LIFE 'ROUND HERE: Fire!
food, friends, and spice are reminders of a good life
Have you ever counted your steps, dearest ANTIEREADER? Well, I suppose you wouldn’t count them yourself, unless you have an obsessive compulsive disorder of course, which isn’t exactly what I’m talking about here. Maybe you tracked them on your phone or your phone tracked them for you. Perhaps you wore a gadget on your wrist once if you’re old enough to know what I’m talking about. Maybe you like to know how many miles you ran on your jog or how many calories you burned during your workout.
I have never counted my steps. If you’re going to tell me that my phone does it automatically then I have no idea where this information is stored. Probably in a preinstalled app that I have since uninstalled. People will tell me with an air of conviction bordering elation that they walked 13,000 steps today! And I will look at them wide eyed and have absolutely no idea what that means! Last month I went walking with a friend who no longer lives here (we miss you Emre!). We trekked deep into the forest along the minho river together. On our walk back into town he was curious how much we’d walked so he pulled out his phone and exclaimed that we’d walked 16 kilometers so far! And that I’d done even more since I’d gone to work that day and he’d just slept until the afternoon.
But I’ve never liked math. I’m notoriously bad at it. In middle school I convinced the administration to let me repeat algebra just so I could be in a class with my best friends the following year. I believed I was worse at math than I was. I simply didn’t like math, it bored me, however I loved my friends and Mrs. Lewis, the algebra teacher. I was once again reaching for community over everything, even success.
As I reflect on this disinclination to numbers I smile. I don’t measure my cooking, which is why I don’t bake. Maybe I’m not “bad” at cooking or “bad” at doing things in a conventional way. Maybe I’m just not that interested in measuring Life, quantitively at least.
For some reason people back home always ask me how the food is with an expectation in their voice. It’s as if they expect me to say “amazing!!!!!” and I mean sure, there’s some yummy seafood ‘ROUND HERE but i’m not even entirely sure how much of it is actually local. This tone of certainty when asking about the food always confuses me. After all, they’re asking me— a MEXICAN in EUROPE— if I’m eating well. It’s ironic because I was perpetually hungry the whole first month I lived here. I could never satiate my hunger but I suppose that was due to period of Lifestyle Re-adaptation. In regards to the food let me be clear… I need flavor, baby! Flavor that goes beyond olive oil and salt, though don’t get me wrong I do love the simplicity. But occasionally I need some SPICE. I need a KICK. An explosion of complex flavors all up in my mouth. Shock me, please!! Slap me around a little, i’m begging you… but over here on this ole’ white christian continent things never quite get that exciting… unless I do it myself.
Luckily I live with two other Mexicans and we stay cooking things that remind us of our homes. Yesterday we went to the larger, coastal city of A Coruña for the day. We tried to get Mexican food but it turned out to be a boujee spot where you overpay for 2 measly enchilada SANS rice or beans or salad or salsa or anything else. Shameful to call yourself a Mexican restaurant if you order a whole plate but still leave hungry. I suppose it wasn’t all that surprising considering we were the only Mexicans in the entire restaurant. This predicament led to me eating Taco Bell for the first time in years. The last time I had it was when I worked in the financial district of Manhattan and wanted to prove to my boss that it was actually possible to eat lunch for under $5. It was FIRE! Heartburn and all!
I don’t typically celebrate thanksgiving but this year i made a MF STUFFING because R convinced me to go to a potluck with 15 other Americans. The stuffing was surprisingly delicious. Everyone at the potluck was punctual except for us. We were busy pouring tequila shots with our Brazilian friend beforehand. I’m sorry but 20:30 is far too early for dinner in Spain, even if it’s with a bunch of Americans and a Brazilian.
Lately I’ve been thinking about limits. Limits as in restrictions and the way that these limits can be a hub for your most creative self. It’s entirely too overwhelming to start at 0. If the thing you seek is nestled somewhere out there amongst e v e r y t h i n g . . . well, where the hell do you begin??
But if you have restrictions, limits, then you can find a place to start. Limits don’t necessarily deter, they just sorta give you something to work around. Work with. At my job, when I’m somewhere that has limited materials, limited funding, I am at my most creative. Restrictions are my friend. Conspiring and finding my way around (or through) them can be pretty fun. Exciting even.
Then I finally got around to reading this piece with Trevor Powers of Youth Lagoon that I’d been meaning to read for a while now. It closes with Powers saying,
I’m falling in love with limitations. Because I find that that’s where eternity is. That’s where immortality is.
And I’m falling in love with my confirmation bias’ ability to find things exactly when I need to see them. And I think the work Powers creates, within his limits, is absolutely beautiful.
We thought we were going to a park but I guess we walked through the park and ended up on a hill where a cluster of massive rusty cylinders were protruding from the ground like a bed of mushrooms after rain. There was a futbol match happening so we placed our blankets on the ground atop a hill and started pouring cheap cava and tangerine juice into big plastic cups. We played with visiting Pomeranians whose human was watching the match and laughed. I relished in both the familiarity and newness that was happening simultaneously. How things from your past come back and find you and meet you as the person you are now, which is also the person you were then but also not really. And how it doesn’t have to be overthought it only needs to be felt.
Here’s a video whilst sitting on said hill taking the same picture over and over again while R told me a story. It was giving autumnal views, amiright?
The bed of rusted mushroom cylinders did indicate a bit of a mycelial network underneath us in the form of a subterranean museum (and luckily for us, toilets).
Down at the river we couldn’t actually see the sun set but suddenly we got this sky and a perfect frame for the moon as the temp dropped drastically. While I rocked back and forth I dared to wonder if I’d ever felt so lucky to be exactly where I was, shivering cold on an old wooden bench.
I still battle the existential crisis of knowing what I want to do with my life. Where to funnel energy into. What kind of work or job or career I want to pursue. What my passions are. It all feels so ridiculously banal and human yet I can’t help but wonder if I am falling short... of what I can’t be sure. I will wonder if I should be doing more to achieve the vague image of goals that I have. If I should be making more things, writing more, making more money more more more until I drive myself crazy.
Someone I love listens and reminds me in a calm voice,
you didn’t come here to make money. you came to have a better life.
He’s right. If I’ve never been interested in measuring my life by some quantitative analysis then why do I agonize over thinking that I should?
thanks for listening, ANTIREADER.
until next time,
Lex
<3