Una Semana Más
I write to you from the family room. It is October 20th, 2025. There are clothes drying on a rack next to me. The window to the street is open. I am getting over a cold, and I’m feeling a bit unwell overall. But I am hopeful, always hopeful. Writing reminds me that there’s always hope in the little moments. This week’s post is a little different from the others, a little bit more vulnerable, a little bit more honest, a bit grosser. I hope that you get something from it. I got something out of writing it. As always, thanks for reading. And an extra thank you to the friends here who let me write about them. I appreciate you guys more than you know.
UNA SEMANA MÀS
On September 2nd, I was in the public restroom of Pum Pum cafe, gripping my knees, debating whether I was going to have to take off all of my clothes in the stall. I was in between panic shits, trying to distract myself by reading the graffiti on the walls, waiting for the dread to hit my lower stomach again. It had been a nice morning up until 10 minutes prior. I was seated by the cafe window, sipping a cafe con leche (coffee with milk) and reading my book. It’s called “A Year to Live” by Stephen Hayes. He shares with the reader his experiment in which he picks a death date and then spends the next year addressing the preciousness of life and the idea of a due date. I was re-reading it, following along with the experiment, just starting my second month of my very own Year to Live(more on this later). I was feeling good, taking notes, appreciating the fleeting nature of life. That’s when it hit my lower gut, a bad cramp I recognized. A cramp with a warning. “Something is coming out right now! The train is leaving the station, baby!” I took the hint, left my stuff quickly, and skipped down the stairs to the toilets. I felt the coffee hit my heart. It started beating like crazy. It’s not supposed to beat this fast. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Spanish coffee is strong. That’s about when the dread hit me with the realization. Oh fuck! This is no ordinary shit! This is a panic attack shit! God, I haven’t had one of these in years. I sat down fast. I was sweating through my sweater, rocking back and forth, trying to take deep breaths through the pain. Other pains I can describe with ease. Other pain I can stand. This pain has a way of humbling me. It demands my full attention; it doesn’t have definable borders. It’s concentrated in the gut but spreads to the chest, knees, and limbs. It makes me weak in the knees, takes my breath away. It’s a hollow dread that starts with a twinge and then consumes me. It takes away concrete rational thinking and leaves me with an illusion of permanent dread. It’s a pain I have a hard time describing after it’s passed. The few thoughts that make it through are drenched in panic. And when it started up in the cafe stall, my brain went something like:
Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck oh fuck oh fuck me. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Jesuss fucking fuck. Okay. Hot damn. Hot damn. Hot diggity damn. Okay. Deep breaths. Deeeeeeep breaths. Fuck me. Fuck. Oh my fucking fuck. I can’t handle this. I’m not going to be able to handle this. Get it out! Get it out! Get it out! Push, bitch! Fucking push. Why isn’t it coming out? I’m going to lose it. I’m going to freak out. I need help. Fuck. I’m going to lose it. Am I going to die? I’m going to die. I’m going to die on the toilet. Fuck. Fuck. Okay. I got this. I got this. Ouchhhhhh. I don’t got this! I SO don’t got this. Fuck me! I need to get help. I need to get help. How do you say “diarrhea panic attack” in Spanish? Oh my god, what if someone needs to use the bathroom? There’s another stall! Okay, you’re right. Fuck, I’m in a dialogue with myself. I’m going to be in here forever. I can’t leave my stuff upstairs for this long. What if they are worried about me? What if they are mad? What if I freak out and need someone to calm me down, but they don’t speak English, so I don’t calm down, and then my heart explodes? Fuck. I think I might pass out. I can’t handle this. Oh my god. Am I going to pass out? Is someone going to find me passed out on the toilet? Okay. Okay. Deep breaths. Things are moving. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Stimulate that vagus nerve. Tell your body to calm down. Tell the brain we are okay. No need for anxiety. No need. No need at all. This is normal. Anxiety is normal. It’s just the brain’s way of protecting you. Deep breaths. You got this. Okay? You got this. Things are moving. Things are happening. Just rock back and forth. Yeah, just keep rocking, rocking and pushing. It’s okay. It’s getting better. This is so normal. New city, first time away from home. This is normal. The wave passed. I was shaky and dehydrated, and had to leave the stall to get more toilet paper, but it passed. After gathering myself, I made my way upstairs with a slight tremor. I felt a gross heat in my stomach. This might not be over. Time to get out of here. There was a server standing by my things. She said something frantic in Spanish and gestured to the window. Did I spend too much time in the bathroom? Is she mad at me? She pointed to my phone, said something else. Two girls seated nearby told me in English, “We were so worried about your stuff by the window. She was protecting it. Oh, Fuck. How long has she been standing there? I thanked the girls and thanked the server. Embarrassed, I paid the bill and left. Okay. I feel much better. Maybe it’s over.
On the way home, I stopped into Corte Chino, a cheap household goods store. I needed to pick up some essentials, but after browsing for a few minutes, I felt that familiar cramp in my gut again. I pretty much ran home, fumbled with my keys in the lobby door, made it to my bathroom, slammed the door behind me, took off all of my clothes, and resumed the position. The dread came on strong. This is never going to end. I’m never going to be able to leave the house. But I have to leave the house! I have so much to do. I need groceries. I need to get things for the house and paper towels and dish soap, and toilet paper! Oh Fuck, toilet paper? What if I run out of toilet paper and have to walk around the house butt ass naked because I can’t pull my pants up because my butt is dirty? What if they come home and I’m in their rooms, waddling around and crying, pants at my ankles, stolen toilet paper in my hands. I barely know these people! That’s not a good first impression. Fuck this hurts so bad. Just don’t think about it. Wait no. Do think about it. Anxiety gets better when you lean into it. You know this. You have done this before. You know how to handle this. Okay, just breathe, Annie. Just breathe. Fuck. Fuck. This is unbearable. Quit being so dramatic! I think I’m going to pass out. You are not going to pass out. I’m so thirsty. I hobbled to the sink, drank water from the tap, and made my way back. Why aren’t I pooping? Fucking hell. I need this OUT. I stuck my heels on the toilet seat and wrapped my arms around my knees. It works. I tried to clean up, bouncing from the bidet to the toilet. The water burned. Everything hurt. My stomach is jumpy. There’s a pain that follows the movement that only pacing can resolve. I paced the apartment, crying a little. Thank god nobody is home. They don’t need to know they have a nutter for a roommate. This has been lovely and all, but I think it may be time to throw in the towel and go home. You can’t go home! You signed a ten-month lease. The wave passed in time. I’ve come to learn that the body can only dole out so much pain at once.
My roommates came home. I greeted them, tried to act normal.
“Hey guys, how’s it going? How was the park?”
“Really nice. How’s home been?” Katherine asked
What should I say? Just say “good” and give a thumbs up! No, just be honest. Be a little vulnerable.
“Honestly… not so good. I’m kind of freaking out. I don’t know if it’s the whole being away from home for the first time or not knowing the language, but I’m freaking out. I keep having little panic attacks…well… I can’t stop shitting.”
“Oh girl, I’m so sorry!” Katherine said.
“Do you need anything? I have anti-diarrhea pills.” Jordan offered
“Do you want to sit on the terrace? Fresh air usually helps me when I’m freaking out.” Piper said.
I nod, “Okay, yeah, yeah. Let’s try that.”
Piper opened the door to the terrace.
“If you want to be left alone, that’s totally cool, but if you want company, we can definitely talk about it.”
“Yeah. Talking. Talking would be really nice, if you don’t mind. Thank you. Thank you.” My voice is daintier than usual.
I started rambling about how this hasn’t happened since middle school and how I usually have a pretty good grasp on my anxiety. “I’m scared. This is scary,” I told her and started crying. Piper told me she’s scared too, that she had to leave the dance club the other night because she was panicking. She told me that she used to get really anxious and nauseous.
I told her I’m scared to leave the house, scared that I’ll need a toilet and not have any around. I told her I’ve done this before and that I understand that running from anxiety only gives it power, that I know I need to power through, to not let fear wreck my routine.
“I respect that, but it’s also okay to take it easy, be kind to yourself. What if we just try to do one thing?”
“I like that idea. I need groceries. What if that’s our one thing?”
“Okay. Me too. We can do that. Do you want to go sometime soon?”
I say yes and then feel the twinge again. “Give me one moment.” I walked fast back to my bathroom.
Welcome back to hell! I’ll spare you the details. Hell passed. I paced for a while, tried to call my parents, and tried to call my best friend Nikki. Nobody picked up. I stared at myself in the mirror, said aloud, “Okay, lean into the anxiety. Worst-case scenario? I shit myself in the grocery store. It would be embarrassing and messy, and I might have to shop at a different grocery store going forward, but that’s the worst-case scenario. I am not going to die.”
“Are you guys ready to go?” Jordan called
I take a deep breath. “Ready enough!”
We went to the grocery store. Getting there was the hardest thing I’ve done since I got here. We started off strong, picking up fruits, trying to figure out what to buy. I made it about five minutes or so until the twinge hit again. I paced around the fruit stands, hands gripping my hips. Piper was looking at the yogurt when she saw me shaking.
“You okay?” she asked.
I gave her a thumbs up and scanned the store for a bathroom, but didn’t see one. It’s okay. It’s okay. The wave passed. I took a deep breath and made my way to the cereal aisle. I was squinting to read the label of a bag of granola when it came back. I paced, squatted a little, and tried to look as normal as possible. Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out. Jordan showed me something and asked, “Do you think this has nuts in it?”
I waved him away. “I don’t know. Sorry, sorry.”
He tilted his head and asked, “Are you okay?”
I shook my head, clenched my fist, dug my thumb into the pad of my pointer finger( an old trick, inducing pain to distract from pain)I paced down the aisle until it passed. I ran up to Katherine, elated. “I did it! I did it! I got through it. I didn’t shit my pants in the grocery store! Life is wonderful, Katherine!” I can do this! Anxiety who? I am a boss ass bitch. Bring it on, Spain! My stomach calmed down, and I knew it was over. I got in line. The lady pointed to my bananas and then to the scale. I weighed my bundle, returned, and told the woman in broken Spanish, “I’m sorry. It’s my first week in Madrid.” She gave me a tired smile.
That night, we went to a Wallstreet themed bar. There are “stock crashes” every hour, and the drink prices go way down. Everyone was sipping beers, waiting for the next crash, when Jacob pulled out a deck of cards and asked me to pick one. I pick one, memorize it, and put it back in the pile. He flips the cards face up on the table. “Okay, I’m really good at reading people. Just look at the cards as I fan them out, and I’ll be able to tell which card is yours, just by watching your face.”
He found my card. I spent the rest of the night squinting at him, trying to figure out the trick.
“I’m just really good at reading people.”
“You’re full of shit.”
“I’m like the guy in that Roald Dahl story, Henry Sugar. I can see without my eyes.”
“No, you can’t. I’ll figure it out.”
On September 3rd, I went to a store around the corner and picked up a moka pot and a mug. Then I went to the Mercadona and got shampoo, conditioner, a couple of cleaning supplies, laundry detergent, and a couple of other household staples. I stopped in the fragrance aisle to test out some perfumes. I’ve decided Annie in Spain will smell girly. They were all very stinky and intense except this mellow vanilla one. I put the bottle in my cart and then noticed that it said “eau de toilette.” Hmm. I shrugged. Bathroom spray or perfume, you are coming with me. When I got to the register and opened my bag to add my groceries, the cashier spotted my moka pot and told me something authoritative in Spanish. I apologized and said I didn’t understand. The guy behind me in line said, “He’s saying that next time, you should put your other things inside one of the lockers near the entrance.” “Oh, okay. Okay. Lo siento. Lo siento.” When I walked away, I turned my head to see the cashier and the guy who translated sharing a laugh.
Next stop, Corte Ingles, a mega mall of home goods, electronics, and accessories. I took an escalator up four stories, found myself face to face with a wall of bedding. Uhhh. What size sheets do I need? Everything is in centimeters. I Google-translated a text to Lalli. She texted me back with the right size. These are too expensive. I go to Primark, another store with clothing and home goods, a bit cheaper. There were people everywhere, and things flying off the shelves in all directions. I loaded up a cart with hangers, towels, sheets, a duvet, and decorative dish towels. I waited in line for 20 minutes, paid 80ish euros, and hopped back on the metro with two oversized bags. On the way out, I awkwardly maneuvered to the doors, unsure of the correct form of “excuse me” to use. Is it permiso or disculpe or perdon or perdona? I brought all the stuff home, put on my new sheets, sprayed my eau de toilette, and tried to decide if I still liked the smell or not.
On September 4th, my head hurt, so I took a hot shower to try and feel better, but soon I found myself cursing the shower head for not staying on the hook and falling mid-shower and spurting water all over the place. So then I was cleaning up water on the bathroom floor with a t-shirt and just feeling pretty sour and lousy, and then I couldn’t help but fixate on the strong urine smell coming from the toilet, so I threw a bunch of vinegar down there and sprayed the eau de toilette until the whole bathroom stunk like vinegar and vanilla. But then the vanilla vinegar smell morphed into a gross yogurt-like odor. And then I decided that the spray must be what’s giving me a headache. And then I considered throwing out the spray, until finally I caught myself. Woah Annie. You’re getting a little negative here. Maybe you should journal or meditate, or make a list of stressors. Or take a nap, or get groceries. And then I caught myself again. Geez. Cool it. That’s a lot of “should statements”. Maybe…maybe let’s just get out of the house for a minute. (Side note: I am fascinated with all of the pronouns that my consciousness uses. Sometimes I, sometimes you, sometimes we. I feel that my concept of self shifts the more I pay attention to all of the “selves” inside of me. How many different voices are really up there? Are they all me? I am also curious as to why the negative voice seems to take the role of “I” and the positive voice takes the “you” and “we.” Maybe that’s something I can switch up.
The gang and I got dinner at TKO tacos, a chain restaurant most renowned for their 1 euro tacos and 5 euro margaritas. I tried a couple of vegetarian tacos. Not bad for 3 euros. We headed down the road to see a movie.
On the sidewalk, Jacob and I landed on the subject of writing. He asked, “What kind of writing do you like?”
“I like…” Okay, don’t sound crazy, “I really like super honest writing. Writing that speaks to the humanness of all of us… Am I making sense? Like…have you seen Fleabag?”
“No, but it’s on my list! Like, give me an example of something you’ve written.”
“Well, okay, this is going to sound strange…” Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’t say it. It’s not too late to stop saying it. “Okay, so I have been trying to write this piece about this time that I found someone’s diary… and then I spent like two hours reading it with this intense feeling of thirst for all of their secrets…” Great. You said it. “Um yeah…like that sort of thing…”
He paused and then said, “I like it. I want to read that.” Oh, thank god.
“We should start a Substack. Cam’s been wanting to write too. Me, you, and him. We can all take turns each week! It would be good to have a deadline to motivate us.”
“Not a bad idea.”
The film we watched was Freakier Friday, the sequel to Freaky Friday. It was in VOSE (Versión Original Subtitulada en Español.) The title was translated in Spanish to “Ponte en mi Lugar de Nuevo”( put yourself in my place again). The film was light and laughable, but leaving the theater, I felt a bit heavy. We passed this huge line of people waiting to get into a club. They were all around our age and dressed to the freaking nines. “Oh my god, all the study abroad kids,” Kyrra said. “That is a good-looking bunch,” I remarked, taking in the waists of the girls closest to us. I wanted to cry. I wanted to go home. I wanted to jump in line with them. They were just so…sparkly….I walked away from the group, looked up at the buildings. Cole came over. “What are you thinking about, chica?” I shrugged. I didn’t really know. The group decided to split off and go home. I don’t want to go home. They descended the stairs to the metro station and passed through the turnstiles. I linger for a second. I could just leave, Irish goodbye, and go wander. I could go cry in the square, get that hot-faced euphoric high, strut around, and bask in the curious looks I get. I stood for a second, considering it. Something my father said before I left came to me. “Annie, I think you are aware that you have a tendency to go off on your own and wander. You’re not always careful, and you don’t always tell the people around you. People worry about you. Just be careful, okay?” He’s right. I tapped my card and passed through the turnstile.
On September 5th, I made a list of things to do and buy for the house. I washed my laundry and hung it up on clothespins in the courtyard. I cleaned my room, scrubbed the floors, and poured more vinegar into the toilet. Later in the day, I asked our concierge, Jose, where to buy plants. We used Google Translate and passed my phone back and forth. He pulled out his phone to show me a map of the area and zoomed in on a plant store a few minutes away. While I had him there, I asked if he knew of a cafe with wifi where I could go to use my computer. He zoomed in on a place called Cafe Teatro and told me it’s right around the corner, but unfortunately, they close for siesta from 14:00-16:00. I checked the time. 13:45 Damn.“Qué lástima!”(What a shame!) I exclaimed. He laughed at my Spanish. With conversations like these, I’ll be fluent in no time.
I walked to another cafe called Hola cafe, ordered an iced latte, and wrote down my stressors in a run-on sentence/stream of consciousness style:
I am stressed about my tummy issues and the possibility of shitting myself in public, phone issues and not being able to log in to Capital One without getting an authentication code and not being able to get that authentication code with my new spanish phone number, bank card not working, the list of things that apartment needs, groceries and not getting enough protein, Should I go pescetarian here instead of vegetarian? How do you cook fish? Where do you buy fish? Fresh or frozen? What seasonings do you use? If I accidentally eat raw fish, could I die? How do I cook fish without contaminating the kitchen? Can I buy peanut butter even if Katherine is allergic to nuts? Holy shit, I need to call home. I haven’t been in touch at all. And crap, I need to make an appointment to get my Spanish residence card. Also, my self-esteem feels rocky. And does my perfume really smell like yogurt, or am I just in my head? Is yogurt a bad smell? If my friends saw the inside of my head, would they run for the hills? Why haven’t I taken any photos? I’m paying for an Adobe Lightroom subscription. I should be taking photos. Why aren’t I writing?. The whole point is that I’m here and I finally have time to write. This seat is uncomfortable. Fuck. Why can’t I get comfortable? Why don’t I feel the gratitude and awe and mindfulness that I felt last week? Should I reread my Buddhism books? Am I spending too much money at cafes? What if it’s justified because this is how I treat myself? Do I really deserve to treat myself? In ten months, I will have to say goodbye to everybody. Will I stick around for a second year? Could I afford that? Fuck, the coffee here is strong. Do I have to poop? Where is the bathroom? What if someone is in the bathroom? What if I shit my pants?
Phew! Do I feel better? A little? Ish. Maybe not. I looked up, took in my surroundings. The walls were white with exposed stone. There were hanging plants. There was an abstract painting on the wall of a nude woman sitting on a man’s face. Her body is bright pink and she has blond hair. He has a black body and blue hair. There is an orange sun above them. I took a picture.
I hopped on a bus to meet Jacob at Retiro Park. I watched a young boy, maybe 5 or so, sleeping on his mother’s shoulder. His sister was seated across from him. She’s a couple of years younger. I watched her pick her nose and then rub it on her brother’s forehead. He woke up, felt his forehead, smiled, and rubbed his finger on her forehead. They went back and forth like that for a while. It made me smile. I’m not sure why. I jotted it down in my phone before meeting up with Jacob.
The two of us passed a soccer ball back and forth and discussed finances.
“I’m running out of money,” I said
“Me too.”
“We have expensive friends.”
“Yes. We do. I can’t keep paying 20 dollars for clubs,” he said
“I really didn’t bring a ton of money.”
“Me neither.”
“I think other people brought more money. Can I just tell you how much I bought? I’m sick of being vague. I have around 5,000.” I admitted
“That’s plenty.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“We can find more free activities, movie nights, craft nights,” he said
“Deal”
“Or we can get jobs, tutoring is easy. I’ve done it before.”
“Or nannying, dog walking…or we could just fuck around.” I said
“That too.”
“I want to meet new people, get out of my comfort zone.” He continued
“Like when you did stand up?”
“Exactly.”
“Let’s do it.”
We walked to Jacob’s hostel. He and our friend Cam were staying there while they continued the apartment search. Not everyone was so quick to secure a place. He warned me, “It’s kind of a gross hostel, more of a place where people live.” We met up with Cam in the lobby. There were a lot of adults sitting around, watching TV. Cam was by the lockers, fumbling with his pants.
“I think I should get darker pants,” he said
“What do you need darker pants for?”
“I think that’s more of the style here. Mine are too light.”
“I like your pants.”
“I just don’t know if it’s the vibe for the club tonight.”
He pulled out his phone and continued, “Let me look at the pictures, see what people are wearing.”
I look at the pictures. It’s a mix of drag outfits, bright colors, and your standard t-shirt and jeans combo. “You are fine, dude.”
“I need to get dark pants.”
Cam walked me back home so that he could see the apartment. I gave him the tour, changed into a cuter top, drank a coffee, assessed myself in the mirror, and turned to get a side view. Oh my god, I’m so bloated. Why is my stomach so huge? Whatever, Annie. Get over it. Live in the moment! You can still enjoy your night. Okay, you’re right. Jordan, Cam, and I headed out. We stopped by an alimentacion(market) so I could get a protein bar and a banana. I felt a bit hungry, but my stomach hurt and felt really full. I should stop eating. I ate the protein bar. I didn’t need that. We met up with Jacob at a friend’s apartment. I tried to force a movement in the bathroom. Nothing. Now you don’t want to poop? Great!
They played a drinking game with the “Ratlin Bog” song. The chorus kept getting longer each round, and whoever’s turn it was had to keep drinking until it’s over. I watched my friend Conor sing all of the words. I fiddled with my banana, thought about eating it, and eventually set it on the table. A girl to my right said, “Wait, the song is going to run out before my turn. Okay, I’ll just drink with the last person!” Shit, what’s her name? I don’t know anyone’s name. I looked down to see my stomach pushing my belt out. I need to leave. I’m so uncomfortable. I need to leave right now. I found Jacob by the door. ‘I’m not feeling too good. I think I need to go home.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m really bloated and I…I can’t shit.” I whispered
“I feel like you can shit here. It’s fine.”
“No, I mean. I tried that. Didn’t work.”
“Oh, I see. You probably just need to fart. Maybe just go walk around the block and you’ll feel better.”
“Yeah, okay”
I left without saying goodbye, walked home, waddling the whole way. Ow ow ow My back started to hurt too. My boobs kinda ached as well. There was too much pressure in there. Crap, I left my banana.
I woke up the next morning, September 6th, pretty late, still uncomfortable but less huge. I did some yoga to try and get the gas out, and facetimed my dad(not at the same time, but I wouldn’t put it above me.)
“It’s nice to see your face!” I said
“Yours too,” he smiled.
I told him about the kids on the bus rubbing snot all over each other.
“Ew! Gross.”
“I don’t know, I thought it was weirdly sweet. They were cracking up.”
He told me about a music festival he’s going to and a woman he’s been chatting with from Buffalo.
“Turns out her sister went to Dayton about the same time that I was there,” he said.
“Maybe you saw her once when she came to visit.”
“Maybe”
“Hey! You were both at Dayton. Now you could be datin’!” I joked.
He gave me a dry chuckle, “I see that Spain hasn’t taken away your sense of humor.”
“I know, right! What are you up to today?”
“I have a dentist appointment. If he tells me I have a cavity, I may have to get a new dentist.”
I laughed. “I see Rochester hasn’t taken away your sense of humor. Wait…hold on, I’m jotting this down.”
I jotted it down.
A couple of hours later, Cole and I went shopping in the city center and then stopped at Moon Kebab, a doner kebab place around the corner from my apartment. He sipped on a Fanta Limon. I took a French fry from his plate and said,
“Quick Question: When you shower, what do you wash first?”
“The pits, of course.”
“That is the only correct answer. Good job.”
He ate a French fry, thought for a moment, and asked, “What was the name of the street you grew up on?”
“Five Mile Line Road. Why?”
“Alright, road is acceptable. You’re in the clear.”
“Acceptable?”
“Yeah. I mean, not as good as “lane” or “grove”, but better than “interstate”.
“What about boulevard? Boulevard is pretty badass.”
He agreed. I ate some of my falafel kebab and fired off another question. “What is the first thing you look at on a stranger?”
“I think…eyes first, and then physique.”
“I can respect that.”
He motioned his head to a guy in the corner and said too loudly, “Whoa, you have to check out the serious bubble butt on this guy.”
I subtly turned my head and took it all in. I turned back to face Cole.
“Huh, it’s interesting how it’s pretty small, like width-wise wise but in terms of front-to-backness, that booty is popping!”
“Right!”
We laughed and finished our meals.
I watched with curiosity as Cole took out a little black pill canister. He opened it to reveal these huge blue and white capsules. There were at least 6 of them. He popped them all in his mouth and washed them down with the soda.
I stared at him,“What…what are those?”
“Oh, these things? My pancreas doesn’t digest things properly. If I don’t take these things, wooosh!”
“Gnarly. What’s in them?”
“Oh, just a bunch of digestive enzymes.”
“Maybe I need something like that…”
“Still getting adjusted to that Spanish food?”
“I guess…. Honestly, I think it’s anxiety, but oh well…Hey! How many of those pills do you take every day?”
“8 after every meal.”
“Shit, that’s a lot. Wait…did you fly here with them? ”
“Yeah, my suitcase was just filled with these white bottles, like at least 25 of them.”
“That’s phenomenal.”
We walked to Parque Madrio Rio, a park by the Madrid river. We sat by the banks, and people watched. There were a lot of people to watch: students reading books, friends sharing snacks, and couples. There were couples everywhere, couples of all ages, some reading, some cuddling. Cole said, “Oh my god, look at your 8:00.”
I turned my head to see a couple making out not so far from us. They were probably in their upper 50s. She had a knee on top of his leg. I stifled a laugh and thought back to the painting on the wall in Hola Cafe.
“The PDA in Madrid is nutty,” Cole said.
“Yeah…especially in the parks. Oh my god! Honestly, I don’t mind it as much when it’s older people. Get it on while you still can, right?”
“Amen.”
The morning of September 7th, I meditated on the floor, and debated between going back to bed or drinking a coffee. I wonder if Buddhists drink coffee. I wonder what the long-term effects of drinking coffee are. Should I cut back? But it makes me feel lighter, so it’s okay, I think. Wait, shit, I’m supposed to be meditating. Okay, good call out, Annie. Just focus on counting the breaths. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Do Buddhists drink alcohol? Probably not, unless…
I opted for coffee, went to the grocery store, where I picked up some lentils, rice, bread, peanut butter, and jelly. I made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Since Katherine is allergic to nuts, I wiped down the counter with soap and water, used paper towels to wash the peanut dishes, and went to throw them out. I was careful not to touch the compost lid with the peanut butter. Wait, should I just throw it in the regular trash? What if she takes out the compost and touches the peanut butter and dies? I washed my hands, wiped down the counter again, and then washed my hands a second time. Uh oh. I sense a new compulsion brewing. Face it now, before it takes hold of you. But maybe this level of care is legit. She’s pretty allergic. Maybe I shouldn’t even have peanut butter in the kitchen. I took the peanut butter out of the cabinet, put it in a plastic bag, and hid it in my closet. While washing my hands, I thought, You could just not buy nuts. But they are so good for me. What good is a life without peanut butter?
I went for a walk to clear my head, scouted out some potential cafes to do some writing in. The walk helped. I went back to the apartment and cooked some soup using gazpacho from a carton. I threw in some onions, spinach, and garlic. I felt like the rat in Ratatouille. Remy, Remy the rat. I should rewatch that. While I cooked, I kept the window to the courtyard open. I could hear Lalli cooking and listening to a Spanish television program. My soup was finished. I forced myself to sit on the terrace and savor it. No phone allowed, but I brought out my new book, JD Salinger’s “Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters and Seymour: An Introduction. Whoa, that is a mouthful of a title. Nevertheless, I was able to lose myself in his cadence.
Later that night, our friends Dean, Conor, Zoey, and Cam came over. I admired Zoey’s blush. She told us she found a place in Salamanca. I wasn’t sure where Salamanca was, but I had heard there’s an Ikea there. I’ve never been to an Ikea. Dean described to us the apartment he found in Lavapies, referring to his room as a Japanese sleeping pod. Cam and Conor had finally found a three-bedroom apartment with Jacob. I remarked how crazy it is that none of us knew each other until a couple of weeks ago, and now we all live together. Everyone agreed. The conversation moved as conversations do. We landed on the topic of bathrooms. Katherine, Jordan, and I bragged about our four individual bathrooms, each equipped with a shower, toilet, and bidet. That’s a lot of porcelain.
“You guys are so lucky you have a bidet. I wish I had one,” Dean said.
“It kinda scares me. I’m afraid to try it.” Katherine said.
I turned to face her, “Yeah, you gotta get over that. It’s awesome!” I said
“No, because if I had a bidet, I would ride that thing allll day,” Dean said.
We all laughed. The conversation naturally moved to dating apps. Conor asked me if I’m on Hinge.
“Not yet, but maybe soon,” I answered.
“Oh my god, have you guys heard of Daddy Finder?” Cam asked
“No…Is it exactly what it sounds like?” I asked.
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“I wonder if there’s a Spanish version of Grindr that we don’t know about,” Dean asked.
“We should make our own app.” Cam said.
“What would we call it?” Dean asked
“What about Bidet?” I suggested.
They liked that suggestion. We laughed, and then Cam asked, “Wait, have you guys heard about the thing with the pineapples?”
“Yesss,” Dean said.
“No. Tell me.” I said.
“Okay, like if you go to the grocery store and you put a pineapple upside down in your cart, that means you are looking for a date.” Cam explained.
“No, I swear, people will go to the Mercadona and cruise for dates.” Dean added
“No shot.” I say
“Not me putting like 6 pineapples upside down in my cart! Like pleaseeee,” Dean said.
We laughed about that for a while, and then Dean sat up and asked,
“Do you guys think you’re going to stay for another year? I know we’ve only been here for like two weeks, but I could kinda see myself doing it.”
“It’s definitely a possibility,” I said. Other people agreed.
I continued, “It’s crazy to me that we could just keep doing things like this, bouncing around to different cities. Like, imagine if we all agreed to go do the CIEE in Thailand program next year, and then something the next year. What if we never stopped?
“Imagine we are all 65, sitting in a circle rolling the Yahtzee die, asking each other, ‘Alright, guys, where are we going next year?’’
We made plans to visit each other in the US during the summer. Zoey told us to come to this huge fair they have every year in Missouri. Jordan said everyone needs to come to New York to experience an “upstate NY summer” and to see the Finger Lakes. Dean said we can all come down to Florida and hit the beach with him and Kyrra.
After they headed out, I pulled out my laptop and recapped the day in my journal, texted Cole to ask if he had ever heard of Daddy Finder. He hadn’t. He told me he was working on his Substack. What is the deal with everyone and Substack? I made him send me his website. He has a weekly newsletter detailing the adventures he’s been up to in Spain. I like this idea. I think I’ll steal it.
September 8th, I woke up feeling antsy. We didn’t start work until October 1st, and without a routine, I struggled. Jordan and I were both having bank issues, so we walked to the Santander bank around the corner. The woman at the counter had a fierce bob and spoke Spanish very fast. I pulled out my phone to use the Google Translate listening feature. “¿Repite, por favor?” I asked. She sighed and repeated. The app didn’t work. This is just grand. I tried to explain my issues with my card and the mobile app not working. She gave me a phone number to call. Jordan forfeited his spot and said, “I’m just going to go back to the bank we opened our accounts at. They spoke English there. Might be easier.”
Jordan walked home. I stood outside the bank and dialed the number. Not understanding any of the prompts, I lingered on the line until someone picked up.
I said “Hola. ¿Habla inglés?
“No…pero…(insert some Spanish, something about transferring me)...Un momento.”
She transferred me. The line clicked “Hello. How can I help you?” Thank god. I explained my problems with the app. She said I needed to update my new address with the bank and that I would need my passport with me to do so.“Okay. Okay, thank you.”
I went home, found my passport in the nightstand, and went back to the bank, smiling nervously at the woman. I’m sure she’s thrilled to deal with me again. With a little finagling, we were able to change my address and order a physical card to my apartment. She had me sign a few forms. The line behind me grew. I said a lot of apologies and thanked her profusely, then walked back home thinking Fucking hell. Why is this so hard? Once I made it to my room, I found a guided meditation for self-esteem. Before starting it, I turned on the fan so my roommates wouldn’t hear my deep breaths through the door.
Later, I went to the store, tried to buy salmon, but ended up with tuna patties. Standing in my kitchen, I stared at the white blobs. How do you cook fish? Fuck. I googled it. Okay, pan-sear in hot oil for a couple of minutes on each side. I can do that. Easy peasy. Smoke filled the kitchen. I opened the windows and turned on the vent to try and clear out the fish smell. Using Jordan’s meat thermometer, I overcooked them to be safe. Time to clean up. I backtracked all of the surfaces I touched with raw fish, wiped everything down with soap and water, washed my hands, paused, then washed my wrists and forearms. This is compulsive, Annie. Shit, do I smell like fish? I pulled my shirt up to my nose. I can’t tell. I should shower. Annie, no. You smell fine. I want to shower. I need to shower. Nope. Exposure Responsive Prevention, bitch. Can I at least change my clothes? Will that relieve your anxiety? Yes. Then no! Gahhhh. I paced around my bathroom, looked at the shower, walked to my closet, and looked at my clean clothes. Hey girl, I think now is a good opportunity to lean into the anxiety. I’d rather not. Let’s do the thing that would make you most uncomfortable in this situation. Not change my clothes? Think bigger! No, no, not that. Yes that. I stood at the foot of my bed. Don’t make me do it. We’re doing it, okay? Okay. I lay down in bed, rolled around. The world didn’t end. I felt better.
I texted Cole, “I just did something good for my anxiety. You don’t even have to know what it is. I just had to tell someone that I did it.”
“You can tell me.”
“No, it’s okay, really.”
I lay in bed for a while, and eventually stopped trying to figure out whether I had contaminated my sheets or not. I think at some point I fell asleep. When I woke up, the sun was starting to set. I felt bad. I ate some leftovers. I did not take the time to savor them on the terrace. I texted my mom, “I miss you.” I texted my Aunt, “I miss you, lady. It’s lonely here sometimes.” I texted my Dad and Nikki. I stared at my phone, hoping for a quick reply. I needed someone to talk to. I could text Cole or Jacob. No, no. I don’t want to be overbearing. Fuck! What if I’m not cut out for this? There’s so much to do and buy, and what if I’m a horrible teacher’s assistant, and what if I have a breakdown and can’t function? I can’t even have a smooth trip to the bank or the grocery store without doing something wrong. I think back to the cashier laughing and shaking his head, and the bank teller’s sigh. Who am I kidding? I don’t belong here. I should just go home. I am reminded of a conversation with my friend Abe from home. We had been discussing how we both get anxious on vacations.
I had said, “I always feel out of place on trips, like I need to isolate myself. I never know how to hang.”
“I get that. I always have to establish my calm triangle when I’m in a new place,” he said
“Your what? Your calm triangle?”
“Yeah. I think we all have three places that we need around us to bring us peace, whether that be a coffee shop or a park, or just your home. Whenever I’m in a new place, I have to establish my triangle.”
I lay on the floor and tried to think of my calm triangle. What was my calm triangle at home? Javas cafe? The Little Theatre? Home? Home’s never really been a place of calm for me. Too much thinking at home. I decided to go check out the movie theater around the corner. I bought a ticket to see Materialists.
Jose, the concierge, was at the door. I told him I was off to the movie theatre down the road. He said, “¡Disfruta!” I looked at him funny until he pulled out his phone to translate. “Enjoy,” he said with a strong accent. “Enjoy the movie Oh, I said and giggled, “Disfruta, si si.”
I walked to Cine Embajadores, only a seven or so minute walk from the apartment. It was getting pretty dark. The air was warm. I showed the guy at the door my ticket. He scanned it and said “sala tres.” Sala must mean theater. I couldn’t read the aisles, so I sat in the back row, feeling restless. Am I in someone’s seat? Will I have to move? Should I just leave? A couple came up to me, and I moved over.
The movie was sweet, cliché, and predictable, but it gave me what I needed. The end credits played a John Prine song I like a lot. “In spite of ourselves,” I left the movie theater nodding my head and singing “ She’s my baby, I’m her honey. I’m never gonna let her go.”I didn’t care if people stared. Stopping at the street corner, I waited for the light to change and called Cole. He picked up after a few rings. “Hello?”
“I am finding my calm triangle.” I stated.
“Your what?”
I explained the calm triangle thing and continued, “I know. I know it’s silly, and yeah, I’ll admit the movie was pretty terrible, but sitting there in a room full of Spanish-speaking strangers, watching this English movie with Spanish subtitles. We all spoke the same language in a way. We all understand emotions and facial expressions and love and sadness and grief, and I don’t know, man. Sitting there in the dark, I finally felt like I belonged here…Sorry that probably sounds stupid. Movies make me pretty sappy.”
“No. No. I get it. That sounds nice.”
I told him I was feeling pretty stressed out earlier that day. Be vulnerable. It’s okay. “I’ll be honest, man. I’m really scared…” I got a little choked up and continued, “I’ve never done anything like this. I’ve never left home for more than two weeks. I was only half an hour away from college, I was home all the time, I…I…I’m really scared. Fuck, man, I’m really scared.” I sniffled, recollected myself. “Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean to get so emotional there.”
“No, no, you’re totally fine. And hey, if it helps at all, to me, you seem like you are doing a great job adjusting to everything. It is scary. That’s totally normal. But if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here.”
“Thank you. That means a lot. And hey, thanks for listening.”
We wrapped up the conversation. I walked back home, opened up the window to the living room, sat at the table, and journaled for a while. It was a calm end to a restless day.
The next day, I woke up feeling refreshed. My phone rang. It was Cole. I answered.
“Do you put your shoes on sock, sock, shoe, shoe, or sock, shoe, sock, shoe?” he asked
“Sock, sock, shoe, shoe, of course.”
“Okay, good. Just checking.”
There’s a lot of good to be had here.
