Spilling My Cup
A couple of weeks ago, at the start of our family road trip around Europe, we decided to visit Bilbao again. After a day of trekking through the Leorza forest with four adorable donkeys, it felt like a good contrast. I was so into the idea of revisiting my favourite little street in the casco antiguo, a place of incredibly fond memories with the daughter. I pictured the husband and I taking turns inhaling the scent of the Magnolia Rare Books collection; I could already taste the invigorating combo of lemon and poppyseeds awaiting us at Bohemian Lane, a vegan bakery with sweet and savoury goods, and a wall featuring the work of local artists; I imagined the husbands’ knowing smile upon my pointing out the centrally-hung, hands-stitched tapestry depicting a fire raging from a nude woman’s vagina.
I woke that day, after a rare, well-rested sleep in a room that exuded peace, cosiness and relaxation – none of which I ever got to fully sink into. And as I write, more than three weeks later, I realize, I still haven’t, not once, truly landed in one of the places we’ve stayed in along the way. There was that one night in Mieres, when I had a library office all to myself, and that’s the last I remember having the time and space to create or simply be. Tonight, I’m going to force myself into the luxuriously big bath-tub I did our laundry in earlier today; where I will fall asleep after re-reading the same paragraph of the book I abandoned long before we hit the road, thirty times; where the dark blue tranquility of sandalwood and pachouli notes will get lost on me because I’m too tired. And too wired. Here’s my moment to finish this piece that has been brewing in me since that requisite, anti-climactic Bilbao-day, and somehow, my mental upload always wins out over my physical download.
So, we finally arrived in the botxero that day, at the high-risk hour of the daughter’s siesta which made itself noticeable the minute we got out of the car. I had spent the morning organizing, caretaking, pre-planning, delegating, cheerleading and soothing, working and trying to hold on tightly to my good mood which was starting to liken a dried dandelion threatening to disperse into the wind. Once we finally made our way out of the parking garage, we realized we had parked in a prohibited zone, and the husband had to make his way back down to find a new spot. In the meantime, I tried to lead the overtired daughter and the dawg, overexcited by city smells and sounds, away from the main road and into a green area. Which was something akin to trying to herd a bunch of drunken sheep on acid. When I finally got them out of harm’s way, the dawg proceeded to erupt into a bad case of the shitters – all over the pristine lawn, the pretty, cobblestone path and, worst of all, himself.
Now I’ve got a big, hairy dawg dripping diarrhea all down his back leg, a toddler trying to dance all around the puddle on the floor, one hand to deal with it all, and no wet-wipes, napkins or any other improv item useful in this situation. The husband, in the black hole that is the parking garage is unreachable, so no way of asking him to bring supplies from the car, the daughter has stepped into the pungent load by now, and the dawg, ever-anxious in even a nanosecond of family separation, is trying to snuggle himself against me. The more stressed out I get trying to keep everyone hurdled in position, the funnier the daughter thinks it is. Until, overwhelmed and finally, surprisingly, exhausted by the situation, I sink into a squat and, for one dramatic moment, rest the heels of my palms against my forehead, exhaling with a loud horsey breath. At which point the daughter halts her own theatrics for a second, contemplates me and exclaims, “Mama traurig[1]”, and contorts her face into a sad grimace. “Nur ein bisschen genervt, baby. Alles gut[2],” I reassure her, take off her sneaker, and wipe the shit into the lawn.
When the husband finally reappeared from the parking garage, he came with his own, high-strung energy which, in combination with my current situation, sparked a tiny explosion right there on the riverside of the bustling city. I did something I rarely do and should probably do more often: I took a time out. Announced it as such, then walked ahead of the three of them, took a sharp corner and sat behind a wall to collect myself for a minute. Like a fucking teenager, yes. And oh, how good it felt. Once that was done, we let the daughter have her moment at the playground next to the Guggenheim, before walking up the stairs alongside the museum to see her beloved Puppy. I counted the steps out loud, as I always do when she’s walking them with me, and promised myself, I would reset and refocus once I reached the top. Some sixty steps later, I was ready to do just that. Naturally, the bookshop and the bakery I had dangled before my mind’s eye like a consolation prize, had closed by the time we got there.
Honestly, at this stage, even the ten-minute – well deserved, may I add – sulk I allowed myself, just seemed like another source of scarce energy completely and utterly wasted. Visualizing those Guggenheim steps again, as long and uneven as the day I was experiencing, I quietly let the universal injustice of it all fade into the subtle sounds of the city closing shop for its siesta. The rusty clatter of shutters being pulled down, clicked and locked into place; the flip of a switch drenching small boutiques and vintage shops in unsettling silence, enunciating the buzz and the continuous ing, now sonically naked and spiritually disorientated; people sweeping those charming side streets clean of themselves and everything they symbolize – the moneys and the makings of the world going ‘round, the world going ‘round. And I wished, for a moment, to become a part of the patriarchal programming, to stand on the other side of this anti-matriarchal infrastructure with its narrowed, potholed pavements and unforeseen public spaces and rooms-of-unrest. To be, in the classic bacon-and-egg-breakfast, the leisurely sizzling, albeit crusting and crackling fat, not the tediously brooding server of the day-to-day’s sunniest sides.
Part of the afternoon was salvaged with fresh ginger, apple and lime lemonade and a vegan lunch at La Camelia, followed by a relatively silent drive back to the woods, the donkeys, that infinitely welcoming room that so wanted me settle into its bed, its sounds, the calming view from its window. My cup had not been filled that day; not by a long shot. Instead, the lukewarm remnants of stale chai staining the very bottom of it, loose leaves and questionable specks of dust and other environmental debris, spilled across the streets and sidewalks of Bilbao, along with the contents of my dog’s bowels. But that’s OK. I’m fine with being Beauty and the Beast’s Mrs. Potts, always pouring, at times scolding, forever nurturing, because I’m not putting myself under any pressure to be perpetually chipper on manic mom-days like these. And, on the upside of it all: a few days later, I found the daughter taking off her muddy shoes, wiping them on the grass and putting them back on before entering the place we were staying in at the time. So, you know…you win some, you lose some.