So, I'm currently trying to grade papers, but mostly remembering some pretty lovely things.
I put my college apartment in the same category as Spain. Not because my apartment is really anything like Spain, except that I can just never go back exactly. I can't be here and be 22 again. Or 20. And I can't go back to Madrid and be 21 and the girl I was back then—the one who who refused to wear pants and didn't bring proper shoes. Sitting here in the back room, where my older sister & I used live (and I covered the walls with pictures from high school because I was only 19 and I still missed all my friends back there. And I couldn't even go home for Christmas because my parents moved) (and Anne lived in the room next door)(and we'd all hang out in the front room mostly laughing and me trying to figure out what I was doing and eating tater tots from the grocery store)—it's sort of that feeling that you forgot something you used to know perfect. But when you remember, it's perfect again. That's not really it because I don't remember it perfect. In fact, I can't remember very much in detail. Just a big blob of happiness with defined sections of trying to wake up at 6am, taking naps on the couch, meeting Z, cooking pasta-roni, dinners at the table, spying on people through the window, and falling asleep at night, the train whistle in the morning.
I should probably not fall so in love with the physical structures where I live.