I’ve recently come to the conclusion that I am turning into my mother. Frightening. I like my walls painted white, I choose neutrals over color, I brew my coffee strong and drink it with half and half, milk just won’t do, like routine I put my pajamas on as soon as I get home for the evening, I clean my entire apartment before I go away from the weekend so I can, as she used to say, “come home to a clean house,” we constantly wear similar if not matching outfits, we order the same things at restaurants and now I share her same love for found, shabby chic objects, junk shops and antiques.
I remember when I was young and she would take me into funky shops and antique stores, I was always bored before we even walked in. More often than not my expression was that of unmasked hatred, I would drag my feet following her around, sulk in the corner of the store, and eventually start complaining, how embarrassing. I didn’t understand what she found so appealing about dusty old headboards, delicate linen pillowcases, weathered wooden tables, and aged rugs. Days when she would change around the layout of the living room “just for fun” seemed like a chore rather than amusement but typically after some protest I would “just humor her” by helping her move the sofa.
As I got older and matured I began to appreciate her interest in decor and my own tastes began to shift more towards hers. I can remember when I stopped having the desire to shop at Abercrombie and changed my choice in clothing to reflect a more classic style. I stopped wanting my walls painted lime green, I think that was the one request my parents never did give in to, I started avoiding colors and opting for natural earth tones, and my closet began filling up with white shirts, denim, and black. The transformation had been set in motion.
Some of my favorite memories of spending time with my mom take place in the morning. She used to habitually get up before sunrise when I was a kid and I would always wake up with only just enough time to shower and head to school, so we never spent much time together in the morning. However now days she rises later and I don’t sleep in so late so we get to enjoy time together before starting our day. My ideal mornings are the ones when I wake up and she has a pot of coffee already brewed and a cup sitting out on the counter for me. It is summer time so the weather is warm. We both sit on the patio in our pajamas drinking coffee and waiting for the heat to arrive while Iris, our dog, begs for us to play ball with her before giving up and lying in her dirt hole in the shade next to the house. Once the dog leaves us alone we read magazines and flip through moms “folder of inspiration.” The folder is simply an old, raggedy, faded, red two-pocket folder filled with old clippings and articles featuring decorating inspiration and things she likes. I have my own folder of inspiration now but it doesn’t have the same amount of love moms does. Mine is a crisp, new, filing folder from Anthropologie covered in light blue and pink hydrangeas that stores only a dozen or so pages I’ve ripped out of magazines like Dwell, Elle Décor, and Real Simple.
This summer I will be moving into my first apartment on my own, and mom and I have already begun planning how to decorate it. One of the first things we made sure of was that the place had hard wood floors, carpet is “icky,” as mom would say, and that the walls were painted a crisp white. After solidifying an apartment that met both those requirements we were left with a blank canvas. The first weekend I return home from Barcelona we are going to Massachusetts to attend an enormous antique flea market in order to look for a couch and whatever else we find for my new place. I am almost more excited for the flea market when I get home than I am for mom and dad to come visit me in Barcelona. Okay, maybe I’m slightly more excited for our only real family vacation in four years than I am to hunt through piles of antiques, but still, I am looking forward to spending time with my mother; this is the longest I have gone without seeing her. The day trip to Massachusetts will almost certainly be a family outing also, in general this would be the sort of thing mom and I would do alone but this time we are including dad so he can carry anything heavy and drive us there in his truck incase we come across that amazing couch I am planning on finding.
My mother shared in my excitement for spending the semester in Barcelona, and told me that studying abroad was something she never did but wishes she had. She wrote her wishes for my time abroad in my Christmas card, “My Dear Sweet Eloise, Have a wonderful trip. Meet fun people, have exciting adventures, and visit as many wonderful places as possible. Mom Loves You!!!” I go back to those words often when I am feeling homesick, stressed, or when I begin wishing for something more out of my experience. I believe it is important to set goals and expectations and there were a few I had for my time in Europe.
Last summer while taking a course in Italy I became aware of how much I am capable of learning about my beliefs and aspirations through other people. The knowledge I gained and the connections I made through the people I met, the places I visited, the things I learned, the conversations, and the disagreements all helped form my own opinions. I set out to Barcelona in January with the idea that I could only grow further this semester through self-discovery and experiencing new cultures. I was expecting an experience similar to the one I had in Italy. My plan was to use my time to explore Europe as well as myself. In addition to the wishes of my mother I had a few more of my own. I wanted to practice speaking Spanish, discover Barcelona through walking a lot, and try new and interesting foods. I planned to stay informed on news in the United States by listening to the news stream on National Public Radio and wanted to make it a point to read more, learn, ask questions and facilitate interesting conversation.
I was sitting in a Starbucks alone, sulking one afternoon about month after arriving in Barcelona, the initial excitement of living in a new city and a different country had cooled off and I came to the realization that I was lonely, sad and not having as much fun as I expected. I strongly wished my friends from home were there with me to laugh and do wild and exciting things while running around Europe. I hadn’t met anyone I really wanted to spend time with in Barcelona and everyone was preoccupied with partying and nightclubs, which I wasn’t very interested in. Although looking back, if I could start all over again, I would have gone out to nightclubs more in the beginning with the girls that live around me. If I had, I would have become closer with them earlier, because as I found out they don’t like clubbing either, but thought it was the only thing to do. Had we realized sooner how similar we actually are maybe we would have become much better friends prior to the final month of the program. I understood early on though that the majority of my peers at IES were not people I would be friends with in “real life,” back in the United States, so I didn’t have much interest in befriending them. Once I told myself I was, for the most part, on my own, I started to seek out places of interest in Barcelona and the cities I traveled to where I found comfort and enjoyed spending time alone. As it turns out the perfect companion for my adventures would have been my mother, because all of these places reminded me of her.
On my journey to Le marche aux Puces, the flea market in Paris, I wished she were there with me. Prior to my time abroad my mom used to talk about the Paris flea market, describing to me what she has read about them in her decorating books and what she had seen featured in magazines. She would tell me about their charming antiques, mismatched china, delicate fabrics, old books, and funky furniture. We both romanticized about what we could find at the market and discussed how lucky the Parisians are to have such a wonderful place. The closest thing we have in Deep River, Connecticut is the junk shop on Main Street that calls itself an antique store, although we do find an occasional jewel there from time to time. Mom would have loved the flea market in Paris.
One Saturday morning in February I parted ways with my traveling companion and set out for the flea market by myself. I exited the metro and was immediately surrounded by fast food restaurants, hair salons, tattoo parlors and one-euro marts lining both sides of the street. I made my way up Avenue de la Porte de Clinancourt confused, sticky from the drizzle and completely out of my comfort zone. I walked farther into the sea of men selling knock off Louis Vitton handbags and prayed I was headed in the right direction. Entirely unsure but willing to take a chance, I continued through what surely was not the flea market I was looking for. I walked briskly through rows upon rows of touristy t-shirts, Nike sneakers, every designer knock off a 13-year-old girl could dream of, jewelry that would turn my skin green, and the constant soliciting of vendors trying to get my attention. Not exactly what I daydreamed of while sipping coffee and eating a croissant in a café that morning.
As soon as I thought I was out of Cheap Good Hell I was hit straight on by more crap. According the my map I was supposed to be there, the antiques should have been right in front of me and I couldn’t understand why the only things I could see were crepe vendors and ugly euro trash clothing. I don’t speak French, I was scared to ask for directions and I was ready to give up when I glanced over to my right and read a sign for Antica, a market that sells furniture and objects from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. I was relieved I had arrived.
A bit hesitant at first I only looked at the weathered furniture and vintage clothes scared to touch anything and still a bit shook up from the journey it took to find the place. After looking through a few stalls I found inspiration from the hanging chandeliers, wobbly old chairs and elegant empty frames leaning against a graffiti wall. I took out my camera and snapped pictures as I wandered; I thumbed through old post cards, dug through baskets of antique silver spoons, and sat on many grand, velvety couches. The haphazard yet polished way the vendors display their antiques is really interesting to me, I think it is beautiful how they place shapes and textures in a hodgepodge sort of way to form an inviting, inspirational, and artistic display. I wandered, completely entranced with no sense of time.
I can hang out in bookstores, grocery stores or markets for hours. I think because I’m an only child I enjoy my space and revert back to playing alone for fun. I lose myself in exchange for a playful fantasy world I used to enter as a kid. These places are full of characters, adventure, untold stories, and excitement. Bookstores are great to wander through for hours; I become immersed in the magazine section first, catching up on the latest fashion trends and home décor before sitting in the cookbook section for hours picking out books I would like to add to my collection and copying down recipes to try. In the mega bookstores of the United States I like to grab a book from the shelf and sit in the on-site Starbucks drinking coffee and reading.
Grocery stores, I will admit, are strange places to go to enjoy ones self. Shoppers are always fast paced, in the grab and go mentality, speeding around with their shopping carts like race cars nearly running down grannies and small children as they make their way up and down the isles barely even glancing to see exactly what they’re throwing in their carts. Not to long ago, before I entered college, I was the exact same way, the grocery store was just another chore and incredibly boring. However, once I found my passion for cooking and food, grocery stores became fun. I think the produce section is a colorful work of art; I like to read labels on products, compare nutrition facts, and keep an eye open for new products. I prefer local, small-mart businesses to Stop & Shop, but I do experience many of the same elements of intrigue and fun in both.
My all time favorite places to wander through are markets, food markets, antique markets, junk markets, flea markets, flower markets, I haven’t really come across a market I don’t’ enjoy. In Washington DC there is a very small market that I go to near campus every Wednesday. Even when I’m feeling crazed by schoolwork I make time to swing by and purchase my weekly staples. I love sampling the different varieties of apples, pears, apple butters, jams, melons, tomatoes, dips, crab cakes and soups, in fact if I go there hungry for a snack, I leave pretty satisfied. Farmers markets are great places to meet new people and strike up interesting conversation. Everyone’s always grazing, drifting from one stand to the next, which makes for a laidback and inviting atmosphere. To me, the best part of farmers markets and dealing one on one with food and agriculture producers is the creation of strong human bonds and the focus on bringing the energy back home, to local communities and regional produce.
In Barcelona whenever I am bored I wander through la Boqueria, a lovely produce market overflowing with chicken legs, bags of live snails, stiff fish, full legs of ham, juicy oranges, olives, and artisan chocolates. I find myself snapping photos and drifting through the stalls aimlessly at least twice a week. I think the bright colored fruits and vegetables are striking and I find humor in the frozen expressions on the faces of dead fish. Part of what I enjoy about la Boqueria is the competitiveness within the market. I understand wanting to have a stall near the front entrance because shoppers in a hurry don’t take the time to walk back, but in the front the goods are more expensive due to higher rental costs for that prime location. It is fun to compare the prices of the exact same goods at stands in the front versus those back in the depths of the market. Sometimes the mark up is shocking. I don’t usually buy much in la Boqueria, it is fairly touristy, and the prices reflect that, but once in a while I’ll grab an apple to munch on while I walk around or sometimes it’s the only place to find good looking blackberries. Most of the time I shop for produce at a small fruit and vegetable market in my neighborhood. This family-run shop has a good assortment of apples, my favorite fruit. I usually purchase a mixture of pink lady, golden delicious and fuji apples, eating a different type each day keeps things interesting. After shopping there for a few weeks the owner started to recognize me and became friendly. Each time I would go there we would have a short conversation with the little Spanish I speak, trivial topics, but nonetheless it was nice to have a personal connection to a local business and the community.
Through my travels this semester I’ve visited many markets in many different countries and cities. One of my favorites was the Borough Market, London’s most renowned food market and the heart of the local community. I accidentally stumbled upon the market and I am so happy that I did, it was my favorite thing I saw in London and I am incredibly envious of Londoners access to such a place. The market is a heaven for high quality food, shoppers were made up of chefs, amateur cooks, and people who just love to eat and drink. The incredible quality of the food is not the only thing that makes the markets so special though, the market is populated by a community of people from all over the United Kingdom, Europe and beyond, all who care genuinely about the food they eat and offer. While I talked with a man who makes granola I could feel that human connection I mentioned earlier, we talked not only about his granola but also the added sugar in commercial brands, which he then started talking about obesity that then led into a discussion about food systems. I had only just met this man but instantly after starting up conversation with him I felt comfortable and enjoyed talking with him. After a few encounters like this one it was quite easy to see that many of the stallholders are themselves producers, the people who grow, care for or bake the food that they sell. Others are importers with immense knowledge of where they source their products from. As a result, the Borough Market I quickly realized was exactly what I had been looking for, a place to explore, to ask questions, and to discover new flavors.
As I walked through the market I wished that I hadn’t just ate breakfast. The market was sprawling with vendors and inviting aromas that guided me from one stand to another. I did do some sampling while I wandered, but the feast my eyes were having and the smells my nose was experiencing were exceptionally pleasurable on their own. I tried a few different homemade jams, first I tasted cherry and then apricot before I got more adventurous and tried a savory compote the vendor handed me. I liked the fruit ones the best, my sweet tooth usually reigns supreme. I nibbled at some artisan cheese, sipped hot spiced cider, chomped on a few cashews, ogled at pastries, salivated in front of the homemade veggie burger vendor, and slowly glided through and around the swarms of people with my jaw hanging open and my nose on high alert.
This is the sort of market that simulates the cook inside of me. I love cooking with the seasons, changing my tastes from light to sweet in the summer, to comforting and nourishing in the fall. Farmers markets are a great source of inspiration for an ever-changing menu, but the Borough Market was the all time best inspiration, I only wish I was allowed to cook in my home stay back in Barcelona because I was dying to get in a kitchen. Food is a way to explore my creativity and myself, I wish the Borough Market were accessible to me every day to help fuel that creativity. I’ll just have to thrive off its memory once I finally get back in a kitchen. My mom’s not much of a cook so my parents love when I am home to make them dinner. It is safe to say I will be using the inspiration from the Borough Market in the meals I prepare when I get home.
As soon as I signed up to go to Morocco for spring break I was ready to leave, my mind was constantly filled with images of markets and exotic culture. I knew the trip would be a chance to immerse myself in a different way of life and of course I was looking forward to buying lots of things for cheap in the market. The kinds of things you can get in Morocco for cheap are exactly the types of accessories and design elements I have in my “folder of inspiration.” The exotic prints, delicate glassware, rugs, lanterns, mirrors, leather, and small tables are frequently featured in home décor magazines and blogs and are sold in the United States for an insane mark up. I laughed and joked with a friend on the trip as we schemed about ways of getting a rug back to Spain and then eventually to the United States without having to ship it. A backpacking trip through Morocco isn’t exactly conducive to heavy rug purchases. Of course though, the first thing my mother asked me when we finally spoke after my trip was whether or not I bought a rug. She was joking, but we both liked the idea of having a rug purchased from Morocco. Apparently there is some rule in my new apartment building about having a rug in the living space to cut down on traffic noise. So mom and I have been trying to come up with a good idea for a rug and not just any old rug will do, we want it to be a “cool” rug, I know, we’re ridiculous.
The markets in Morocco are intriguing, unfamiliar, and exotic places. Walking through them is a whirlwind and completely overwhelming, I was filled with excitement, uneasiness, and wonder. I had two opportunities to shop in markets during my trip; the first was in Rabat and the second in Chefchaouen. While waking through the market in Rabat we were guided by two young Moroccan men. Our group leader had set up the meeting because the whole point of the trip was to talk to Moroccan’s and facilitate conversation. One guy in my group was dead set on getting a hookah while we were there and we spent what seemed like hours bargaining with shop keepers over prices only to walk away. While the bargaining was happening our guides didn’t want us to stray too far so I spent a lot of time just standing around. Because I was so annoyed with having to stop every time we saw a hookah I didn’t want to be annoying and make everyone stop while I looked ate ever tea set and leather bag I saw. I had a list in my mind of things that I thought I might want to buy while I was there. At the top was a leather satchel purse, then a tea set, scarves, spices, a silver ring with a big turquoise stone, sandals, and whatever else I thought I might be able to carry back with me. I didn’t buy anything in the Rabat market, but I knew that in Chefchaouen we would have free time to shop and I feel more comfortable shopping alone. Actually, the truth is that I feel most comfortable shopping with my mom. I am very indecisive when it comes to purchasing things. I can make decisions about restaurants, movies, bars, and things to do, and most often my friends and family look to me to decide these things. But when it comes to clothes, jewelry, antiques, anything that I am buying for myself, I have a really hard time making a decision.
Chefchaouen is an extremely touristy area in Morocco and it was especially packed with tourists, mainly Spaniards, because of Samana Santa, so there was an element of comfort there. Chefchaouen is located in an area in Morocco that speaks not only Arabic but also Spanish, a reflection of Spanish colonization, which made talking to shop clerks much easier than in Rabat. On our last night in Morocco we had free time there with the idea that everyone had one final chance to spend the rest of their dirham, the Moroccan currency, and pick up any last minute gifts or purchases. I was originally very excited to wander the market and planned to at least get a tea set, a leather bag, and some spices, and well, I ended up leaving with only a tea set. As I walked around and looked through shops I was completely overwhelmed, I wished my mother were there to guide me and be the voice of reason on whether or not something was gaudy or chic. There were so many cheap and beautiful things I didn’t know what to choose, I wanted to get “the perfect” bag and “the best” scarves I could find, which meant looking a lot and then choosing. While I certainly did a lot of looking, I never did choose.
To be honest though, I don’t care that I didn’t leave with anything but a tea set, I left with so much more. I went home with inspiration and a new respect for a culture that was incredibly foreign to me. At the end of our visit we all sat around with our guide and were asked to share what was most shocking to us about our trip. For me, I was most shocked at what I was taking home with me. Rather than bringing back beautiful goods purchased for cheap, I left with a better sense of myself and with the memory of my host mothers totally unexpected hug and the emotions I felt after our embrace was over.
The morning of “the hug” I awoke to some commotion by the door to my room but didn’t come fully out of my sleep until I heard a voice asking what time we needed to meet our group to continue on to Chefchaouen. I had grabbed my phone, 7:30am it said, we were supposed to be out front in half an hour. I quickly jumped out of bed and grabbed my roll of toilet paper and headed to the bathroom. The other two girls were a lot slower to their feet and in a matter of minutes I was cleaned up, dressed, packed and sitting down for breakfast before they even rolled out of bed. I had assumed my host mom was going to wake us like she had the morning before, but I was wrong. After two cups of tea and a fried pancake like pastry with orange marmalade I put my shoes on and prepared to say good-bye even though the other girls were nowhere near ready, I wanted to be on time.
With my hiking shoes on and my travel pack on my back I smiled at my host mom and took a minute to breath as I walked towards her. The whole morning felt like a whirlwind. She smiled back at me and as I got closer reached her hands out, I wasn’t sure what her intentions were and we had a bit of limbo before our hands finally met and she held mine in hers. Then, surprisingly she took me into her arms, which was unbelievably uncomfortable at first. I went to pull away and as I did she drew me in closer and held my face cheek to cheek with hers. I stopped resisting and allowed her arms to consume me as I relaxed and naturally hung around her for a brief second. I walked away with such an amazing feeling and I was so incredibly touched by her hospitality and pure kindness that I felt overcome with emotion. I almost started crying as I walked out the front door and down the road towards our van.
Hugging is very popular in the United States, we hug our friends, our family, our lovers, even people we don’t know very well, and it’s almost meaningless because it happens so much. Hugging in Spain however is uncommon, kissing of cheeks is kosher, but hugging is off limits. I have only had two surprising hugging experiences with my host mom Senora Elisabeth while being in Spain. The first time she hugged me was the night my roommate Gina’s parents came over for dinner. After they left I was helping Elisabeth clean up and I told her how much fun I had. She grabbed me, kissed my cheek and then pulled me in for a full on hug. It was totally awkward since I hadn’t been hugged in over a month. I think she had a really great time that night and was so happy that I did to she felt the need to hug. The only other time she hugged me was when I gave her a gift. My mom’s cousin Dana came to Barcelona from Madrid for a food show and gave me some rosemary crackers from one of the vendors. I knew if I kept them I would eat them all, so I gave the crackers and an open bottle of olive oil from a food presentation I had to give to Senora Elisabeth. She smiled so big and giggled her funny childish and contagious giggle and thanked me while reaching out and drawing me in for a hug, no kissing this time. Even tough this was the second time; I was as stunned as I had been the first time it happened.
After going so long without hugs they make me sort of uncomfortable, even when friends studying in other countries come to visit and try and hug me as soon as they see me, I squirm and try and make it end as quickly as possible. I am looking forward to a few hugs that are coming my way next week though. I am eager to see my mom and dad walk through the doors of the Barcelona airport next Wednesday and hug me. Mom keeps telling me how she can’t wait to come “snuggle me all up” and I know dad will have a big bear hug waiting for me. We have a system for hugging in our family, dad hates it, but mom and I love it. I always hug mom first, then dad and then mom again, the rotation must always end with mom, even when dad tries to be sneaky and come in for a second hug, mom then gets a third. I imagine that is exactly the way it will work when I finally see them again next week. I am looking forward to telling them in person all about my experiences here and I am most excited about wandering around Spain with my best friend and favorite shopping companion, my mother.
