Obscurity

            

           The last line in George Elliot’s Middlemarch has been running through my head recently. It reads, “But the effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive: for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.” To sum it up, if you do what’s right, even if no one remembers you, you’ve had a positive impact on the world, and that’s good enough. And isn’t that what I’ve been doing?
            Last night, I helped watch Christine’s sister’s kids at a wedding. That was nice. And the other day, I went to my old high school and helped with a reading group. That’s pretty nice. I empty the dishwasher sometimes. Kinda nice. And once, I crocheted little animals and left them for strangers. Way nice.
            But is that all it’s supposed to be? Am I contenting myself with the small things when I should be reaching for greater? I have to ask myself these questions because these are the days in which I decide what I ought to be doing with the rest of my life. Oh of course, I’m young, and I can always decide to do something different, but why not get it right on the first try if I can? Why not find myself in something worthwhile from the get go?
            And as I search the internet looking for the perfect job or position, as I look through google maps trying to find the perfect city in which to live, and as I open blank document after blank document trying to type the perfect words, I’m afraid I will never find it. I will never find the great thing that I was always meant to do. I will never find that stroke of genius that I am to be remembered for. Instead, I will rest in an unvisited tomb. And when that fear takes me, I think of George Eliot and her brilliant novel. I think, “Well if Dorothea can live such a good life and be content with obscurity, so can I!”
            And so I make plans how to best content myself with obscurity. “Incredible,” I think as I scroll through Pinterest, “These bacon jalapeño deviled eggs will prove to my husband I am a loving wife.” “How cute!” I scroll, “This Noah’s Ark blanket will show my baby I really care.” “Whoah,” scrolling, “Those abs will be my abs. And I will be so sexy.”
            But why must I content myself with unhistoric acts? Why should I aim to rest in a forgotten grave?
            Fear.
            Fear of failure. Fear of pursuing the wrong dream. Fear of embarrassing myself when I realize I can’t reach what I aspire to.
            But I am beginning to realize that not reaching at all could be so much worse. 

Socks

We each hold our little iPods close to our face.
“Gosh, I can’t believe you guys have another snow day. Seriously, I picked a good winter to get out.”
“Yeah, it’s freezing here,” Talitha tells me, “and we are supposed to get more snow again tomorrow.”
“I know I shouldn’t complain, but I’m also freezing. My apartment’s so cold!”
“Yeah, but what is it in Spain, like 60 degrees?”
“Maybe…” I slowly give in, “but there is no central heating so it’s also 60 degrees in the house! I’m still wearing my winter coat over a sweatshirt and that thick grey jacket I have. I have on leggings under my jeans and I have on two pairs of socks. Normal ones and then the ones we got last Christmas.”
“Me too!” she says, “I have mine over other ones.”
I laugh, “Really? I never take mine off. I think I’ve been wearing them since December 25^th of 2012. They are starting to wear through at the bottom.”
“Mine too!” She sticks her foot up to the camera, and sure enough her pick patterned socks are worn through revealing her sock underneath.
I smile and look at the bottom of my own sock. It’s a deeper magenta but with the same patterns and the same hole.

Tag-Teamed

We sat on the bed quietly watching the two men inspect our phone jacks and attempt to figure out what the problem was. There was the older man who lived with his wife beneath us, very nice, asking us how our schools were and if we had eaten yet and how everything was going. The other man was the couple’s nephew. His deep voice reverberated around the room. Spencer and I sat quietly and listened to their Spanish bounce back and forth.

When they had finished their poking and their adjusting and their talking, they explained the problem to us. We nodded “understandingly.” We saw them out and shut the door behind them.

“OK, so basically the problem is the box that the guy installed?” I asked.
“Yeah, and they are going to call the internet guy tomorrow,” Spencer answered me.
“But why does it even matter?”
“I don’t know! I just want internet! They better not mess it up again.”
I laugh, “Yeah, seriously.”

But there was no word on what ever happened with that internet man. Instead, there were new light bulbs for the overhead kitchen light and the fridge. Spencer and I stood in the doorway watching them install the lights. The little old lady had come upstairs this time with her nephew instead of the husband.
“words I couldn’t understand the light is all shuddery words I couldn’t understand and you have to push this button for the lock words I couldn’t understand so funny you didn’t know the gas under the stove words I couldn’t understand or how to work the lock,” And then she laughed her little kitten laugh.
The light they had brought for the kitchen was a dud, so they replaced it with the old shuddery light with no mention of when they would return. We shut the door behind them making sure to press the tiny button under the deadbolt before sliding it into place.

“Gawd, I don’t know why they told me not to mess with the light! Like I could reach that!”
I look over at Spencer, “They said that?”
“Yeah! They were telling us not to mess with it.”
“Oh, I had no idea they were even talking about that, but did you catch the bit about the lock?”
Spencer laughed at me, “You said ‘bit’ again.”
I smile at the British English invading my own. “Did you catch the part about the lock?”
“No, show me.”
And I did show her. Tag-teamed understanding.

We headed back into the kitchen and looked up at our flickery light.
“Should we straighten some of this up before Teresa and Angela get here?” I gestured at the dirty dishes and the pasta sauce stained on the stove. And then Spencer and I were whirlwinds, cleaning the dishes, scrubbing the sauce, hiding the trash. We rushed into the sitting room laughing.
“Of course we wait until the last minute to do this!” Spencer said.
And I agreed and laughed as we swooshed crumbs into our hands and grabbed the teacups we’d been using for wine. But by the time Angela and Teresa called me to tell me they were at the door, we were ready to give them the tour of our flat. Tag-teamed cleaning.

“We need more seasoning!” I complained.
“Do we have butter? Butter is a seasoning. It’s Paula Dean’s favorite one.”
Oh the South. But I put the butter in my noodles just the same. Tag-teamed cooking.

“I just don’t know what I should do with my 4-year-olds.”
“I have The Hungry Caterpillar!” Spencer ran to her room to grab it.
“Perfect,” I said, “And if you need ideas for your tutoring classes, I have loads of things stocked up from when I tutored Chinese kids two summers ago. Here, come see,” I showed her my flash cards and lesson plans and games I had created.
“This is awesome!” She said. Tag-teamed teaching.

Spain would not be as beautiful without my nugget roommate, Spencer Willis. Tag-teamed Spain.

Caffeine

It was about a week ago, and Spencer and I had just gotten our keys. We’d moved most of our things into our new apartment, but we stayed one more night at the hotel to take advantage of the “free accommodation” that we’d already paid for through program fees. That Monday passed slowly. It dragged along and made me weary.

“Hello! My name is Leah.” I stood in front of a class of third graders.
Wide eyes and a lot of smiles.
“I am 22.”
Whispers. “¡Que joven!
“My favorite color is purple. And my favorite animal is a tiger.”
“Un tigre!”
I smiled in front of those many pairs of eyes.

The teacher’s lounge in my school was flooded with smiles and questions. We spoke in Spanglish, and we drank a bit of bad coffee out of tiny plastic glasses. The coffee tasted bad, but I drank it anyway; I had only been drinking tiny snatches of coffee here and there. I missed it.
“Ehm, have you done something like this before? With students?” The teachers looked at me expectantly.
“Not exactly. I have worked with kids before, but not in a class setting like this.”
An exchange of glances.

The afternoon classes passed just as the morning classes. There was a lot of talk about animals and colors and weather and whether or not I had a boyfriend. And by the end of it, I was tired of introductions and new people. I was given a ride back to the hotel and had to small chat in Spanish the whole way back.

Spencer asked me how my day was, and I said fine. More small chat. We, too, were only just beginning to know each other. The day before, Sunday, we had gone to a random café to drink tiny Spanish coffees. Ask for a coffee, they give you a shot of espresso. A mini coffee. Not enough for me. Spencer and I had sat together and talked about what our majors had been and what we hoped to do with them. We talked a bit about boyfriends and a bit about regular friends. We talked about the cloudy sky and the prospect of sun.

We were getting really good at small chat, and so I told her about my first day of school and how it was fine and all that. But after we said goodnight, I sat in my room with a headache. A headache for all the newness, for all the new people. I knew I should see it as an adventure, but in that moment, I just wanted sameness. I wanted people I already knew, and I wanted coffee to come American sized.

That Monday night, I dreamed about coffee. I dreamed of it steaming hot and swirling black. I woke up with an epiphany. Maybe I wasn’t so tired of new relationships after all. Maybe it was my caffeine addiction crying out to me, demanding attention. I left the hotel earlier than I needed to get to school. I had twenty extra minutes, and I was on a mission. Is there time to buy filters? Probably not. Doesn’t matter. I let myself in our new apartment and marched straight to the kitchen. I looked in the draws and cabinets. No filters. Fine. No matter.

I tore a paper towel off the role and set it sweetly into the coffee maker where the filter should have gone. I poured the grounds in. Lovely. The water next. Beautiful. Flipped the switch. Fantastic. And waited for the slow drip of coffee.

The coffee maker purred for me.

Tuesday, I walked to school with a bounce in my step. I ran through English games and activities in my head. I planned. I schemed. I looked forward to smiling big at the new faces with all the new names. I was ready to conquer.

I knew it was the caffeine coursing through my veins, but it felt a lot like confidence. 

Getting to Spain

            I sit in the Miami airport at gate D64. It has taken a lot to get me to this point. But finally, finally, I am waiting for them to call my group number. I repeatedly check the time hoping that nothing will go wrong. I still have hours before boarding, but I keep thinking that something will prevent me from getting on this flight to Madrid. Two days earlier, I sat in the Indianapolis airport also checking the time over and over again. My flight to Chicago was pushed back and pushed back until it would have been impossible for me to make my connection. After ten hours of sitting in the airport and after having multiple flight reroutes, they tell me I’m not leaving that day.

            I call Claire, and she picks me up straightaway. The next day, she drops me off with plenty of time to catch my new flight. Instead of flying to Chicago or New York, this time, I get to go to Miami. No snow, baby. The flight is delayed of course, but I make it to Miami. I’ve missed my connection, but at least I’ve gotten on a flight. I stand in line to be rerouted just like everybody else. They tell me I’ll probably have to go tomorrow through London. I sigh and resign myself to a night in the airport, no hotel vouchers for weather. But wait! The lady with the tight pony tail smiles at me, “I think I can get you on a flight to London tonight,” she says to me.
I hold my breath, “That would be perfect.”
She prints off my schedule and hands it to me, “Just go to the desk and they’ll print your boarding passes.”

No they would not. “You’re not on our roster.”
I deflate.
A lady takes my schedule. “Yes, but it says right here she’s supposed to be on this flight.” They confer for a minute or two.
“Sorry there’s nothing we can do.”

            I breathe deeply to stop the tears. I turn and head in the direction I came from. The handle of my suitcase is giving me blisters. Ridiculous. That’s proof how easy my life is. I shouldn’t have anything to complain about; my hands are smooth with laziness. I shouldn’t have worries; I get to stay the night in a warm airport, Miami. But I do have complaints and I do have worries. I rush to the bathroom and hide in a stall. I let myself cry for approximately three minutes before figuring out the next step.

            After four more hours and three more flight reroutes, I am finally settled down in a corner of the airport. My luggage is between my body and the wall, and the leg of an extra pair of jeans is draped over my face to block the fluorescent airport lights. An ad of a young woman smiling with beautiful teeth, beautiful skin, beautiful eyes, watches me through those morning hours.

            I get up around 6 AM. The airport has awoken. I thought about exploring Miami, but the thought of my luggage biting into my hand as I walk down unknown streets and look into the faces of unknown strangers scares me into remaining in my corner.

            But here I am finally. Waiting at my gate. This is it; nothing will go wrong.
“Hello, folks, we have a full flight today. The flight is overbooked by 8 passengers, so we are looking for volunteers to go to Madrid tomorrow at the same time. We are offering a hotel voucher for tonight as well as a $1000 voucher to be put towards your American Airline account.”
A thousand dollars. That could be nice. And my trip is ruined anyway. What’s one more night? I’m an adult; I can stay in the hotel. I’ve been rerouting my flights for days now. But I can’t decide, and like the true adult that I am, I call my dad.
“What do I do?”
“Go for it! That could be a trip to the Dominican or England!”

            But the fates decided for me. They ended up not needing me, but they made me wait to board the plane until the very last to be sure. Everyone glared at me as I finally got on the plane. I wanted to explain I wasn’t the hold up, I was the martyr here.

A martyr. Sacrificing days of my life to the airport. Spending months of my life away from my family and country.

But does a martyr get a thousand dollar voucher? Does a lonely extranjero get to spend months and months soaking up sun with some of her favorite people?

That extra miserable night stuck in the US would have been a business investment, just as these five months spent in Spain are an investment in relationships, language, and culture. Where would I have been able to go had I gotten that voucher? And what will I be able to do with the experiences I will store up while I’m here?