Viva

I think often of this word, of its contextual meaning in conversation, and then also of its underlying root meaning, life. Somehow, this word encapsulates every feeling I have while living in this beautiful, raw country when I'm disciplined enough to fully engage all of my senses. The smells, the images, the sounds, the tastes, and the physical presence of Spain - these are naturally the things most tangible to me here, and each time I am able to focus my attention on one of these specifically, my mind sighs in reverence and utters a simple, undeniable "Viva."

Throughout all the expected ups and downs of living abroad in a country and culture that is foreign, each day of it seems to bring me closer to myself. I grow more confident in who I was before I came here, who I am now, and who I want to be as life takes me on its twists and turns. I have come to believe that this is a natural effect of travel, one I can't imagine myself living without.

What's interesting about this, what I've realized today in fact, is how these mental changes are manifesting themselves physically, on my body and in my face. Yesterday, while shopping in the city center of Granada due to a cancelled class and some unexpected time on my hands, I half-heartedly decided to try on a pair of jeans in a size 8. Once inside the dressing room, I hung the jeans on the wall and glanced in the mirror, giving myself a quick, "Here goes nothing!" half-smile, and then stared for a few moments at the "skinny" style jeans I had chosen to try to squeeze into. I imagined myself in them ideally, how they might look and feel against my curvy frame, hugging all the right parts of me and comfortably clinging to the rest, making me look undeniably chique like all the near-model-beautiful, stylish women of Spain. I realized in that moment how, no matter how much I try to deny it, I desperately want to fit in here - to look Spanish, to have the natural, easy elegance that so many Spanish women emit, to look stunningly casual and modern in a pair of simple, faded blue jeans. (This, perhaps, would explain my sheer joy whenever someone tells me that I look Spanish.) Immediately following these wishful musings, the more typical image of myself came into view: stepping into the jeans, pulling them half-way up to my chunky thighs and realizing that, of course, they weren't going any further up, lest I need someone to come in and surgically remove them from me. Despite the disappointment of this possibility, I laughed to myself and pulled the jeans from the hanger and stepped into them cautiously, one-leg-at-a-time.

"Like a glove" is the only expression, however trite, that comes to mind to describe the private little miracle that occurred in that tiny dressing room. I'm surprised I didn't shout in triumph or call the attendant over to verify my unexpected results. After nearly 10 years of floating from a size 8, then on through to sizes 10, 11, 12, and 13, I find myself today sitting in a pair of size 8 jeans for the very first time since HIGH SCHOOL. The feeling is of course victorious and triumphant, but most of all I am struck by a sense of wonderment.

I don't know how I've done it. Here in Spain, I have a debatably "healthy" breakfast every day of one scrambled egg, two slices of buttered toast, and a strong coffee with milk and (real) sugar, and I eat pasta nearly every night. If I want ice cream, I don't worry about seeing my thighs and stomach turn to creamy, gelatinous folds of skin - I eat ice cream. If my bake-all-day-long housemate offers me a slice of her fresh-from-the-oven pie or chocolate pastry, I sit down and savor it and wash it down with a tall glass of whole milk. After a long week of teaching, if my body is screaming for a bottle of wine and some oil-soaked tapas, I go for it. I can honestly say that I've never been so NON-conscious of the foods I put into my body, since living in Spain.

The only practical explanation that comes to mind is, of course, exercise - or what I prefer to call physical activity, since the word "excercise" to me has become so unpleasanty connotated in the recent years of diet-obsession. I don't own a car, a fact that I am proud of. I have a relatively busy schedule that keeps me sitting down for an hour or two at a time but then promptly up on my feet again to "book it" to the next class, which usually involves no more than a 15-minute, steady-paced walk, albeit sometimes slightly uphill. I live in the old Moorish Quarter of Granada, notorious for its steep, rocky hills which, when I first arrived here, climbing even at a snail's pace made me feel I might go into cardiac arrest. Now, I take these hills in easy stride every evening upon returning home. I do take the bus quite often, when it's necessary to save time and economically practical, but other than that, I'm on foot wherever I go. This is a part of the Spanish way of life - Spaniards love to be out together, walking around in packs and laughing, window-shopping and sharing the ins and outs of their daily lives with one another.

In this way, I think my gradual weight-loss can only be explained by my becoming more and more Spanish as I live here: not so much in the things I eat, but in the way I eat - not caring about what it will do to my figure but what it will do to my spirits, to my enjoyment of life; and not so much in how much time it takes me to get from point A to point B, but what I do in that time, outside of just getting somewhere as soon as possible. When I walk to someplace I need to get to, I have time to listen to my favorite music, to use it as a soundtrack to the images and people I see on my way, to see the world differenty and myself in it - to muse. These are aspects of the Spanish culture that I want to always keep with me as I go where life takes me - these, and my size-8 waistband! Viva!!!