Salamanca. Cobblestones, iglesias, and a hotel room that smells like Glade and how do you turn those bloody things off and why does anyone think that Glade smells better than whatever it is that the Glade is supposed to mask?
I have not been able to spot the frog on the facade of the universidad. Spotting said frog is supposed to bring you luck. The lads were rather patient while we looked, but in the end, eldest boy said, ‘Yeah, but Mum, I’ve never spilt even a grain of salt and look what bad luck I’ve just had’. He’s just this afternoon lost a his sketchbook which was filled with a series of cavemen he has invented, and the inventions of the cavemen, and their food and their interactions with each other, and he was going to post it to his granny. We’ve retraced our steps through the streets of Salamanca looking for it, but it’s nowhere to be seen. He’s been as brave as he can, but it’s a lot to lose and I just can’t understand how it happened, because he’s been clutching one sketchbook or another so tight for a month that it’s almost like an extension of his arm.
I will tell you one day about this last month. About me and Spain and two boys and a Ford Fiesta. I haven’t been blogging, but I’ve been writing in my journals. I wrote great screeds in my journals, two new books filled with thinking and thoughts, more journal writing than I’ve done for years and years. It’s such a different way to write. I’ve missed the internet and my blog and your blogs, but I’m convinced that writing in journals has let me learn a lot.
I’ve learnt a lot about what it means to make your way in the world with both of your parents gone. For a while, I thought I was making too much of that, and I tried to talk myself out of giving it too much credence. It happens to everyone after all. But actually, it’s a bloody big deal. For me, anyway. I’m different now to what I was.
It’s been a good (by which I mean opportune) time to have some thinking and writing time, because in one week, it will be one year since my Dad died. One year. I can not believe it. I don’t mean this in some kind of ‘does time not fly’ sense. I mean that even if the year has been a full and complex one, it might easily not have passed. I mean that I could answer the phone tomorrow and Dad would be on the other end saying, ‘it’s me’ and I would say, ‘oh, you’ll never guess where we are’ and he would say, ‘well, we’re at the footy, we’re thumping Richmond by twelve goals, it’s raining and your man Chad’s done nothing all night’.
I mean that we would talk as if nothing had changed as if it had only been a day or two since we spoke. That could happen and I would not be surprised.
I know that.
So one day, when I’ve got my thoughts in a fashion that’s a little more concise, I’ll blog a bit about the last month or so.
The mister arrived last week, and oh, yes, one day we’ll laugh about driving around Galicia until 4 am and my boys in the back of the car saying, ‘oh, well, it’s all right Mum, you already taught us that word’ and later eldest boy, ‘Mum, I’m one hundred percent sure you know how to find Dad’. But suffice to say that 250 euros that he got as compensation for the overbooked flight is mine. Mine, mine, mine.
But I can’t write about all that now either, because my mind is on other things. Tomorrow, we are travelling down to Sevilla, and then into the mountains of Andalucia for a week. In Andalucia, I will be ‘in rehearsal’ because ‘my show’, the show I’m staging at the Edinburgh Fringe, ‘opens’ in one month. Just the thought, the very thought is making my heart race and my fingers shake and why would anyone do this to themselves? Who makes their solo debut at forty years of age, what was I thinking and so on and etcetera, etcetera, etceteraaaahhhhh.
Actually, I know what I was thinking. It has been, in fact, one of the few rational decisions I’ve made over the last year or so. All I need to do is to remind myself why it is that I’m going to Edinburgh and how it happened that I could think to myself, ‘Well, if I wanted to, I could. So, why don’t I? Why don’t I bloody well give it a go?’
Last night at two am, or possibly three, as I was doing just that, reminding myself of all the excellent reasons to put on a solo show, I thought to myself, ‘That’s a perfect set of blog posts and haven’t I missed blogging and I think tomorrow’s hotel has internet access, so what about a series: The Road to Edinburgh’.
At two am, it was an excellent idea. It has grown less excellent during the day as the time for actually writing the post has shortened, and as I’ve realised that a ‘Road to Edinburgh’ series threatens to be a bit like a term-long school project at the end of which the teacher might write, ‘Tracy might have done better had she spent more time doing her project and less time talking about it.’ And yes, that’s pretty much what my school reports looked like, and yes, I probably could have done better, but anyway, here we are.
The first step on my road to Edinburgh (there are many steps – I’m telling you, this was a highly rational and well-thought-out decision).
It started because I don’t like the heat. Not at all. Like, really. Not. At. All. And even in January, Abu Dhabi wasn’t cold and I knew that I needed to plan my summer escape, and that because of reasons I would be going to Spain (one of those reasons being that before we went to Abu Dhabi, we had planned that the mister would take long service leave and we would visit Spain this September and so I was sort of modifying the plans even though the mister couldn’t come, though as it’s turned out he is here now, as I told you up there a bit). But as I sat in Abu Dhabi looking into things, I realised that August in Spain was going to be hot, August in Abu Dhabi even hotter, and that I needed to find a place to be that I could sit with the boys and life would not be too complicated and also it would be coolish and not too far from Spain on account of airfaires.
It was two in the morning (I’ve seen a lot of two in the mornings these last few years) in a bed in Abu Dhabi, and I was thinking to myself that Ireland would be cool and so would Scotland. And I suppose because I was preparing for the Adelaide Fringe at the time, my brain thought to itself, ‘How about Edinburgh, you could take in the Fringe and the boys would love it and you could have a look around and see if you might one day put on a show’. At that particular moment, I do believe that my brain just said to itself ‘put on a show’ in the way that it has sometimes said ‘study medicine’ or ‘become a park ranger’ or ‘actually make a living at something’ – that is, they were words, not an actual idea. But because it was two in the morning and at two in the morning pretty much anything is possible, my brain did translate those words into an idea which went along the lines of, ‘But why not put your own show on if you’re going to be there anyway.’
My brain was a teensy bit sensible and said to itself, ‘Nah, the registrations have probably closed’, but not sensible enough to say to itself, ‘But who will care for your children, because the mister is no longer able to take his leave’. My brain said, ‘Get up and turn your computer on and use the internet to check whether registrations have closed.’
So up I got and thanks to the magic of the world wide interwebs, I discovered that registrations had not yet closed. Finding a venue might be tricky. Accommodation might be expensive. But registrations had not yet closed. Anything was possible.
I got back into bed and I slept not a wink as I waited for the sensible part of my brain to kick in.
Still to come on The Road to Edinburgh (though it will be a week or so, because we off to rustic accommodation where there will not be an internet connection): ‘chicks aren’t funny’, or ‘are you some kind of feminist or something?’.