"Who tells your story?"

...the chorus asked Hamilton after he died. The answer: Eliza.

Today I posted this message on Facebook in reference to an article I shared titled (unfortunately), "Literally, Why Can't I Say #MeToo": 
I can 100% say #metoo because of blatant sexual harassment at a recent job, where my boss, as he was harassing me, literally said the words "sexual harassment" to describe what he was doing. So #metoo 1000% 
But the other stuff: a "friend" taking advantage of me while I was passed out, an acquaintance having sex with me while I was passed out, a stranger having sex with me while I was passed out who when I woke up and said no called me a fucking whore and kept going, a date pressuring me so persistently to keep going even when I said I didn't want to keep going that I finally gave in because I had already done it a couple hours ago so why did I care anyway? This stuff - because it wasn't work-related, because it wasn't labeled, because I was drunk, because I'm conditioned by a society to be responsible, not just for my actions and reactions, but for the actions and reactions of men - would have made me have to think twice before saying #metoo

A few hours after this picture,
I was raped by a stranger in Las Vegas

I refuse to let today be the day I told Facebook I was raped more than once. I refuse to let today be the day I admitted to myself I'd been raped more than once. I refuse to let today be the day I still didn't feel like it mattered because as hard as I cried, so many women have been through worse and I didn't lose a job, get pregnant or AIDS or even crabs, and honestly everyone has a story and this one is mine so can I just move on and make some lunch already?

No. I can't move on. #Metoo didn't just "woke" men and the media. As I saw "me too" posted over and over, my heart broke. I was sexually harassed at work, which lead to a month of anxiety, nausea and rage that ultimately ended with an apology from him. So I won. No more nausea. (The anxiety and rage are mine to keep.) I could participate in #metoo without having to dive too deep into what it really meant.

Still, day after day of Weinstein articles, Woody Allen articles, comparisons of Dylan Farrow's one story to the stories of untold numbers of Michael Jackson victims, my friends' own specific stories, Weinstein's friends sharing their versions of three decades of abuse, each victim's story, all of these were knocks on the door to the house of cards I'd built around my own experiences with abuse. 

Then, I read an article at 4am that blew away my safe space in just one paragraph: 
I feel guilty using those words [assault, rape, abuse]. I feel like I’m being dramatic. Or desperate to be part of a conversation for attention. I feel like I’m exaggerating. And I truly, in my heart, can’t figure out if I am. I can’t and don’t trust my own judgment with the severity of less-than-pleasant occurences that have happened in my life. It’s never been a matter of me thinking people wouldn’t “believe me.” It’s been an issue that I barely “believe” myself. And I don’t know what that says about me. ~Veronica Ruckh, "Literally, Why Can't I Say #MeToo?"

Ruckh inspired me to examine some of the experiences that I keep compartmentalized in the memories of my 20s in a file labeled "Top Secret." I rarely acknowledge them because I'm strong willed and I don't think its productive to relive mistakes.

And there it is. Until #metoo, these were my mistakes. My binge drinking, my black outs, my leaving my friends to party with strangers in Vegas, my attraction to childish men. Mine, mine, mine, these guys barely factored in the stories anymore because I not so much owned these stories as I let them hold me hostage. I was so scared to face the truth, so ashamed of myself for letting myself get into these situations (even now, I default to safe words like "experiences" and "situations") that I never truly believed I was raped until a random internet columnist and hundreds of thousands of #metoos gave me permission. 

There are some who might think I'd have had a better day today if I had never clicked on that damn article or wrote the word rape. I certainly would have had a more productive day, but I'd still be denying myself my real story: 

I was molested by a friend and raped twice. I didn't deserve to be molested or raped no matter how much I had to drink. The guys who violated me are responsible for their actions. 

I'm not ashamed anymore. As of today, shame is no longer my story. Self care is my story.

I share this because somehow it's less scary to tell the internet than a friend. If this triggers you in any way, please reach out to me. I'm here to love you and tell you that you are a wonderful gift and you deserve respect. 

By the way, as I was spiraling this morning trying to outrun my feelings, I paid a lot of money for a ticket to Hamilton for my birthday next month. You who know me well, know this is my ultimate dream birthday present. So, not only is today the day I changed my story, today is the day I GOT MY MOTHERFUCKING TICKET TO HAMILTON!!!!!!

"Did you say YOLO?"

...Asked Stella when I justified my need for legendary chocolate ice cream from San Ginés. (Parents & Grandma, yolo means "You only live once.")

Me & Toof, my new friend, don't want to leave

September 26, Tuesday

I decide to make our last day in Madrid a Fat Tuesday. I don't eat, sleep or drink at home the way I do on vacation, and all I keep thinking is, "After today, it's all water & broccoli." I love water & broccoli, but I'm swimming in the best wine & pork in the world, as far as I'm concerned. I gotta go big. 

My Fat Tuesday comes to a premature end when I pass out for a long afternoon nap after two glasses of wine and ice cream. The nap is pretty luxurious, so I guess you could consider it a different form of gluttony- it feels fantastic. 

We spend our last evening at a small dinner party at Will and Maria's house. I bask in the excellent food and conversation. I have such an incredible crush on our friends and I'm so grateful to Stella for sharing them with me. It's wonderful to feel so completely at home with new friends. 

Magic Hour Madrid

I'm in absolute denial about leaving Madrid tomorrow. I have to be at the airport before dawn and, besides packing this morning and using the "last day" excuse to overdrink & eat, I'm not acknowledging the future. Stella and I stay at Will & Maria's until...

September 27, Wednesday

... and finally leave in a flurry of hugs and kisses. I'm going to miss them. 

I sleep for a whole two hours before I catch my cab to the airport. I have a full fifteen minute conversation with my cab driver all in Spanish, and I'm now determined to up my Spanish game. When you see me in real life, ask me to say something in Spanish so I can practice.  

It's so goddamned early and I'm so goddamned delirious, I video myself a lot online. I no longer have Stella around to stop me from overposting on social media because her flight leaves this afternoon so she's still asleep at the flat. (Just kidding, she never asked me to stop, bless her heart. But I did try to spare her unless I really couldn't help myself.)

Aw hell, the sun is JUST coming up

After three hours of waiting in the terminal, we board. Then we wait on the tarmac for two additional hours because weather at Gatwick is too foggy to land. Gatwick?? I thought I was flying into Heathrow!!?

Boy, was I wrong. Doesn't matter. Just THANK GOD I downloaded the rest of Season Four of The Originals. By the time we finally take off, I'm quietly sobbing to myself because Julie Plec's series have The. Best. Season. Finales. Ever. 

Life is SO GOOD

Also? I get an empty middle seat!! This is huge because I didn't make my seat assignments until yesterday. Now, is there any way I am lucky enough to sit next to an empty seat for both legs of my flight home?

Spoiler, THERE IS. I AM. I DO. 

On flight #2, I sit next to the window and meditate on the empty middle seat next to me. I pray, then I hold space, then I make peace with "what is", then I distract myself with Spanish lessons, then I practice gratitude for "what is". I sweat and I scheme and I get high on trying to control seating assignments with my mind. 

I don't know if it was a specific meditation I did or if it was how long I procrastinated in calling the airline to make my seat requests, but I get the space I want and I feel so insanely lucky and grateful. For the seats, for my journey, for the Loves who support me, for Stella, for The Originals and Bojack Horseman seasons I downloaded and devoured, for my health, for every way I can stop and be in moments and feel the joy and thrill and fight and freedom and peace that is my life. 

Thanks to any and all who followed along and I'll see y'all on the next one. ☺️

Plaza Mayor, all of the lights

La Latina

Scenes from the hood

Sky popcorn

No sleep, jet lagged, stuck in rush hour
and happy to be home

"Meat sweats..."

...Stella groans when I ask her if she's okay because she looks a little peaked. We have just shared the most incredible, richest meal in Madrid so far at Juana La Loca, culminating with a steak burger that was so decadent it gave Stella the 'meat sweats'.

Churros & HOT chocolate

September 25, Monday

A new home brings new opportunities. Mine is the opportunity for back pain. The couch bed is not great. But we're back in our own space on our own time and we're rested. 

Since we left Menorca I've been quizzing Stella on what she wants to do and see in Madrid: museums, monuments, markets?? See a show, find a park, take a day trip?? Go clubbing, eat gelato, souvenir shopping?? 

I've been to Madrid a few times and seen all the big sights so I'm graciously giving the reins to Stella and letting her be in charge, for once, of my schedule. The thing is, she's been very demure about her personal list of things to do and see in Madrid, and when I hound her will respond, "I'll look up some things." 

Werking Calle de Toledo

This morning Stella reveals we have no agenda. She just wants to wander and be and soak up the city. I remind her about how stressed out having no agenda makes me. 

"I know," she replies. 

No agenda it is. It's lovely. Within our no agenda day, she lets me mini-plan and  navigate the foreseeable future ("Churros & chocolate, then we can walk toward the pasta place, then look for my face soap, then shoes...") which scratches my control itch. 

Highlights from a No Agenda Day:

-Chocolateria San Ginés for churros & chocolate. They've been using the same chocolate recipe since 1894! Though I preferred Cafe Fútbol's chocolate in Granada, I still got goosebumps. 

-By accident, Stella and I go to La Bola, a restaurant opened since 1870 that features

traditional Madrileño cooking. We thought we were getting pasta at a place our friends recommended with a name that also started with a B and had similar vowels (turns out it was Ouh Babbo, not La Bola). We get gazpacho and a stew and it's effing fantastic!

-Impromptu photo shoot in front of Plaza Mayor is rad. 

-I finally get my espadrilles and they BLOW MY MIND. I love these shoes. 

-Stella and I find this random feminist bookstore and spend forever inside combing through everything they sell. Stella buys gifts for friends, I buy gifts for myself. 

-Dinner at Juana La Loca, a tapas place Maria recommended to us. It's our best meal in Madrid, starring Stella's "meat sweats" burger and a dulce de leche volcano that takes an hour to cook. We eat til we're suicidal, and now I'm craving a vegetarian diet. 

Tomorrow is somehow our last day. I feel like we've got a whole lifetime left here. 

You...

Better...

WERK.

Dulce de leche, so good I could cry.

Stella blissing out at first bite.

Hello my loves...

"It's a Bitch Fly."

...I translate when Will explains the nearly-indestructable fly it took us four adults to kill, using a shoe, sewing needles, and finally scissors, is called mosca perrera.

I took a picture of this same man 18 years ago

September 22-24, Friday to Sunday
Stella and I deposit our bags early at our Madrid flat and plan to wander the city for the next hour until we're allowed to officially check into our new place. We text our friends Maria and Will to let them know we're in town and walk the streets of La Latina. 

I'm happy to be in Madrid, but I'm exhausted from a strong-coffee-on-an-empty-stomach-induced sleepless night. Everything feels hazy and surreal. Will calls us back and invites us to The Mill (their country home) for the weekend- they're leaving in an hour, can we make it to their car park by then?

I wake up. Madrid is wonderful, but The Mill is heaven. Legitimate heaven. I want to spend eternity at The Mill. 

AMAZING WEATHER!!!!!!

Stella and I jump at the opportunity and race home through Madrid streets to pack a weekend bag. We meet our landlord back at our flat and fumble through a confusing Spanglish conversation of "yes we're checking in today, but we're early because we're leaving town, but we're still paying even though we won't be here for a few days," that eats precious time of the now-fifteen minutes we have to pack, taxi to the car park, and find Will and Maria. Stella packs one bag, I cram random needful things into FOUR bags and we run outside to find a cab. 

We find Will & Maria rolling their luggage through the plaza and somehow everything works out perfectly. We pick up their daughter, Dafne, from school and head to the country. 

In the middle of chocolate passing between the back and front seats and Maria and Dafne tag-team telling stories, the sky clouds to near black. Dafne remarks, "We won't be hiking this evening." I check the weather and there is no sign of rain, so I hold out hope for a twilight hike. 

After the storm

It starts raining. We raise our voices to be heard over the sound of the water. It gets incredibly loud. I roll down the window and stick out my hand- the temperature has dropped at least 20 degrees and it's hailing! Out of nowhere the street is blanketed with white. Will pulls over and we take turns sticking our hands out the windows to collect cherry-sized hail. The weather drama borders on biblical, as lightening streaks across the sky. 

We crawl down the highway until the weather recedes. Lightening and thunder stay with us for the rest of the trip but the hail stops. Despite the lightening, the clouds part and, incredibly, a clear blue sky shines through. It makes for a stunning trip!

Picking blackberries

We arrive at The Mill and I couldn't be happier. After traveling for the last few weeks and all the planning and moving and navigating, I'm exhausted. Putting our lives in someone else's hands for a couple of days feels decadent. 

Decadent and nourishing. Day 1 Stella, me and the family pick tons of blackberries. By Day 2 Dafne has turned half the blackberries into jam while Will turns the other half into ice cream, and we devour all of it. All we do for the duration of our stay is eat incredible homemade food, laugh at each other's stories, discuss art and politics, play with the kids in the plaza and take hikes. See? Heaven. 

A few quick highlights of the trip besides all of the above:

-We visit salt mines built in the 10th century. They were some of the most productive in Spain until they closed in 1996. It was nothing I'd ever seen before, huge crystals of salt growing (or however it does) to cover rocks. I taste some right off the ground- salty!

Skateboarding! Celebrating skateboarding!

-Dafne and her friends are obsessed with slo-mo filming which inspires some incredible running, jumping, throwing, and skateboarding videos and belly laughs.

-I skateboard on a two-wheel Wave board for over seven seconds. The last, and only, time I was ever on a skateboard, I was 8 years old and I fell off immediately. Lasting as long as I do is BEYOND MY WILDEST DREAMS. Seriously.

-Will and Maria's neighbor have the most incredible garden. She grows everything and well. Stella basks in it as her soul's happy place. I follow the rows of food, astonished and in awe of all the food.

-We hike Santamera, a gorge bordering a small town. Spain has been in a terrible drought, so it is especially alarming for our hosts to see the river is gone and the lake has dried to almost nothing. We scale the bank and run around the lake bed, making wishes on the rising new moon.

Abandoned village

-We hike to an abandoned village and explore the broken buildings. I don't know why I love ruined buildings, but I do. We see graffiti carved into the facade of one of the buildings from 1770. This particular town went dry not too long ago, because Maria knows the last gentleman to have lived here. Once water was no longer able to reach it, the town died and nature overtook it. 

Sunday late afternoon we drive back to Madrid. Stella and I settle into our new Air Bnb. We haven't showered in two days, we're both exhausted and I'm still feeling a bit carsick from the return trip. We hit a cute tapas place recommended by our hosts and I become an overtired seven year old. 

God bless Stella for knowing how to deal with me. As I sit across from her with watery eyes feeling nauseated, overstimulated and distraught about ordering chicken fingers, Stella orders some water for me and soft-talks me off the ledge. By the time we receive the chicken fingers, I'm all better. 

And they're delicious. 

Lunch on the rocks in Santamera

I've never seen clouds go THIS black before

Wild blackberries, family-picked

Future ice cream on the left, future jam on the right

Gorgeous, yummy, homemade, organic ice cream...

...and JAM!!

Stella's dream garden

This is where watermelons come from

Salt mine beauty

Doomed ant on a stunning landscape

We're playing at the bottom of the lake

Church in the abandoned town

Sunflower season is over, but sunflowers still stand tall offering their seeds. I ATE SUNFLOWER SEEDS OUT OF A REAL SUNFLOWER AND THIS WAS HER.

"Was it on hippiebullshit.com?"

...asked Stella about a yogurt vs kefir article I was trying to remember. 

Spoiler: I go topless again

September 20, Wednesday

It's another Camí de Cavalls Day! Stella and I ride the bus to the nearby town of Punta Prima so we can walk Section 19 & 20 bringing us back to Maó. As Stella and I wait to board our bus, I run to the bathroom on last time. As I'm unrolling handfuls of toilet paper to stick in my rucksack, I spy a toilet roll on the back of the toilet and steal it. I instantly doubt my value as a human being but I'm in a hurry and we've needed TP in the past and THE BUS IS LEAVING IN 60 SECONDS AND I STILL NEED TO WASH MY HANDS!

I decide I will return any unused portion of the toilet paper roll to the bus station or nearest public place, so it's not so much stealing as borrowing. 

Stealing TP = bad karma

Using the bus system in a new city gives me anxiety. I just don't do it enough to feel comfortable, but it's really fucking easy and I feel like a jerk for building it up so much in my head. The ride to Punta Prima should be half an hour. We stop at a few small towns along the way, and I tick them off on my bus schedule just to make sure. 

We get to a hotel and the bus driver calls out, "Punta Prima!" I check this stop off on my schedule, knowing our stop is next. I can't tell you what happens next because I've blacked everything until the point I look out the window and see the bus turn in the direction of the "Maó" sign- which means, we're headed back home. 

We missed our stop. How?? BECAUSE BUSES ARE HARD... I didn't know you had to hit the STOP button if your stop was The Stop. Our bus is the PUNTA PRIMA BUS. GRRR! Sigh...

Nothing to do w this story, but these are my new avarkas!

Rather than ride all the way back home, we de-bus at the next small town. I'm embarrassed when the bus driver says to us in Spanish, "You have to press Stop to stop." Yeah, thank you. 

Stella generously says nothing about walking up and down a very bland street in probably the only very bland town in Spain until our bus returns to take us back to Punta Prima. I, of course, blame myself for stealing a used roll of toilet paper and karmically ruining our morning. 

Forty minutes later, we're back on the bus. We HIT THE STOP BUTTON to get to the Punta Prima beach. 

Camí de Cavalls Section 19 and 20 is a combined 13 km and takes us from the coastline of the Southern most tip of Menorca to a gorgeous cove at Alcalfar, and then inland between country houses that line the path with olive trees until we find the highway to follow into Maó. It's lovely. The weather is partly cloudy so we never get too hot. My best friend and I talk about everything from public peeing to true crime to dried mango to nothing at all. There's actually a lot of quiet time. 

View fm Section 19

When people get quiet, I always wonder if they're bored or mad at me - especially if I'm in charge of the plans, but not Stella. It's nice to be that comfortable with your friend. 

Stella walks into Section 20

September 21, Thursday 

BEACH DAY!!!!!!!!!!! The last couple days have found me tracking Thursday's weather, because dammit, I want a sunny day, because dammit! I want to go to the beach!

We take the bus to Ciutadella, the other major town on Menorca. It's reported to be prettier (I don't agree, I love Maó), and it's got beautiful beaches nearby. The bus from Maó to Ciutadella is about 45 minutes. Ten minutes from Ciutadella, I begin researching the nearby beaches. 

"Nearby" happens to be a relative term. There is only one beach in walking distance. The most beautiful beaches all require another bus ride. I lightening-speed plan our next trip leg to Cala Turqueta, named "Turquoise" for the color of the clear water, as we pull into Ciutadella. We de-bus. The bus driver calls out something about "Next stop blahblah..." but now I'm hyper about getting off busses. 

Still annoyed, beer notwithstanding

Too hyper. It takes me five minutes to figure out the bus we want to catch to the beach in fifteen minutes is in a plaza more than half a mile away. 

The bus is gone by the time we find the plaza. We buy tickets for the next bus which leaves in an hour. I beat myself up for being a terrible planner and not knowing better Spanish. Stella's response: "We're in Spain!" 

Indeed. We drink beer at an outdoor cafe for the next hour. 

Cala Turqueta is perfection. The bus drops us at a parking lot and we walk a woodsy path for fifteen minutes until it opens to a clearing that reveals a beach cove of stunning blue water. The sand is fine white grain. The temperature is 75 and sunny. Perfect, perfect, perfect, perfect, perfect. 

The water is so salty, I couldn't drown if I tried. I'm a fairly weak swimmer and I'm able to glide out to buoys with ease. It's not a nude beach, but this is Europe and when I see other boobs, mine want to come out. So I take my top off and swim. 

Cala Turqueta

This isn't spontaneous. I've got to work up to it, and part of my process is informing Stella of my every move before I make it. "I'm going to swim topless!" I announce. She's used to this. It's really not a big deal, but I'm practicing doing things out of my comfort zone and sadly, being topless is one of those things. Used to be, anyway! 😊

Happy place

It's our last night in Menorca and Stella and I have the best dinner of our trip so far at a restaurant called Santa Rita's. This is our second night in a row here, because the food is spectacular. They serve modern tapas, all homemade, and more than a few dishes are Asian fusion. We order so many dishes, I'm actually embarrassed when I list them for our waiter. We clean every plate because we're good girls. 

We fly to Madrid tomorrow! I love Menorca and I can't wait to return. 

Cove at Alcalfar

I made up the Spanish Taco. Hard cheese taco'd by jamon.
Right now I never want to see either again.

We finally made it to the beach! 

This man just tucked his shorts into his folds and
stood in the way of my view forever. And ever.
Seriously, 20 minutes, standing & sunning.

Walking the girls back in form our swim. Yes, I asked Stella to take boobie pics of me.