Toilet flushing is better in Spain

Nicky and I talked about the things that are different between  Barcelona (and Rome and Paris) and Atlanta. In Nicky's view, the toilet flushing mechanism in Europe is far better than here. Oh, and when he is here, he has to talk to people who are not his family. I hadn't considered it, but Nicky's conversation (and Cassie's and Greg's) was largely limited to people who speak English, except, as he pointed out, "really brief conversations with no depth whatsoever." Greg had his students totally to, and I could get by in Spanish for essential conversations, but the kids were on their own.

As usual, Nicky is an insightful little beast, in between his moment of testosterone-fueled boyness. He quickly got to the heart of one of the little hurdles of re-entry to our real life. It takes a minute to re-adjust to conversations with people again, but for me, it's like medicine. I can hear chatter around me and understand the tone of the room, but I can also tune it out a little more, because my brain isn't trying to translate at all. And I can joke around with people, say silly things to amuse myself with people's reactions, or respond to the way they are behaving, because I know what is expected here.

Jeez, I never realized how important it is to me to banter with people, get a grin out of someone, or even just make sympathetic noises to someone who is in the middle of some small dilemma. Did you ever think about how often people in Atlanta wish you a good day? Or did you ever enjoy some quirky little offhand conversation you had while waiting for the cashier? I never realized how much I missed that until I got back.

I went to Target this morning to pick up some stuff to send over to Cassie.  Going to Target is not usually a healing experience of any kind, but my exhausted, purse-losing, re-Americanizing brain was actually really happy to cross paths with maybe ten employees who all said good morning, asked if I was finding things okay, chatted a minute, or wished me a good day.  Even when I cracked a joke that didn't work, I understood why. And because, let's face it, I'm used to my jokes failing, I laughed at it and moved on, whereas in Barcelona if have felt very insecure.

All this was so ordinary, but after not-experiencing it for a month, the ordinary feels like a little gift.

And that is why, at the end of this blog, I am glad that I convinced my travel-hating, over-committed, stressed-out, logistics-hating, homebody self to go to Spain for a month: because going to an extraordinary place can reconfigure the ordinary until it feels like a treat.