Hello! I realized that if I didn't write soon, y'all might think that I was still feeling all sad and missing my friends. Which would be false. I still miss you guys, por supuesto (of course), but not in the same way. Because I got over my case of the blahs and decided to actually go out and experience the famed Spanish nightlife. What followed was a night filled with chocolate and banana crepes, arabian tea, hookah bars, and dancing in a club until 4 am all with the wonderful other people in the program. It was a experience of many things: learning how to blow smoke rings, learning how to interact with Spanish men, and perfecting walking the slippery, uneven Granadinian streets in heels.
Of course, staying out until 4:30 in the morning is a slightly less than wonderful idea when you have to leave on an excursion to a small pueblo called Ronda at 10 the next morning and you still haven't packed (thrown a toothbrush and underwear in a bag). But that's what we did. And I woke up the next morning, did the aforementioned "packing", and groggily went downstairs to eat some delicious fresh fruit, fully prepared to pass out on the bus for the 3-hour ride. Instead, I was greeted with questions regarding one of group members, "V".
Apparently she hadn't returned to her room last night, and no one had contacted her since the club the night before. After breakfast we went into a meeting room to try to reconfigure our plans, as Mihai, our director, didn't want to leave with this situation unresolved. So he asked questions and we answered them as best we could, but the truth was that we didn't know much. And we were left sitting there while Mihai and the monitores went off to make harried phone calls to the clubs, the hospitals, and the police.
The mood was constantly changing. At first we had all listened to him with a grim silence, stealing glances at each other's faces but mostly just staring at our clasped hands, our rain-stained jeans and our cobblestone-beaten shoes. There was nothing to do but wait. A cell phone started ringing and we all tensed a little with the hope that it was V calling. But it was just someone playing with a phone. Slowly, the air began to loosen as we started talking. Quietly at first, with a cautious air. Was it okay to talk? Maybe laugh nervously? That was really the only thing we could do, besides coming up with theories about her whereabouts that grew even more ridiculous as time went on. We turned our heads at every echo of a footstep in the hallways, and if you happened to be the unfortunate person who was entering the room you were greeted with held in sighs and an air of disappointment that you had no new developments to tell.
Shrieking whistles and children's laughter was our white noise, courtesy of the elementary school next door. iPods were taken out and coats were pulled over sleep-deprived bodies. But some of us just stared straight ahead, lost in thoughts, in possibilities, in situations. And finally, resolution came. 5 hours later. When V finally answered her phone and we discovered that our theory that she had slept at a friend's house and was still sleeping (thus not answering her phone) was correct. And she was perfectly fine. And we went to Ronda.
However, for me, there was one more hardship for me yesterday. In between lunch and leaving for Ronda I picked up a message from my dad. And it contained the news that my 100 year old cousin/grandfather type Barrie had died. And he was going to be cremated. I don't really know how to begin describing my feelings about this. Barrie, at 100, was more with it than a lot of people half his age. I may have had to answer his meaningful questions in a slightly louder voice than I normally use, but my answers were always followed by a thoughtful response. During the annual 2.5 hour ride to our Philly passover, I had listened to his thoughts on history, education, current events, the state of our country, the meaning of being Jewish, and how the country had changed over the past century. This past June we celebrated his 100th birthday and the turnout was great. There were people that I had never seen before, even though I'm sure I'm related to them in some way and then our usual crowd. It was truly a celebration of his life, but at the time I did not think that, in a way, that party was my one chance to see how loved he was by so many people. To hear other people talk about his life in such a way. It was wonderful.
Because right now, I am in Spain. And I don't think it would be practical for me to return for whatever type of memorial service there will be. I am going to miss his final party, and I'm going to miss being around the people I love that love him. His funeral, as weird as it sounds, was one I was looking forward to. I'm going to miss the first passover sedar without him that anyone can remember, literally. I'm sure that that sedar will also be filled with many stories about him, his work, his life. He was a great playwright whose work has been translated into multiple languages. In the theater world, his name had meaning. And sadly, I don't know much more than that. And I wish I did.
All this was what was going through my mind on the 3 hour bus ride to the gorgeous pueblo. But luckily, again, the people I am with are wonderful. And knew I was hurting, and they helped. With hugs, with music, with laughter. And surprisingly, last night almost rivalled the night before in fun. This gives me hope. If I can be happy with these people even when I am destroyed a little bit inside at recent events, I can be happy when things are normal. Yesterday was a day when we all became a little closer, brought together by our shared stress, concern, and relief over the morning's situation. And I came to appreciate, even more, the friendships that have been created over the past week. And right now, I am happy. Really.
j
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