridicule it will invite.

I had never been to a european beach prior to Torremolinos.
I've been to beaches in Mexico... and it's where I've dealt with much of the hate from other beach goers... their harsh judgements and whatnot.
I'm not going to sit here and I like I haven't judged... or have made fun of others... become scandalized... all of that shit-- because I definitely have.

While chillin' on this Spanish beach, I noticed people were splayed all over the place however THE FUCK they wanted. Old, young, fake (as in, plastic surgery up the fucking ass), TOO real, skinny, fat.
People from all walks of life... ALL minding their own fucking business.
Naked chick to my left? Cool tits. Oh look at that rock! Fuck, I'm getting a rash.
Saggy, old man to my right? Dude! Did you catch last night's game?! Intense!

As I sunbathed like a sea-lion, pausing my music, I sat in silence and observed my surroundings. I noticed the ONLY people judging were D and I.
That turned me the fuck off... it was so... off-putting... uncool to realize how fucked up we actually are.
Me: D, let's like... just enjoy the moment. That 89 year old woman wants to sunbathe topless? So be it. Just don't look at her if it bothers you so much... but let her be. We sound... so fucked up. We need to mind our own business.
D: Yeah... you're right. You know, I catch myself talking shit sometimes, and I feel embarrassed and I wish I could stop... but it's usually too late.
Me: Me too. We really need to make that extra effort to fight that tendency. We criticize those who do it, yet here we are like a bunch of stupid mean girls... only ones here talking shit while everyone else is having a good time.

As I resolved to be a good person... because everyone had been nice to my less-than-perfect ass... allowing me to lay there on my towel like some fucking Playboy Bunny (which of course, I am NOT. I'm an ex-obese girl... we all know what deflated balloons look like...), I heard my sister gasp.
D: ...fuck!
Me: What?
D: Well, before you decide to turn over (oh, I was on my stomach, tanning my backside)... I think I should let you know the most perfect group of Spanish boys have decided to sit next to us. They are... fucking beautiful.
Me: No pinche mames...
D: Ohhhhhh  yes.... PERFECT, AnoMALIE... they are... OoooooEeeee!
Me: Goddamn it! Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Just my luck... goddamn! Why couldn't we just be surrounded by old people? They make me feel secure enough to lay out here without giving a shit. Not some fucking... Adonises.
D: AnoMALIE... oh my god. They are... fuuuuck. Turn over... you gotta see 'em.

After some careful consideration and deep breaths, I threw all my traumas and insecurities out the window and turned over.
What did I see?
The most beautiful creatures on the face of the planet.
Four beautiful men enjoying a day in the sun... knowing we were gawking at them, and allowing it.
They even gave us a nice little show... running in what I swear was slow motion... wetting their bodies slowly... and running past us again... smiling.
Guys, it was magnificent.
They saw us taking photos... and they'd smile coyly. Instead of being jerks, or slime bags (they left that task to US), they graciously accepted the attention, but continued with their own business.
Yes, they talked about us... but it was so sweet.
Apparently, to these gorgeous Spanish men, D and I were Italian. They lamented about their inability to speak Italian, because they'd be unable to converse with us.
"Guapas, las Italianas" they said as they walked past us.

D and I were frozen... too excited to say anything... opting to hold on to that moment, rather than open our big stupid mouths and wrecking the memory.
To these beautiful, sweet men, we were happy, leggy Italian girls enjoying their beautiful country.
To us, these beautiful Spanish boys were bashful dudes who thought we were cool.

I doubt I'll ever feel so comfortable-- or happy-- at a beach again.

(Homeboy in red shorts was MY dude. Christ... the fucking beauty is mesmerizing. The dude in yellow was the coquette. He'd run back and forth, coyly smiling while looking in our direction. He was rather appreciative of our attention, I was appreciative of the obvious)

Sea turtles

Malaga

A couple of years ago, we were lucky enough to look through very old documents which revealed my family's ancestry.
The documents mention the origin of my mother's side of the family, which turns out to be Malaga, a Spanish city in the far south. Good ol' Picasso was from there... so is Antonio Banderas, so of course this excited us. It's pretty cool to find out where one comes from... especially when some renowned artist is from there (yeah, my thoughts on Picasso aren't necessarily positive, but hey, shit, he started a fucking artistic movement-- pretty cool regardless of how much I may dislike it).

The first time I visited Spain, I already knew of my origins, but didn't make a move to visit the south, and instead stayed in the far north, Basque country, and of course, my beloved Barcelona.
This second time touring the motherland, D and I decided we HAD to visit the TRUE motherland... it didn't hurt that it's also a touristy beach area.

Now, let me start off by saying I didn't feel that same sense of familiarity as  did the first time I landed in Barcelona... upon stepping foot outside of the airport in Malaga, we were actually pretty confused and turned off. It was pretty fucking dead... and we were surrounded by women in headscarves... so we felt completely out of place.
Then we saw their faces-- ME.
Ayyy gueyyyy! I'm a spanish muslim! I knew my fucking natural aversion for pork and shellfish had some sort of explanation!
D and I just looked at each other... finally cracking a smile.
Me: Fuck it, dude, we're gonna have fun.
D: WE CAN SPEAK SPANISH! WE GOT THIS!

Our hotel was not in the city, but the beach. When we asked Information what would be our best bet to get there, she told us the bus.
Ahhhhh, the bus. Three Euro one way, and out in 45 minutes.
Cool, I guess... we don't get our room until 3PM, so this wait only keeps us form waiting in the lobby for six hours.
D quickly struck a friendship with the bus driver... because she's charismatic and cute, so he promised to drop us off at our hotel.

Since we had taken off from rainy Paris at 4 in the morning (well, we LEFT our room at that time), we had our jackets on.... and didn't think to take them off while we waited for the bus because it was breezy-- the mountains were snow-capped, actually.
The bus drove through the winding highway, closer and closer to the beach... and after about half an hour, the driver tells us our stop is there, and if we'd just walk down "Oh, about five minutes down, next to Hotel Cesar," we'd find our hotel.
Umm.. ok?
D and I walked a good fucking fifteen minutes, breaking a sweat, looking for this goddamned hotel.
The streets were winding... up and down... hills all over the place... and we were lugging around our bags... wearing jackets (because we're fucking retarded when we're completely focused on one thing).
Tourists in their damned shorts would stare at us as if we were crazy.
We kept wondering where the fuck the fucking beach would finally appear, where the fuck this goddamned hotel would pop up, but all we would see would be tall hotels, with occasional, hidden architectural jewels.

After perhaps half an hour of just... walking towards where we presumed the beach would be-- like some fucking sea turtle hatchlings-- I ventured to look up and saw the name of our hotel prominently displayed on a building across from the beach.
We circled around the hotel like dummies because the entrance was a trip... under construction and whatnot... but alas, after bumping into some wonderful Irish tourists who practically took our hand and walked us to the front desk, we were in our spacious room... and we were stoked.

D: We're going to have fun, dude! FUCK IT! We're at the beach!
Me: Did... you feel anything?
D: No.
Me: Me neither... I don't feel any sort of familiarity... I think someone lied to us.
D: Come on, beach, prove us wrong!

We changed into more appropriate attire-- shorts, tank, and some flip-flops-- and power-walked out of the hotel, and onto the boardwalk.
Two Mexican-American girls of Spanish decent, ready to enjoy a place our old people once called "home."

Dude... why did we ever leave this place?!

Rita.

Así es...
Así es.

When I visited Barcelona's cathedral, I sat in that meditation room longer than anyone else.
It was calming. I was one of three people who entered the room.
I can't say why I did it, I don't even know... but I just sat there... quietly... at peace.

Santa Rita-- that's who the room was dedicated to.
... I never knew what she was about until today.
Dang.

Belle Bouche

OH BOY! The fucking shit I've been dealing with these last few days... fucking A!
I had to take time off writing so it wouldn't seep into my little recap of the trip.
My current drama is probably going to last some more, so it can wait to be written up after my lovelier (somewhat, I guess) moments spent abroad.

PARIS.

While in Paris (first city D and I traveled to after departing Berlin), as I excitedly pranced around a garden on Champs-Elysees (fuck... THAT doesn't sound pretentious at all...), D and I decided to take a seat on a nearby bench to enjoy our lovely crepes and do some people-watching.
D interrupted my merry moment.
D: So... safe to say you've totally forgotten about Monday's bullshit with Darcy?
Moment ruined.
I put my crepe down and looked up at the clouds.
Me: I'm in Paris, D. I'm walking down Champs-Elysees, enjoying my first ever crepe, staring at the Eiffel tower in the distance over those beautiful building over there. Guys have been complimenting me all day... everyone has been kind and helpful all day.
D: Yeah. So weird... but cool.
Me: I'm living the dream that gave any sort of light during my darkest days back in 9th grade, when I'd sit alone at my desk in my French class during "nutritional break." Friendless. Total loner. Too sad and lonely to feel hungry. I'd listen to my teacher's french music, listen to his stories about Paris... and I'd just... be transported there... far, far away from the real hell I was living. It was the only peace I had all school day. Now I'm really here, and it has exceeded anything I ever imagined. The last thing I'm doing right now is thinking about what a total fucking idiot I am in the romance department.
D: Damn. But, good! I don't need you angry and upset about me not letting you see Darcy. I thought you were going to hate me forever.
Me: Oh, I'll always remember and regret the event... it broke my heart, D! But I CAN'T let it ruin all of this for me. I can't let it steal the awe all of this is inspiring. I'm a happy girl and I'm not going to fight it.

D rolled her eyes and called me an idiot.
And that I AM.
An idiotic, foolish girl whose heart only beats for one dude who has no clue, who never asked for the title, who only sees her as a friend (quite the annoying one, at that) and will never see her as anything else.
An idiotic girl who can't respond to the affection of others, and so chooses to be alone... to most likely die alone.

A few posts back I said this trip acquired a theme, and that theme was: AnoMALIE is a girl.
I don't want to sound conceited or arrogant or any of that shit, because I know where the fuck I stand on the attractive meter. I'm mediocre. I mean... I'm a single 28 year old girl... come the fuck on, I know what's up.
HOWEVER, throughout my trip, I was finally getting attention from boys, as in... they were acknowledging I was an OK girl. Dudes were flirting. European dudes were flirting...
TOTAL contrast to my first trip to Europe... where I was treated like a leper. I was too fat to be liked by guys who like "normal" sized girls, and too small for guys with fetishes for the chubby ladies.

It's strange for me. I don't know how to act. My entire life (well, most of it) whenever a dude "flirted" with me, it was out of some dare... or with the sole purpose of ridiculing me to make his group of friends laugh. Or the dudes would be flirting with my group of friends (my sister, especially), and then they'd make it their mission to exclude me... made sure they didn't even look in my direction so I "wouldn't get the wrong idea"... gave me the "UGHH! Not you, lardass! What are you doing here anyway, Porky? I didn't bring a wingman, so scram! Quit cockblocking, you DUFF!" treatment.
This time I was INCLUDED in the compliments, the roses.
This time around, I caught dudes taking second glances at me... with that smile on his face... that... "Hey girl..." spirit. I'd stand there like a deer caught in headlights, too confused to even scowl.
Wait, you're serious right now? Uh... ummm... uh... thank you?
I did a lot of looking down at the ground while smiling.
Paris, in particular, was FULL of compliments. Fucking crazy amount of compliments. Like... I thought they were Italians at one point (Italian men were kind enough to holler at me when I first visited Europe. They were the only group of men who hurled any sort of "compliment" my way).
This took me aback because the first time around, the guys would have burned me at the stake if given the opportunity.
WHOA! Parisian men FLIRT?! WHAAAAT?! Mind. BLOWN!
Dudes acted much like Mexican men at cowboy events... gawking and hollering.
Did the fucking undertaker just tell me I had a pretty mouth? WHAT THE FUCK?!
I had to cut my Père Lachaise Cemetery visit short because while searching for Chopin's grave, an undertaker who was helping out by a nearby tomb (they were doing some sort of restoration to the tomb) wouldn't fucking stop checking me out (head to toe, guys... it was strange) and then would stare at my mouth for god knows how long (I'd lose my nerve and look away, so I don't know how long he did that for... I don't WANT to know). He'd constantly repeat "Que belle bouche!"

Who knows... maybe Parisian culture has become more embracing of thicker Latinas in these last five years, so I was a popular creature... or maybe they just... all went crazy... but, I definitely didn't mind it.
I didn't find a Nino to my Amelie... and I never will... but I saw the sights. I spoke the language. I smiled at the sweet strangers.

I was a motherfucking GIRL, guys!

No, Silly.

No worries, you aren't missing much by not seeing (his current city), Berlin is by far the more interesting place.

Oh, silly boy, if you only knew...
Not missing much? Only what has mattered most to me for the last nine years.
I don't care where it is-- next door, across the ocean, a landfill, or the moon... wherever you are is what matters-- what I find interesting... the most interesting of interesting places. Anywhere else I may be, or anything else I may see, is secondary-- inconsequential.
In not seeing you, I'm missing much... I'm missing it all.

So... clearly I was upset two weeks ago... fucking devastated, heartbroken, pissed, sad, frustrated... all of that messed up shit.
So many things were running through my mind, that I finally couldn't keep my composure and I lost it in front of my sister and JC.
Now that I have time to look back and examine it all with a clear mind (because yes, my mind cleared and I cheered the fuck up the moment I stepped foot in Paris. I had to think of other shit, like "Goddamn it! NO ENGLISH, AnoMALIE! You are to speak ONLY FRENCH! Sound natural, sound natural, sound natural. 'Allo, la bas, si vous plait. Merci! Oui, c'est ma deuxième fois de visite a la cite'" and not about missing out on seeing and hanging out in a foreign country with the boy I've always swooned for-- for nearly a decade of my life), things are making sense.

Tuesday morning, as I made breakfast and fought any negative thoughts that tried creeping back into my head to make me cry about my incompetence, JC walked into the kitchen and checked up on my wellbeing.

JC: Oh, well, it's good to see you're in spirits to finally eat.
Me: Eh. Long day ahead. Hard to believe I'll be in Paris in a few hours.
JC: Oh look, you're talking again.
Me: Eh.
JC: You fucking irritated me last night. Luckily you're making us breakfast, so I forgive you.
Me: Forgive ME? I didn't know I needed it, but thanks...
JC: YOU'RE IN GERMANY! No room to be all fucking (copies me looking miserable, sulking) mopey and stupid. Shit fucking pissed me off.
Me: JC, I missed out on hanging out with the one guy I've ever liked... He lives way the fuck out here... and I KNOW he will never be for me... but ANY opportunity to even SEE him is important to me. Missing such a thing... because I'm such a fucking retard... broke my heart.
JC: It's not so serious.
Me: JC... he's the one I toasted to. YOU moved out here for the girl YOU toasted to that night. Shut the fuck up.

This is where I think JC and I are too alike.
He moved out to Berlin because he fell hard for a girl he met one night, and spent only ONE DAY getting to know.
It took him a few years to actually make his way out to Berlin, and in those years, he happened to meet Em. They became serious, because Em is the more tangible option... but BerlinGirl is still his ONE.
She's the one he will always admire and for whom his heart will wildly flutter... but she's also the one he knows will never be able to... be.
He gets to see her, hear her, smell her, touch her at the moment, but he too is victim of that invisible wall. Unspoken words... no, can't happen. Wont happen.
I saw the way he looked at her at the Champs League Finale party. He doesn't look at Em that way. The way he spoke to her... he doesn't speak like that to Em.
He sat right next to BerlinGirl, and leaned over even closer... this... sheepish look on his face... but that was it. It's like admiring a highly-guarded treasure: you can look, but the moment you touch you drop dead.

Maybe his irritation with me rose from seeing how I-- in a very similar situation to his-- choose to fade with my sadness, rather than move on and look for someone else.

It's not that I don't want to... it's just that I can't.
I'm destined to watch everyone find their "rib" as I quietly sit on my bench... acting unaffected... but wishing to really just be invisible.

Guten what the fuck?

I've been back for a few days now, and I did try updating on many occasions, but something always distracted me (Friday was the closest I got to actually writing something up, then suddenly I woke up at one in the morning with the sound of Jimmy Fallon laughing hysterically-- my face buried on my laptop's keyboard, confused as fuck).
I'm freakishly tired. I've never suffered such a terrible case of jet-lag as I am now. I am HARDCORE narcoleptic... I even unnerve babies who stare at me as if I were some freak of nature... BABIES! Little creatures who fall asleep mid-meal-- with spoons in their mouths 'n shit-- stare at me for falling asleep as I sit on a couch.

But anyway, here I am, finally sitting down (actually, I'm laying on my belly as I sit across my bed, simultaneously watching a "Snapped" marathon as I type this. It's how I do. That show's fuckin' hard) and writing something.

Onward with the stories and recaps and life lessons and travel advice bullshit I can still remember.
I'll start with Berlin, since that was my first stop and the one place where I interacted most with society.

The day before my flight to Europe, Mooney gave me a copy of in-flight German-- the supposed "basics" of the vocab I'd need while traveling (I'm not mocking Mooney here. I'm mocking my inability to grasp the BASIC level of German).
"The basics"...
... YEAH.
I was pretty excited about "learning" as I shoved in my earbuds at my terminal in Philly (my first pit stop from Vegas... "Pit Stop"... how pun-ny). It took all of two minutes for me to be COMPLETELY OVERWHELMED.
THE FUCK is up with the German language?!
You know where I panicked? Where it was trying to teach me how to say "My name is..." WHY THE FUCK must there be so many fucking sounds and syllables... and sounds?! I just want to greet you, for fuck's sake. That's it.
"Guten tag."
"Guten morgen."
FUCK ANYTHING ELSE. I can't even fucking distinguish between the "shon" and "shun" sound... I'm over here saying "thank you, cute" instead of "thank you very much." I'm fucking retarded! I'm good, dawg, I'm good... I'll just act like a fucking mute for six days.
I sat horrified for another... probably ten minutes-- max-- listening... trying to have some of the information stick... but the moment I realized I couldn't even COUNT in German, I took my earbuds out and frustratedly made my way to buy a fucking cupcake.
As I angrily chomped on my chocolate carb-ilicios delight, a couple (very blind couple, if you ask me... I looked like an angry, disheveled mess... a dangerous Mexican criminal with a fucking massive sweet-tooth-- murdering the fuck out of my chocolatey baked good like some lions ripping up a wildebeest carcass in the Serengeti) took the seats next to me.
The lovely couple was quite young, with a little dude who was probably younger than two years old... and they were German... and they were arguing.
The more I listened to the argument, the more upset I became... because I couldn't understand a SINGLE thing... well, except when he told her something about the bathroom.
From the very few words I could pick out, I made out the couple was arguing about cookies and chocolate-- no lie. They kept saying "Cooookies" and then waving around all angry and shit... and then I'd make out the word "chocolate."
Arguing about cookies and chocolate... fucking legit to me... I can see how people can be passionate about such things, I know I am.
Well... looks like I'm fucked. Yey.

I listened some more to my in-flight German torment (my second pit stop was in BCN... where I strolled the terminals munching on beef jerky and repeating shit like "Where is my wife?!" in German. ...Really, buddy, if you must ask that question... Who are you? Scott Peterson?)... and next thing I knew, I was getting ready to land in good ol' Berlin (And no, I still didn't know how to count in German... but I HAD mastered how to say "Water, please"... so that was cool).
I was no longer "bewildered," since everyone on my flight was a Spanish tourist... even an entire class of stupid little high schoolers was with me. I KNEW what was being said up until it was time for me to get out of baggage claim... where the hottest soldiers EVER stopped me.
"Guten tag."
I stared blankly at him.
I shoved my passport into his hand.
What the fuck am I doing? He only greeted you, dickhead.
He smiled, and immediately started speaking English.
"What brings you to Germany?"
I was drawing a blank.
"I'm visiting... my... little brother?"
The hot soldier smiled and let me go.

Give me a moment to swoon real quick...
Ahhhhhhh, German men....
Yeah... that's what's up.

Anyway, I immediately saw JC... and the smile he flashed me was... so sweet... I can't describe it.
I smiled and waved like a maniac... total contrast to his mild, gentle greeting for me.
JC carried my suitcase as we maneuvered our way to the ticket kiosk thingamajigger outside, where this cute older lady working the tickets asked him a question.
I stood there like the idiot I felt like, and I'm pretty sure JC told her I didn't speak German... and I KNOW she asked him if I was his girlfriend (I don't know much, but I SURE as FUCK know the word for "girlfriend" in numerous languages, German included).
The cute lady then proceeded to interact with me using hand gestures... and I responded in the same fashion... both of us standing there like two very animated mutes.
She was the cutest thing ever, not allowing me to carry my own suitcase, pointing at JC and then "flexing"... basically telling me I shouldn't carry the suitcase, but let the "strongman" carry it. This tickled my heart, and made me damn near snort-laugh. I managed to remember the word "danke!" and so, I told her so with this giant smile on my face, and she proceeded to hug me and wave goodbye.

Me: Jesus Christ! If this is how everyone treats each other around here, I might just "lose" my passport and never go home.
JC: Well... people here ARE pretty cool... but like with everything, don't be too trusting. We have all sorts of people... not just friendly old ladies.

While I obviously heeded JC's warning, my exchange with Berliners was nothing but positive. They would begin their conversations with me in German, but the moment I'd smile and say "um... I... only speak English..." while shrugging and feeling like a dick, they'd switch it up and go straight into English for me.
I was in fucking love.
Such a wonderful relief to deal with that understanding behavior than what we do here when someone says "I don't speak English" (scoff, rolling of the eyes, "This is AMERICA! SPEAK ENGLISH!" Although from experience, the French have that negative attitude times five).
Shit, I even went to a couple of parties and danced with the Berliners... I drank with them until I was dizzy and sleeping in the hallway of my apartment complex... I even shouted at the television in unison with the giant group of impassioned Germans as we watched the Champs League final-- it was fucking magical.

Germany, in general, would have stayed fucking magical, had that stupid fucking Monday not occurred...
but I'll get REALLY in depth about that retarded move in my next post.

I'm late for a stupid party, and this is a good spot to end this entry, since it's positive and quite chirpy.
It put me in a good mood to reminisce about this good shit... and I won't ruin it with talk about the only negative thing that happened in my entire trip... shit was heart-wrenching. No room for that here.

Refill.

This is where I belong.

I said it five years ago, and I'll say it again: My heart feels at home here. My heart is rested here. My heart swells here.

I. Am. Happy.

En busca de...

And suddenly, my trip acquires a theme.

Good ol' story topics coming about... I've been writing like a maniac. It's good. 

I'm also very much a happy girl. I'm so very happy and calm and relaxed... Muy agusto. 

I'm glad and, above all, relieved that I'm still capable of feeling this way. I'm still human.