Thoughts on Russian Christmas

My head is more often filled with random narrative phrases than not; when I walk through a city, sit and have tea with friends, even when I'm trying to sleep, I paint the scene with words in my head. Certain phrases will stick longer than others, and those that I like most end up either in my journal and/or (now that I'm posting again) on this blog. Sometimes I narrate my life in third person, other times I work out metaphors to represent the landscape, and occasionally I'll map out words to describe a world completely irrelevant to the one I live.  It's a rare moment that leaves me wordless, but that's exactly what happened at the Russian Orthodox Christmas services (we first went to the Kazan cathedral and later to the St. Nicholas cathedral) today. The singing, the architecture, the fixtures: they took my words away. I pulled out my journal this afternoon, as I usually do when I've been somewhere I think is worth remembering, and had no words to put on paper. My usually word-cluttered head was filled with nothing but screenshot memories of gold decorations and deep Russian vocals.

I type and delete, type and delete, unable to find the right words to describe what I saw, or rather, what I felt at the services. More than anything, I felt humble, even reverent. I'm not a religious person and often find organized religion frustrating, but the importance of these services to the people around me in the cathedrals today caused me to think a bit deeper about the presence of religion - Orthodox Christianity in particular - in maintaining the cultural identity of a people and place. I felt loss when Victoria and I discussed the inability of many Russians to practice their religion during the Soviet years, and mourned the many churches long forgotten due to the communist regime. I felt sadness comparing the clearly deep personal reverence of Russian Orthodox Christmas with the hallmark holiday I have always celebrated at home. Not because I would take back a single one of my wonderful Christmas memories, but because I would never be able to fully comprehend the relationship between the church-goers around me and the god to whom they are so faithful. I am filled, now more so than I have ever been, with a deep respect for those who maintain such historic religious traditions. 

Love from St. Petersburg,
Shonabell

Writing Again... From St. Petersburg This Time

Shawn Colvin's Twilight tunes out the airplane thrum. My hands are clammy from the slightly overly-heated air, but I grasp my pen a bit tighter and press my thoughts to the pages of my journal. The four of us (St. Petersburg-bound Colby students) sit, slightly cramped, in the middle aisle of this fancy two story plane. The stolen hotel pen is gripped tightly in my hand as my mind roams the cabin around me. On my left, Victoria sits next to the aisle, her feet slightly angled outwards. We boarded too late to fit her suitcase into the overhead bin, so she smooshed it partway beneath the blue patterned seat in front of her. Her light fingers tap at the seat-back screen, picking out music from the random flight selection, then her eyes dart back to the book in her hands and photos on her phone (I'm only slightly jealous of her multi-tasking abilities). She seems to have settled in for the trip, much calmer now than she was saying goodbye to her parents and walking through security. My eyes jump two rows ahead at the sound of giggling children, then dart back when I notice Victoria's attention is on them as well; her mouth moves into a slight smile. We may be exhausted from the hours of travel we've already put behind us, but our excitement for the adventure to come keeps our spirits high.

My hair won't stay tucked behind my ear so I take a moment to fuss with my braid. My hands fiddle with the slightly static strands while my mind wanders its way a day or two back to breakfast in Boston with dad, and the flamboyantly gay waiter who told me my hair looked like it could be on a Pinterest page (strangely one of the nicest compliments I've received to date, and one that my dad and I enjoyed laughing over multiple times during our drop-Shona-off-for-her-St.Petersburg-flight weekend). I smile at the accumulation of memories from the wonderful, if short, trip, and finish up my plait. The Residence Inn pen finds its way back into my hands, and I begin to write once more.

Faiyaz and Alan sit to my right, both occupied by Alan's book of Russian language tips. I laugh to myself as I empathize with their struggle to print Russian letters, a struggle I was all too familiar with a few months ago. I admire their dedication to this trip and the work they are putting in to get some of their pronunciations right. I give a suggestion here and there but am keenly aware that I could be steering them in the wrong direction; my Russian language skills extend the basics of declension charts and simple verb conjugations, with a few random vocab words thrown in to make everything more interesting.

It's not long before Ed Sheeran's Thinking Out Loud drags me back into memories of the end of my fall semester, and I struggle to focus myself. I'm tired, and my ability to put coherent sentences together is deteriorating.

OUCH! The guy in front of me just reclined his seat all the way back and slammed me in the head. Fiyaz laughs at me while I glare silently at the back of the chair in front of me, rubbing my forehead and trying to reposition myself to write again. I grasp an idea, and go with it:

This trip is a rather sharp contrast to my last study abroad experience. I feel relaxed, in control, and more prepared this time (which is odd because I've done much less orientation work for this trip than I did for my year in Marbella). When I dig a little bit deeper into my honest memories of Marbella, it becomes pretty clear to me the reason for a lot of the stress and fear I faced in the early stages in Marbella: unrealistic expectations. And that's not to say that I have low expectations for St. Petersburg, nor that Marbella was a disappointment. Two years ago I struggled to balance my expectations of exchange life with the rather difficult reality of not knowing Spanish and not being automatically the most popular person in school. The same problem got me again my senior year of high school. College apps were HARD and my acceptance expectations weren't met: cue unhappy teenage girl. So when it came to accepting my admittance to Colby, I decided to focus less on expectations and more on living each moment as it was. And now here I am, off to St. Petersburg, having skimmed over the itinerary and packed all my warmest clothes. I'm ready. To be honest, I have no clue what is about to come at me. I haven't even gone so far as to Google the city and scroll through pictures online. I know that my mind makes great jumps and spins intense webs, and I've decided not to clutter myself with that craziness anymore. I won't let my brain twist the city into something that could only ever exist in my head, and then expect my standards become tangible in the city. When I get there, I will see it, explore it, sense it and let it become part of me. But until I do, St. Petersburg will remain a mystery. One that I am so very, very excited to see.

I look back at the pages of journal that I've filled: I'm writing again. I take a moment to consider this, pen tapping against the pull down tray table, and a smile spreads across my face. Life is good; it may be messy and wibbly-wobbly at times, but I feel like it's heading in the right direction. My path doesn't seem to have linear tendencies like I once expected it to, but every stop I've made along the way since my acceptance at Colby has been filled with more laughter, smiles, and fantastic challenges that I ever could have predicted for myself. I sit on this flight and, for the first time in a long while, I write. And that action, in itself, feels like happiness.

Love from St. Petersburg,

Shonabell

Missing Marbella

It just hit me. I miss Spain. Terribly. I miss my city and my school, miss my walks down the beach, miss my favorite ice cream shop. I miss the ocean, miss the taste of salt in the air and always telling directions based on the beach. I miss the brightly colored buildings, the flowers and the tourist shops, the old Spanish streets and the taste of Spanish food. I miss catching the bus to wherever, miss having the feeling that I could go anywhere or do anything. I miss school, miss my seat along the long yellow wall in recreo, miss helping my friends in Latin and Greek, miss casual conversations with my classmates and having to learn cartwheels in gym. I miss Wednesdays with my best friend, miss calling her up and meeting her in town. I miss our long talks about anything and everything as we sat on the rocks and the sand. I miss her advice, her humor, her stories. I miss my exchange student friends, miss our adventures and our misadventures. Miss having someone to give my ice cream to when I couldn't finish it. I miss being pushed in the pool, miss my princess bed, miss washing the car in my bikini under the warm Spanish sun. I miss endless walks along the paseo, stargazing under blankets late at night. I miss the hugs that I dreamed about every day, curling up on buses and feeling safe in dangerous places. I miss smiling like my cheeks were going to burst, strawberries and cream that I wasn't allowed to touch. I miss spur of the moment taxi rides and melancholy, see-you-soon goodbyes. I miss falling up stairs and getting picked up when I'd fallen. I miss long summer days that never seemed to end. It all went so fast, but not a day goes by that my mind doesn't slip back to Marbella and the people I knew there.  It was a wonderful adventure, and I'm deeply, truly sad that it's over. And to be honest, I'm a bit terrified of what this next year will bring. Life really is one awfully big adventure.

Love from here, there and everywhere,

Shonabell 

A New Goodbye

Tick-tock goes the clock, tomorrow is the day.

The minutes go by and I watch as Sunday turns to Monday: Christian, Cj and I are waiting up at Nina's house. I'm tired from a day of packing, on and off tears, and nervousness for my flight tomorrow; but I can't go to sleep. The taxi is coming at 4am to take the three of us to the airport, where we'll meet up with Christine and Vanessa. Christine, Cj, and I have a 6:50am flight to Paris. I'll be back in California at 8pm.

It's funny, during this year I always made the mistake of calling the Malaga train station an airport. And now, when I went to type airport, I first wrote train station. Guess my mind is still finding it hard to believe that I'm going back. Don't know if I've really processed it at all yet. I did the same thing coming to Spain, put off the hard thoughts for as long as I could, then burst into tears walking through security. It's going to be hard to say goodbye this time. Already gave my farewells to my host families and Spanish friends. But now its time for the hard stuff. For the hugs that you don't think you can let go of. For the tears you think will never stop coming. For the see-you-soons that might never come true.

Don't get me wrong, I'm excited to go back. But in a sad way, a melancholy way: my life here seems so real, so true and so NOW. I don't want to forget, don't want to wake up Wednesday morning and feel like it was all a dream. Don't want to come to terms with the idea of "the past is the past, let it go." I'm nervous. So, so very nervous. I don't know what next year will be like. But I know I have people in my life I can always, always count on to be there for me. I have people who love me, who will stand by my side through thick and thin, and who will be in my life forever. Whether they live halfway across the world or in the neighborhood across the street, I know they'll be there for me. And I'll always be there for them. Forever.

Now wish me luck: I have 6 more hours till I'm catching my flight... gotta stay AWAKE!

Love from Marbella,
Shonabell

Last Days

Well, it's the end. Or, as Vanessa (who is currently sitting on this cramped bus beside me) says, its the beginning of the end. We're seniors: I had my last day of junior year last Friday, said goodbye to my teachers and friends. Christine and I said our Rotary-farwells this past Wednesday, giving out final besitos and saying our thank-yous. I spent my last night at my host parents house last night, made my bed for the final time this morning and cleared out my room of everything except a small pile of clothes that I couldn't fit into my trip suitcase. I gave my host parents a farewell gift yesterday, a painting with my handprint and quotes from the Jim Henson's "Saying Goodbye" song covering the smeared paint. I woke up this morning, packed and ready for our viaje-por-España-y-Portugal, and had a bit of a panic attack. This is it, those final moments I've been looking forward to all year. These are the days of goodbye, of see you soon, of I'll miss you and Tequiero. It's hard to wrap my mind around going back, of leaving behind this life I've built here and going back to the one I've had for fifteen years. I'm turning seventeen in five days. Five. I'm putting off my birthday for as long as I possible can, almost hoping it'll be forgotten in the craziness of travel and sightseeing that we're going to experience this trip. Seventeens always been the age I looked towards, dreamed of. It's the year I'd planned to have so many things done by: SATs, AP classes, first boyfriend, first kiss, best friends, college visits, drivers license, Prom… so many expectations, some of which have come true and others which haven't. And yet, as seventeen comes closer and closer, I realize how many things I've done that I'd never have expected: I've seen and traveled through Spain, been to England, have plans and dreams to travel for the rest of my life, I'm confused for what I want from the rest of my life, but I'm happy to live in the moment, I've fallen in love, I've made friends and family in places I never thought to call home, I've begun to feel comfortable and beautiful in my own skin, I know how to work public transportation systems (mostly), I've learnt another language and have the goal to learn many, many more, I've grown up and yet I'm still confused, I'm still me. Thank you to everyone for this amazing year, I hope that seventeen is an even better one. The future might be terrifying, but I think I'm ready for it.

Growing Up

I'm sitting next to my little host cousin, Nacho, as he writes a book report on the story of Peter Pan, the boy who never grew up. He's got the storybook beside him, making out the words one by one and struggling to decide what to write. "I'm bored, I don't like the story of Peter Pan," he complains, and my host uncle tries to convince him of the wonders of the story. "Así volaron y volaron, como cometas al viento," the words ring in my head as he reads them aloud, the beauty of such simple spanish phrases, from a children's book to say the least, catching my mind and my thoughts until I can think of nothing else. I don't want to grow up. Or do I, I can't decide.

They say the story of Peter Pan is a children's story, a fairytale to enjoy when you're young. I've always liked the story, though as a child I disagreed heartily with Peter and his refusal to grow up. It seemed silly to me, for I'd always wanted to be older and more mature, that anyone would want to be a kid forever. The adults always seemed to have more fun, they went out without parents, had freedom and the ability to choose whatever they wanted to do. The world was an open door to them, and I enjoyed peering from inside the fun, safe house in which I passed my time. How I wanted to be older; oh, the joys of being seventeen, eighteen, twenty, thirty. But now that I'm less than a month away from seventeen, Peter Pan's ideas of running away to Never-Never Land grow more and more appeasing.
To go off and start a new life of without responsibility, worry, stress (except those pirates of course haha), and only the thought of the adventures we might have on my mind. All those responsibilities I rarely considered when I thought of growing up are now crashing into my reality. Its a terrifying and exhilarating thought, to grow up. Because unlike Peter Pan, I do have to grow up. I'm going back in a month and six days: this is the end of my adventure here, this wonderful year that has taught me so much. And though I know I'm going back, leaving my Never Never Land, a part of me refuses to grow up. A part of me still smiles when I play a board game with my 5 year old primo, a part of me still fantasizes about being a princess every time I see a castle, a part of me still dreams of being whisked away by Peter Pan in the middle of the night.

And yet, though I might not have met Peter Pan, swum with mermaids, or been chases through the sky by pirates, I've had plenty of my own adventures here. The people I've met and learned to love, the places I've seen and the things I've done, each a memory I will hold onto for the rest of my life. So, though I may have to grow up, I will always remember what it is to be a kid, to have that hope and love for life that so many people seem to lose. I will always be a little kid on the inside, a princess and fairy-loving girl with romantic hopes and dreams. I can grow up all I want, but that will never, ever change.

Love from Marbella,
Shonabell

Home

With just two months left in my exchange and a month's worth of "viajando" behind me, my thoughts on life ar as steady as the Marbella weather: one day sun, one day rain, and the constantly changing winds. As I'm sitting on the beach, chatting with my friend Claudia, the thought of going back to California, leaving these sunny beaches, lack of homework, and other things that I find so much joy in here, fills my stomach with dread. Then, after spending a week with him in Marbella and Barcelona, all I wanted was to follow my dad onto the plane as I stood there, pretending not to cry, and said goodbye. Most of all, I think back to everyone I've met this year; the Spanish, English, Australian, French, Canadian, *United States of* American, South American, Belgian, and even Danish people I've met and become friends with during these past eight months. Because, though I may have met them here, on my exchange, they will not end up disappearing quite as quickly as these last few days of my life here seem to be. Instead, I will carry their friendship with me wherever I go. Their love, words, and voices will be with me throughout the rest of my life. Whether it's my first host parents' calm silence, which taught me to enjoy the quiet routines that so often make up parts of life, or Eugenia's advice to be careful, for the boys here attack blondes, or Vanessa's constant ability to smile even in the toughest situations, or Christian's words of hope and the future when all I can see is the hard path in front of me, or my family's love for me, or Nina's stories of travel and long-lasting friendships, or Rotary's always-giving spirit, everything I've learned this year has made me, and will continue to make me, who I am. They make this world, this big, giant world, seem so much smaller than it once was. I can now look at a map and see, rather than mysterious blobs on a piece of paper, all the people whom I know and care for. And, just as I'm about to leave this home I have here in Spain to another I have in California, I'm beginning to realize that my definition of home is beginning to change. No longer is it just the old ranch house settled in a little corner of Pleasanton, nor the white and blue tiled house on the beach across from the coca-cola can, nor the four-story, flower surrounded house in Nagueles. Instead, I find that my home is this world; that no matter where I am, it is the people I am with that will make me feel safe, loved, and, quite simply, at home.

***just a quick side note, I want to apologize for taking so long to write this blog. The thoughts have been running around my head for so long, I just couldn't find the way to put them into sentences that would make sense to all of you reading. So, thank you for your patience; I'm having a fantastic time here. I should be posting a few more blogs about my last month, accompanied by photos of course :).

As always,
Love from Marbella,
Shonabell