With Love from Spain, Melanie Martin

by Carol Weston

  Dear Diary,

  I am trying not to think about Miguel Miguel Miguel.

  We taxied from the train station to our hotel, checked into the room we're sharing with Mom and Dad, then went up Montjuich (Moan Joo Each) for a bird's-eye view of Barcelona. From up high, it's a big bright city by a big bright sea. We saw where the Olympics were held in 1992 and we visited the Joan Miro (Meer Oh) Foundation.

  “How come he has a girl's name?” Matt asked.

  “He doesn't. Joan means Juan or John,” Mom said. “He was born in Barcelona, so he has a Catalan name. Catalan is the language people speak around here— along with Spanish.”

  “Is he still alive?” I asked.

  “Miro made it to ninety,” Mom said. “He died in 1983 on Christmas Day.”

  “Before or after he opened his presents?” Matt asked.

  Dad laughed even though death is not one bit funny. Mom sighed and said in Spain, gifts are opened on January 6, Three Kings Day.

  I know I'm not supposed to say this, but I don't love Miro. As an artist, I mean. Maybe he was okay as a person.

  Mom thinks kids should never look at a painting and say, “I could do thatV But some Miro paintings are just squiggles, circles, dashes, and handprints, and even Matt the Brat could do them!

  I made up a poem and recited it.

  Dad whispered, “Me too,” but Mom said, “Miro also admired the Dutch painters.”

  Just then an art teacher walked in with a bunch of little kids wearing name tags. The teacher talked about a sculpture, then told the kids to close their eyes and tell her what color it is. A boy shouted out, “Blue.” But he didn't say, “Azul,” which in Spanish is pronounced Ah Sool (regular) or Ah Thool (lispy). He shouted “Blau” in Catalan, which is pronounced Blowwwww as though you stubbed your toe and were saying, “Owwwww.” You could tell he felt all happy and proud of himself.

  Life is so much easier for little kids!

  Mom said that when she taught preschool art, she loved field trips.

  I didn't know Mom ever taught preschool.

  Maybe I don't know anything about anything.

  Here's the best I can say about Miro: It's easy to spot his paintings. He had his own style of shapes and splashes, so you can recognize his stuff from across a room. And it's worth going up close because he came up with surprise titles like Woman and Bird in the Night when he could have just as easily called the same painting Kid with F/ag or Toddler with Kite or Alien with Bat.

  It reminded me of when no one could tell what the heck Matt had drawn until he told us his title. He'd scribble a sideways oval and we'd have no idea if it was a potato, guinea pig, torpedo, or killer whale.

  Dad said, “Miro had quite an imagination.”

  Matt said, “You can say that again!”

  For the next hour, Matt said, “You can say that again!” to everything any of us said. It was amusing— for two minutes. After a while, I started saying things like, “You are a Butt Brain” and “You are an idiota” (E D O Ta means idiot), and Matt still said, “You can say that again!” So I did and he did. Finally I decided to ignore him (which I was happy to do anyway).

  Mom pointed out a self-portrait that was ugly or feo (Fay Oh). It was so feo, you'd think Miro would have been embarrassed to call it a self-portrait. It was a scribbled-on brown rectangle with a big circle for a head and two circles for eyes and three sticking-up lines for hair, like the cowlick Norbert used to have when he first came to our school.

  The painting was so bad, I found it inspiring:

  If I drew myself on a day when I felt awful, I wouldn't be a Mona Lisa look-alike either. If I drew myself today, for instance, I'd make a big blob, and instead of calling it Self-portrait, I'd title it Nina Tonta (Knee Nya Tone Ta), which means Foolish Girl.

  I was starting to feel sorry for myself again when Mom and Dad said, “Time to go!” and Matt said, “You can say that again”—again.

  We got in a taxi. I wanted to go straight back to the hotel, but Mom told the driver, “Pueblo Espanol” (Pway Blow S Pon Yole). She said Spanish Town is a fun place to wander because you feel as if you're seeing all of Spain in one afternoon. She went with Antonio years ago.

  I wonder how it makes Dad feel when Mom talks about her old boyfriend.

  Here's how it makes me feel when I think about Miguel: like a clover that thought it had four leaves but found out it has only three.

  Well, we arrived at Pueblo Espanol and Mom started pointing out stone gates from Castilla and stairs from Galicia and hanging flowerpots from Andalucia and different things from different regions.

  All I saw were couples walking hand in hand.

  Dad spotted a popcorn stand and asked, “Want some, cupcake?”

  “That's okay.”

  He looked shocked. “You don't want popcorn?” He put his hand on my forehead as though checking for a fever.

  “No, gracias.”

  “I do!” Matt said.

  Dad bought some, and Matt kept tilting the bag at me.

  But I didn't eat any. No little doves. Not one.

  I didn't feel like it.

  I didn't eat much dinner either.

  Querido Diario (Care E Doe D R E O),

  So far today I'm doing only an okay job of not think'ing about Miguel.

  It's the first day of spring, but the sky is gray, and it feels as if the clouds are pressing down on me.

  I must have accidentally sighed because Dad said, “What's wrong, kiddo?”

  I said, “Nothing.”

  Mom said, “You children aren't getting enough sleep.”

  That may be true, but it's totally Spain's fault.

  Besides, I'm not just tired. I'm deflated. A few days ago, I felt like a big helium balloon ready to soar into the sky. Now I feel small and lumpy. Like a balloon that is resting on the floor and is puckered instead of perky.

  Or maybe I'm like an inflated balloon that got let go and went flying across the room making embarrassing farty noises and then landed, dead.

  I don't know what Miguel is feeling. Is he thinking about me at all? I keep thinking about him—and trying not to.

  I'm kind of mad at myself for caring about a boy I met three days ago, a boy I may never see again.

  There are six billion people in the world, and half are boys, and I shouldn't let my mood go up and down because of just one of them.

  Not only that, but millions of those billions have problems way bigger than mine, so I should appreciate being alive and stuff.

  I can't help it. I still feel sad. Triste. Tree Stay. And invisible. Een V Z Blay.

  I wish I hadn't acted like a big dumb dog with a drooly tongue and a wagging tail that knocks things over. Why couldn't I have acted like a cat—dignified and aloof instead of panting and overeager?

  Then again, is it such a crime that I acted happy with Miguel? That I acted like I like him? (I do like him!) If he showed up right now, would I act differently?

  It's lonely to feel like this, but I can't talk about it with Mom or Dad or, God forbid, Matt.

  They are distracted anyway. We are spending today finding out about a “genius architect” named Gaudi (Gow Dee). Rhymes with howdy.

  Gaudi didn't believe in right angles or matching sides. He thought symmetry was boring. Mom pointed to a bunch of buildings and said, “Which one is by Gaudi?” I was about to say, “Who knows and who cares?” but then the answer was suddenly obvious: Every building went straight up and down except one, which was like a gloppy sand castle. Mom said Gaudi treated steel as if it were Play-Don. She bought postcards of his work and said she was going to get clay for her students and dedicate a class to Gaudi.

  One of Mom's Spanish friends from when she lived here picked us up at our hotel and is taking us around. She is short and nice and she knows all about Gaudi. Her name is Pilar (Pee Lar). Matt calls her Pee-pee Lar—but not to her face!

  Pilar took us to the pretty—and pretty strange—place where we are now, Park Guell (Gwe
ll). It looks modern, but it's over a hundred years old! It has fancy gingerbready cottages with white frostingy roofs stuck with gumdroppy things, like in “Hansel and Gretel.” The park also has a big fountain with a blue, yellow, green, and orange ceramic iguana that spouts water from its mouth.

  Matt and I loved the fountain, and Pilar bought us each a little stuffed iguana as a souvenir. We said, “¡Gracias!” and I let Matt name them Iggy One and Iggy Two, even though I might secretly name mine Miguel. During the day, they are going to keep Hedgehog and Flappy Happy company.

  Right now I am sitting on the serpentine bench. It's curvy like a serpent and is decorated with colorful broken mosaic pieces that Gaudi found in garbage cans and kilns of mosaic factories. Mom said it was clever of him to recycle broken pieces so creatively.

  Dad and Matt just went to buy sandwiches or bocadillos (Bow Cah D Ohs). They're called bocadillos because you put them in your boca. Spaniards also say “sandwich” but they say it like this: Sahn Weesh.

  Pilar and Mom are on a bench next to me talking fast Spanish. I think Mom just said “Antonio.” In fact, I'm sure she did.

  at a restaurant

  Dear Diary,

  This afternoon, Pilar drove us to this bizarre cathedral called La Sagrada Familia (Lah Sog Rod Ah Fah Meal E Ah) or The Holy Family. It might be disrespectful to call a cathedral bizarre, but it is bizarre! It has towering spiky spires that look like fat melty birthday-cake candles. (Matt said they look like cacti, but I think he was just showing off that he knows the plural of “cactus.”) The cathedral has sculptures that look like they're made of bones and others that look like they're made of drippy wax.

  Between the fireworks and fallas in Valencia and the Gaudi buildings in Barcelona, all we do in Spain is look up. I'm surprised we don't have cricked necks.

  Gaudi was obsessed with the cathedral and worked on it day and night for decades. He practically stopped shaving and changing his clothes. One afternoon, on June 7, 1926, when he was already an old geezer, a horrible thing happened. He was taking a walk, and he got hit by a tram—and dragged along! Since he didn't look that great (because of the accident and because he had been neglecting his personal hygiene), no one recognized him or realized who he was. He wound up in a not-very-good hospital, and by the time people figured it all out, Gaudi the genius was Gaudi the goner.

  Barcelona felt so bad that they gave him the biggest funeral ever. Mourners lined up for miles, and the pope gave permission for Gaudi to be buried under the cathedral. (Matt loved the creepy underground crypt where Gaudi is buried.)

  When Gaudi died, some architects wanted to finish the cathedral exactly the way Gaudi wanted it, but others wanted to do it their own way. Then the Spanish Civil War started, and everyone ran out of money. Now, over a century later, the building is part old, part new, and still not finished.

  “I hate unhappy endings!” I said to Pilar.

  “But it is not the end,” she said. “People are still finishing Gaudi's work.”

  Inside the cathedral, workers with clipboards and hard hats were cutting stones to build new pillars. The pillars looked like tree trunks with concrete leaves that branched out to hold up the ceiling. Outside, cranes were lifting huge cut stones and putting them into place as though constructing a giant Lego project.

  “You see?” Pilar said. “It is not over.”

  I wonder if Miguel has seen this. I wonder if he consid-ers it bizarre or beauty-full. I wonder if our story is over.

  I wish I had a remote control for my brain so I could change the channel.

  Gaudi was obsessed by a cathedral! That was noble.

  I'm obsessed by a boy. That's estupido (S 2 Pee Dough).

  I'd like to get my brain back because right now I think about Miguel every other minute. What did I used to think about all day??

  What worries me is this: It might be harder to fall out of love than to fall in. And falling in love is fun, but once you start caring about someone, then you have something to lose, so falling out of love is unfun (even if that's not a word).

  Well, we are now at a restaurant Picasso liked that has a Catalan name, Els Quatre Gats (Ahls Qua Tra Gots). Pilar ordered us appetizers: toast rubbed with ripe tomatoes and thin thin thin slices of jamon jamon jamon. Of course I kept daydreaming (eveningdreaming?) about Miguel and remembering when he said I was a good student!

  Are my feelings all one-way?

  Pilar also ordered something that looked exactly like fried onion rings. I plopped one in my mouth but it was surprisingly chewy. Finally I asked Mom why Spanish onion rings are so chewy and she said, “Those aren't onion rings, honey. They're cahmari (Ca La Mar E). Squid.”

  Is nothing what it seems??

  Pilar is now yakking away about another “remarkable architect,” Frank Gehry. Rhymes with hairy. He's American, not Spanish. He won a contest to design an art museum in Bilbao (Beel Bow, rhymes with Bow Wow). He made it out of a material called titanium that is super strong but thin as tissue. Pilar thinks it's a shame that we can't go up north to see it. She said that when Gehry doodles, he never lifts his pen from the paper.

  Mom said, “Maybe someday we'll come back to Spain and see it.”

  I wonder if we can come back. I wonder when.

  P.S. I signed my name the FrankGehry way without hftingupmypen. I also told Mom she should have her students drawlikethat.

  Dear Diary,

  I wrote a geography poem:

  March 22 morning

  Dear Diary,

  Since Matt is taking to get dressed, Dad started telling us all about Spanish explorers in the New World: “Columbus, Cortes, Pizarro, Balboa, and of course good old Ponce de Leon, who was looking for the Fountain of Youth.”

  “Did he find it?” Matt asked.

  “He found Florida!” Dad replied.

  I like when Matt asks not very smart questions because I don't always know the answers either.

  “Was the New World really new?” Matt asked.

  Mom smiled. “Not to the people living there!”

  “The Native Americans,” I said.

  “Columbus called them Indians. Know why?” Dad asked.

  “Why?” Matt asked, still tying his shoes in slow motion.

  “Well, Columbus was trying to find a shortcut to the Far East—to China, Japan, and India, right? But he didn't know that if you leave Spain and go west, you bump smack into America. He made the trip four times without ever realizing that what he'd ‘discovered’ was a whole new continent!”

  “He called the people Indians because he assumed he'd reached India,” Mom explained.

  “Don't you think that's kind of funny?” Dad asked.

  “What?” I said. “I don't get it.”

  “Neither did Columbus! He didn't get it. Today, there are cities and streets named after him, and statues of him on both sides of the Atlantic, and he even has his own personal holiday. But Columbus himself didn't have a clue about where he'd landed. He'd jumped to conclusions!”

  I didn't say that I didn't think that was funny— because I had jumped to conclusions too.

  (whose only discovery is that she's clueless)

  P.S. I wish I could stay in bed all day but Mom and Dad would never let me.

  March 22

  Dear Diary,

  Chocolate in Spanish is spelled the same way as in English, but it's darker, thicker, and pronounced Cho Co La Tay. Columbus brought it back from the New World. He also brought back parrots, pumpkins, peppers, potatoes, and things that don't start with p.

  It's strange to think that I am in the Old World.

  Besides hot chocolate, we had bread and potato omelette for breakfast. We are sitting at a table under a big green umbrella on a big wide mile'long street and walkway called Las Rambhs (Lahs Rom Blahs). Dad said it's like the Broadway of Barcelona.

  He and Mom have spread their city map out like a tablecloth. They're trying to come up with a “game plan,” so Mom handed us some postcards and pens to keep
us occupied.

  Matt decided to write his girlfriend and I helped him with spelling.

  He wrote: Dear Lily, Barcelona is beautiful and so are you. Love, Matt.

  He gave it to Mom and she smiled and said she'd mail it.

  I decided to write Miguel.

  I wrote: Dear Miguel, I can't stop thinking of you. Are you thinking of me? It was so so so fun to he with you in Valencia that now Barcelona feels empty even though it is crowded. I miss you. Do you miss me? Love, Melanie.

  Before I handed it to Mom, I reread it. It took about two seconds to realize I could NEVER send anything so gushy to someone who might not even like me back, so I ripped it into little pieces and tried again.

  I wrote: Dear Miguel, I am confused. It seemed like you liked me, hut maybe you were just being polite? I hope you like me. Do you? Please write and tell me exactly how you feel. Gracias. Cluelessly yours, Mehnie.

  I reread that and realized it was as dumb as the first one and I could never send it in a million years. So I ripped it into a million pieces. And started over.

  I wrote: Dear Miguel, Last night we ate ham and it reminded me of you. Your friend, Melanie.

  Well, I didn't even have to reread that to know it was hopeless and I was beyond pathetic. I was turning the postcard into confetti when Dad said, “What are you doing?”

  “Those postcards are for sending, not shredding,” Mom said.

  “They cost money!” Dad said.

  “I picked them out carefully,” Mom added.

  “I hope you have an explanation,” Dad threw in.

  My throat felt all closed up, and my eyes were stinging, and I didn't want to talk, but I blurted, “I'm trying to write Miguel, and it keeps coming out wrong!” I felt S 2 Pee Da admitting this, but it was also a relief to tell the truth. “I'm sorry I wasted so many postcards.”

  Whenever I say sorry, Mom and Dad get less mad. Since I knew how to say it in Spanish, I even added, “Perdon” (Pair Doan) and “Lo siento” (Low Syen Toe).