never on sunday

panzón and i rented an unfurnished loft on barcelona's famous carrer dels tallers, an extremely busy semi-pedestrian street filled with record stores, tattoo and piercing parlors and trendy shops. it took little to furnish our tiny place, but for some reason or another, we ended up going to ikea many times. one of these times was on a sunday. i don't know what possessed us, since everyone knows that everything is closed on sundays in barcelona, except los pakis, which are small (usually) pakistani-owned shops that are packed from floor to ceiling with the bare necessities (toilet paper and beer, among other things).

emerging from the underground metro into the sun, we immediately realized that we were in a sketchy neighborhood, when the people at the local bar, with a beer-sponsored sign that read frankfurt, sitting on matching plastic chairs, gave us a you-don't-belong-here look. we kept walking, past low-income housing blocks, across a high-speed road with no crosswalk, through a construction site, and along the desolate streets of an industrial area. we walked for hours in the unbearable heat of an oppressing sun, not a soul in sight. we were obviously lost and very thirsty.

right when we were about to call a ridiculously overpriced taxi to come pick us up, we caught a glimpse the blue and yellow building, an oasis in that concrete desert. at last, we were saved! we would be able to drink water, devour a crispy onion-topped hot dog (or two), revel in the air conditioning, even rest on a pöang chair! we walked weakly toward our swedish haven and were overjoyed to hear muzak coming from some outdoor speakers. we were just about to step through the gleaming glass doors, when *gasp!*, they didn't automatically open. we thought something must be wrong with the doors and tried again. nothing.

so it was true, absolutely everything is closed on sundays.

¡olé!

when i was about six months pregnant, my mom, panzón and i took a trip to madrid. i was feeling great and even more energetic than i did before pregnancy. the three of us went sightseeing and visited the big three museums: museo del prado (http://www.museodelprado.es), museo thyssen-bornemisza (http://www.museothyssen.org), recently romodelled by spanish architect rafael moneo, and museo reina sofía (http://www.museoreinasofia.es), with its new extension by french architect jean nouvel.

panzón had some work to do, so my mom and i took a day trip to segovia by train, which only took about half an hour on the ave, which literally means bird, but cleverly stands for alta velocidad española or spain's bullet train. the city is small and quaint, making it easy to visit in one day. before leaving, we enjoyed a meal of cochinillo, which is a baby pig, at el mesón de cándido, right behind/beneath the city's tremendous aqueduct. cochinillo is segovia's specialty dish and we didn't want to miss out on this delicacy, which is roasted to perfection, crunchy on the outside and oh! so tender, that it is cut with a plate instead of a knife (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SZmiH5FCz98).

i must have overindulged because that evening, back in madrid, i suffered from horrible heart burn. it was so bad, that i was thinking about canceling our reservation for a flamenco show later that night. luckily, after a couple of anti-acids and a short nap, i was as good as new, and we headed out. i can't remember the name of the tablao, but it was definitely not corral de la morería, which is a world famous show that was booked solid that week. anyway, the moment the flamenco artists started to soulfully sing and dance by quickly clapping their hands and stomping their feet, something inside me, namely coco, suddenly and tremendously moved. i had felt her before, in the form of a poke here and there, but never like this. it was as if there was a miniature flamenco dancer trapped inside of me. panzón and my mom took turns feeling my wobbly belly, their hands moving rhythmically with each blow.

i hope to take coco back to her country of birth to rediscover its unbelievable food and deep music and rich culture with her.

not in the mudra

shortly after moving back from spain, i tried out a local yoga studio, anxious to start practicing again and enthusiastic about contributing to a small business in the community.

it had been about three months since my last class in barcelona, which had been exactly one week before childbirth, as i had been going weekly to an amazing iyengar yoga class that was, coincidentally, directly behind our building. i could look out the window of our tiny loft and see, across rooftops, antennas and clotheslines, students in their little pouffy shorts, that reminded me of diaper covers, obediently moving their bodies from pose to pose. in class, i would hang upside down on the ropes, feeling like a bat with a belly full of butterflies, before resting on ten perfectly folded blankets and two precisely placed bolsters.

strange sounds were coming out onto the sidewalk from deep inside the studio, as panzón dropped me off. i walked inside and waited for them to stop, but when, after several minutes, they didn't, i peered behind the curtain, into the vibrating darkness. gradually before my eyes, a feminine figure appeared, moving intensely over some sort of box. the deep sounds came to a progressive halt, as she noted my presence. the crystal hanging between her eyebrows trembled as she calmly put away her instrument, which she explained was a traditional wooden portable harmonium brought all the way from india, but not by her, as she hadn't "made it there yet". her sedated speech agitated me, so i waited quietly for class to begin, which was about twenty minutes later.

the class was total crap, the instructor kept contortion-ing herself into complex positions in front of the mirror, not even checking to see if her three students were doing them correctly or hurting themselves. during relaxation, she talked on and on about floating up into the sky without losing our hold on the earth, blah blah blah. i was just glad it was almost over. ah-oh-mmmmmmm. namaste.

i jumped up and was quickly rolling my mat, when suddenly, my female yoga-mate shared that she had gone into a deep meditative state during relaxation and that she had felt the presence of her deceased brother-in-law in the room. apparently, he had put a hand on her and whispered that everything would be alright. i was right in the middle of rolling my eyes, when i heard my male yoga-mate starting to cry. he said that his wife had passed away recently and that she had made an apparition as well. the three of them shared a group hug and cried and held hands. i stared at them in disbelief, then felt uncomfortable and stared at the wall, which was painted blue with white clouds. i desperately wanted to leave, but knew the doors were locked for security reasons, and didn't want to interrupt their moment.

finally, there was a loud bang on the door and the instructor went to open it. i followed her in a hurry and was surprised to see panzón standing there. he had been worried, since i had taken longer than expected, and had gone looking for me, only to find locked doors and blacked out windows. he had been there for a while and was quite distressed. the yoga instructor looked at us like we were both neurotic freaks, let us out, and went back to her little séance.

i never went back.

backfired

going to barcelona was babushka's idea. i would basically go anywhere and didn't even know what barcelona was about, even though i wanted to study architecture after high school. let's just say that babushka was the more intellectual of the two and was keen on getting the most out of her time abroad. we made an agreement, she would direct daytime activities and i would be in charge of nighttime excursions. my brilliant idea, to reduce accommodation costs, was to stay at a hostel every other night and go clubbing on non-hostel nights. in order to achieve this, we packed light, so light that i didn't even take my glasses because the case took up too much space.

we took a night train from nice, complete with sketchy characters, took turns sleeping/guarding, and arrived at barcelona in the morning. walking up the steps from the underground train station, the first thing i saw was antoni gaudí's casa batlló (http://www.casabatllo.es) on passeig de gràcia. it came as a complete surprise to me, as i had not done any research on barcelona, and i was instantly captivated by the city. we spent the day sightseeing and that night, slept on one of the thirty or so, miraculously bug-free, bunk beds that made up the female section of the grimy pensión colón, near las ramblas.

the next evening, we had a nice dinner at a restaurant and, during dessert, took turns visiting the restroom, from which we emerged transformed, eager to dance the night away. my informal daytime investigation led us to the backfire, a benevolent club that opened its doors without asking for i.d.'s and let us store our small backpacks behind the bar, on which a masked couple in black leather thongs and six-inch platform shoes were dancing. by dawn, we were up there with them, having the time of our lives. when the club closed, we claimed our sacs, changed into our regular clothes again, and started another full day of sightseeing. we rested frequently on benches and ate many popsicles to keep our energy levels up. i actually fell asleep with my chin poised on a soda cup at the mcdonald's right outside gaudí's sagrada familia (http://www.sagradafamilia.org).

towards the end of our five day trip, during which i never removed my contacts, not even for sleeping, one of my eyes became red and teary. i eventually had to throw the lenses out to let my eye rest, which was inconvenient, as i can't really see well beyond my nose. at the train station, babushka placed me and our things near a vending machine and told me to wait there, while she got our tickets. i decided to get something from the machine, and had to press my face against the glass to see what it offered and squint to see what letter/number combination to key in. when babushka came back and saw what i was munching, she remarked, "i thought you hated maltesers".
i had intended to buy a kit kat bar.

in the bathroom

privacy practically ceases to exist in motherhood, especially during toddlerhood. i have learned to live with this and don't think twice about using the toilet in front of coco, which is extremely potty-educational, or bathing with the door wide open.

the real challenge is keeping her entertained and out of mischief for the duration of a shower. sometimes her natural curiosity is enough, though being scrutinized makes me feel somewhat awkward, but most of the time i have to be resourceful. i do a lot of disco-bathing lately, letting her practice with the light switch, while standing on a step stool placed against the wall. filling her potty (http://tr.im/z0f4) with bath toys (http://tr.im/z0eu & http://tr.im/z0eh) is also a great source of amusement and keeps her busy long enough to actually wash my hair! at least she's using her potty constructively, right?

vienna

three months before giving birth, panzón and i decided to travel to prague and vienna. i had just gotten my spanish resident card and was thrilled to use it for the first time, so i deliberately left my passport at home. at the airport in prague, an immigration officer quickly glanced at our papers and let us through, a triumph for this proud resident of the european union.

after a couple of days in prague, we took a train to vienna. i noticed, as an impeccably uniformed man approached our seats and held out his hand, that the czech officials looked shabbier than their austrian counterparts. i confidently handed him my card and was slightly annoyed when he asked for my passport, until i heard the words only valid with passport. i instinctively lied that i had lost it in prague. he took our documents and gravely warned "i'll be back" (http://tr.im/yUFl). i didn't know if i should laugh or cry. i did a little of both.

when the train made its last stop, the terminator came back and let us off the hook, recommending that we immediately go to our embassy. i could not fathom wasting a perfectly lovely viennese day at the mexican embassy, so i disregarded his advice and convinced panzón, who knew better than to argue with a pregnant woman, to go sightseeing.

after leaving our things at the hotel, which was a university dorm catering to tourists during summer break, we ate wiener schnitzels, which have nothing to do with hot dogs, bought a block of hazelnut manner wafer cookies and walked around. i fantasized about skipping arm-in-arm with wolfie (http://tr.im/yUIZ), giggling away in a breast-bursting dress and feathered hat. tee hee hee!

panzón snapped me out of it by handing me the phone, having already dialed the embassy. i told the ambassador about loosing my passport in prague, knowing perfectly well that it was safely stowed in barcelona. i thought, and suggested, that he could give me some kind of note, like a bathroom pass at school, that would allow me to return to spain and that would be that. impossible! he wanted details, so we spent the rainy afternoon in his office.

ambassador: was it stolen? if it was, you have to report the robbery.

me: oh, no. it was accidentally left at the hotel.

ambassador: what hotel? address and telephone, please.

me: um, can we google it? *we googled*

ambassador: i'll call. if they find it, i'll have it mailed to my office and you won't be able to leave the country until then.

me: but our flight is tomorrow! what if they don't find it?

ambASSador: they will, if what you say is true. *gulp*

he personally called the hotel in prague. no signs of my passport. i would have to get a new, emergency passport. so, the next day, after reporting the "robbery" at the police station and rushing to get my picture taken, where i was told not to smile, which made me laugh uncontrollably, i got my austrian-issued mexican passport.
we barely made our flight.

wah-hah-kah

panzón and i got married in oaxaca, which is the capital of the state of oaxaca in mexico.

we first travelled there with our fellow architecture students and a couple of teachers on a private bus from guadalajara, armed with snacks, (hidden) beer and excitement. by the time we got there, eighteen hours later, we all looked (and probably smelled) terrible and a streak of fluorescent orange vomit decorated the side of the bus.

we quickly recovered after eating tlayudas, which are actually like really big tostadas, even though some people refer to them as mexican pizzas, under the giant laurel trees of oaxaca's main square (it's heart!), el zócalo. we walked around the city's colonial center and visited the 16th century convent-turned-hotel camino real (http://tr.im/yHy1), where i had a vision: this is where i am getting married to him *turned around and looked at panzón, who was oblivious to my vision*.

that night, we all went to la casa del mezcal, a true cantina, where you can taste different kinds of mezcal (worm or worm-less), which is similar to tequila. we ordered round after round of caballitos (shot glasses), each sip preceded by a ¡salud! and followed by a bite of orange or lime. five rounds later, i proudly declared myself reina del mezcal, or "mezcal queen", when i realized i was the only female left. my glory was crushed, as our friend kbuz, short for "caboose", walked in and mercilessly took my title by ordering six caballitos for herself. we crawled out of that cantina, at the innocent hour of nine o'clock, like arañas fumigadas, which literally translates to "fumigated spiders".

that night, we all sang wah-hah-kah. it turns out that the bus decoration was but a sign of what was to come.

mouse ears

i don't know the exact number of times i've been to disneyland in my life (too many to count with fingers and possibly even toes), but i'll write about the last four.

on the fourth to last time, i went with almovi and his wife, muntsa, who was pregnant with their first child. we each got a mouseketeer hat: almovi's said mies (as in mies van der rohe, german master of modern architecture), muntsa's said zyanya (their baby's name), and mine said panzón (my boyfriend at the time, my childhood friend/crush, my future husband). we got our picture taken with mickey mouse: eight mouse ears and one big belly. this memorable photograph would later haunt me, as a friend of almovi's commented, with childlike cruelty, that i didn't need a mouseketeer hat because i could have just painted my own ears, that stick out a little, black. grrrrrr.

anyway, on my third to last visit to disneyland, panzón and i got engaged. i'll leave this story for later, but i'll just say that it happened in the darkest moment of pirates of the carribbean, right before the first drop.

the second to last time i went to the happiest place on earth was last year. it was coco's first time, two months away from her first birthday, and it was not very happy at all. panzón, coco and i met with almovi and mutsa (pregnant with their third child) and their two beautiful daughters. coincidentally, the first ride we went on was pirates of the carribbean. i guess i had forgotten about the darkness, the drops, the bony pirates and the loud BOOM!s, but as soon as we got on the boat, i knew it was a mistake. coco cried during the entire ride. and on every ride after that. i feared a lifelong disneyland-trauma.

my last visit to disneyland was on tuesday. this time, panzón, coco and i went with loquillo. for coco's second time, two months away from her second birthday, we decided to avoid pirates all together and went directly to it's small world. to my relief, she absolutely loved it! she kept saying todos, referring to all of the children of the world singing together. we got her her own mickey ears, which she wore happily during the parade. the photos we took would later remind my mother of my own toddlerhood, when i would wear my mouseketeer hat as an everyday accessory in guadalajara, and panzón's mother and grandmother would call me ratoncita, meaning "little mouse".

igualada

around the time coco was conceived, panzón and i, quite ironically visited the igualada cemetery (http://tr.im/xVye) with our close friend, who everyone knows by loquillo, which means "smallish crazy man", a pretty accurate description. the cemetery was designed by catalan architects enric miralles (http://www.mirallestagliabue.com) and carme pinós (http://cpinos.com), who were married at the time. i had used this quarry-turned-cemetery as a reference for my thesis, that was about the reuse of abandoned industrial sites, but had not bothered to look it up before our visit, which is probably why it surprised me on many levels.

we got in our 1985 red two-door volkswagen golf, inserted the cassette that was connected to my ipod into the radio and began our short road trip away from barcelona. loquillo and i exasperated panzón, as always, by having multiple conversations at the same time, some of them pointless, some of them leftovers from another day, some of them mere parentheses.

after getting lost a couple of times in the cemetery's industrial surroundings, we finally crossed the enclosing gate, which was a victim of oxidation, and were greeted by a handful of delicate blossoming trees, scattered on a clearing. the complete lack of signs and people made us feel like we were entering a forgotten place and our descent towards the main space, enclosed by tomb-lined walls, but open to the sky, humbled us and reminded us of our own earthliness. just then, we saw the presence of the living: horrid benches and cheap trash cans and tacky plastic flowers, and we were reminded that is place is not forgotten.

maybe our visit wasn't ironic at all, maybe we unknowingly took home a lonely soul awaiting rebirth.

gemz

it seemed that, upon my arrival to mexico, i confused people, who, not seeing a bow or earrings, quickly assumed i was a boy. my short curly hair certainly didn't help. neither did my disgust for the color pink, nor my reluctance to wear dresses (this reduced the possibility of showing my underwear, which i believed was one of the biggest mistakes one could make. i must admit, however, that i did enjoy the repetitive display of men's underwear on torso-less, leg-less mannequins at department stores. and the stockings, one pointy-toed leg after another, all reaching for the sky).

it irritated me that these strangers didn't look further for hints of my subtle femininity. like my pink gem-studded moccasins (each shiny gem a different color), which were the only pink exception i allowed because of their comfort and uniqueness (after they were worn out and outgrown, i received a second, seemingly identical pair, which turned out to be, in my opinion, an inferior, gem-shedding replica). they could have seen that my outfit had beautiful, shimmery seashells on it, which everyone knows that boys never wear.

i would later become accustomed to the frustrating reactions of people to my appearance and would eventually thrive on them during my teenage years, when i wore my hair even shorter, my shoes even shinier, and my gems (glued) on my face.

two lines

the night after we confirmed, by peeing on a stick, coco's existence and imminent arrival, we went out to dinner for our anniversary, during which, over fondue (www.gadesfondues.com), we had one of many what-are-we-going-to-do conversations. well!, we agreed, first we need to find out if it's true, if the pregnancy test is right, right?

so, the next morning, i called the doctor's office and asked to make an appointment. "what for?", asked the receptionist, dryly. "i need to know if i'm really pregnant", i responded, voice and hands trembling. "what makes you think you're pregnant?", asked the receptionist, irritatedly. "the pregnancy test i bought at the pharmacy was positive", i explained, eyes welling up. "well then, you're pregnant, aren't you? what do you want to see the doctor for?", she said matter-of-factly, slapping me with her spanish (from spain) tone. "um...", i said, looking around, trying to find the words that were cruelly hiding from me at the moment. i panicked and hung up.

wow. home pregnancy tests are that accurate.

procrastination

motherhood changes you. there's no way around it. it changes your body forever because, even if you lose the weight afterwards, the pregnancy fairy always leaves something under your pillow. bigger feet, for example, or, in my case, a tiny shift of the tailbone. i'm also pretty sure my bellybutton moved, though i can't precisely tell in which direction. most of my senses are sharper now, making danger-detection easier. unfortunately, my eyesight didn't benefit at all from maternity.

motherhood also affects the brain. priorities are reprioritized and attitudes towards life (or at least towards giving life) are carefully reconsidered. procrastination is reduced to a minimum because there is certainly no room for laziness in motherhood. you have to act now and you have to plan ahead. always.

these are things that i didn't do on a regular basis before. i have found great empowerment in ridding myself of the sticky slime that is procrastination. and now that napping, a pastime that had given me great joy for years, has become (almost) extinct, i have made a huge discovery: i have enough motivation and time and newfound structure to actually do something productive with my creativity. bingo!