Category Archives: Expat Life

The Spain Transition, Part 1: Finances

When you study abroad, it’s not permanent or even long-term. Even as a Conversation and Language Assistant, it’s not for more than one or two years (most likely). But my situation is a bit different—I married a Spaniard. I’m here for the foreseeable future, much to my father’s chagrin.

One thing that often worries expats is money. Naturally. Money can be the root of many problems, and it can cause endless frustration for the involved parties. Naturally, I’ve encountered my share, having spent the last four years in and out of Spain. When I earned money in Spain, I wanted to use it in the US. Likewise, as I spent the last year earning money in the US, I wanted to use it in Spain. How to go about that?

Some banks make it easy to make an international money transfer of this sort, while others do not. You will have to speak with your bank in order to find out which is the case for you.

In Spain, most banks require a NIE (meaning “Número de identificación de extranjeros” or Tax Identity Number); however, I’ve heard that some only require a passport. Luckily for me, being married to a EU resident means I get a five-year NIE, unlike students who are forced to go through the renewal process every year. (A pain in the ass, if you ask me!) Another thing to have in mind is that in Spain there are two types: bancos and cajas. NPR’s Planet Money did a rather enlightening podcast that will help you to understand what these are, but basically bancos are general retail/commercial banks, while cajas are savings banks. You will also need proof of address, like a water or electricity bill.

In Spain, it’s common to pay certain bills by direct debit, which means no checks! In fact, I don’t even know if checks exist here. Online banking is also becoming more common, a huge relief for technology-dependent American expats in Spain.

What were your experiences opening a bank account in Spain? What advice would you give someone looking to open one?

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On the Road to Salamanca

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The bus rumbled along the highway, dusk quickly approaching. We sat side by side, our fingers curled together, leaving the day behind us. Weary but content, we sat in silence, the silence of two people who have everything to say to each other, but not necessarily at that moment. It had been a long day: up early to catch a morning bus, a long walk around town as they wind bit at our cheeks and hands, a hearty lunch, and all of the things that go along with meeting someone, someone special, for the very first time. By that point, I was exhausted but we glanced at each other and smiled with a sigh.

The evening sun tinged the horizon amaranth, gold, and orange. I grasped his hand, searching for the words I wanted, needed, to say to him. I hadn’t picked out a special place or time to say them, hadn’t analyzed my feelings, hadn’t thought about his reaction. I only knew that I loved him. And so I told him—there, in the bus, speeding along the A-66 towards Salamanca: “Te quiero.”

I didn’t start learning Spanish for love. I did it out of curiosity, because I needed a language to complete my high-school degree, because it was what was expected of me. But I mastered it for other reasons: it challenged me, it made me think about the world differently, it allowed me to see into the soul of another nation, of another people. I mastered it in the end because of Mario, because for him I stayed here, because for him I made my second home in Spain, because for him I packed up my whole life and changed it forever when I told him, standing in front of our friends and family in a church built in the 13th century, right in the heart of Zamora: “Sí, quiero.”

Yes, I do. I do promise to love you, to be there for you, to remember the important things for you. For you I will overcome the frustration that I sometimes feel when I can’t think of the right word, when I can’t remember the proper phrasing. Yes, I do.

My motivation for learning Spanish has varied over the years, but my one constant has been love. Some may consider it cliché to say that love makes you do crazy things, and it is, a bit. But love can also make you do daring things, things you would never have had the chance to do had you not bitten the bullet, got right back on the horse after it threw you off, and said to life and learning, “Sí, quiero.”

On the day we were married, the priest—a friend of Mario’s—talked to us and all our guests about love. Moving to another country for someone? he said with an intensity shining in his dark-brown eyes. That’s love. That’s love, friends.

Learning a language is frustrating. The first part is enthralling, when you learn by leaps and bounds, huge gulps of knowledge. But then comes the slow part, when you feel as though you’re dreaming about running, desperately trying to move your legs faster, but you just can’t. It’s a slow slog; it can seem fruitless. I know this feeling all too well. I still struggle with fast speech and gender; I still slip up almost every time I open my mouth. But with Mario there, and his family alongside him, I see the purpose. Without him—without them—I’d haven given up already.

Here’s to learning a language for love, whether it be love for a significant other, for a husband or a wife, for the little English-learning children who attend your local elementary schools, for a fellow church member, for the person who lives down your street. Learn a language for a love, and learn it for a lifetime.

This entry is a part of Kaplan’s Inspire Language Learning Blogger Competition. I’m not that interested in winning a Macbook, but I am interested in sharing my story. After October 29, you’ll be able to vote for me on their Facebook page if you so choose. Thanks, readers.

Learn English with Kaplan

Also, please visit Vaya Madrid—I’ve just had my first article published: Tales of a Transplant.

Spain, the Internet, and Me—All My Internets Are Belong to … ?

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I’m a Millennial. (I scored 34/100 on the Pew Research Center “How Millennial Are You?” Quiz., so maybe not that Millennial.) And despite what you may have heard about us, we’re not all spoiled brats who don’t value hard work. But one thing that almost of all us do value: high-speed Internet. I use it for everything: reading news, social networking, watching television, listening to music, talking to my family/friends in another country, and much more.

We first got the Internet at home when I was in fifth grade (this would be 1998 or so). We had dial-up, and we all shared an email address. Conveniently, that address was kaley@serviceprovider.com. It was slow, I’m sure, but I don’t recall the slowness because it was all so new and I didn’t have anything with which to compare it, although I do recall counting to ten while waiting for certain pages to load. Also: lots of chain emails about BSB vs. ’N Sync. In high school, we got DSL. DSL was amazingly fast back then! Of course, I rarely did anything on the computer but use Yahoo!Messenger to chat with my boyfriend. Oh, and do my homework, of course.

Then came college. Internet was fast and cheap (if not free). The whole campus was connected to wifi: inside, outside, even down in the library basement. Ah, the good old days.

Leaving the land of fast, free Internet for my second venture to Spain in 2009

My first encounter with Spanish Internet was while studying abroad in Toledo. My friend had warned me that the Internet at the residence was abysmal, so I went in with low expectations. But these low expectations had to be lowered as well. The Internet worked about 50% of the time, but I never knew when or where to place myself in the building so that it would work. Skype conversations were all but impossible. I counted myself lucky, though, because most students lived with host families who—gasp!—didn’t even have Internet! To my “spoiled” self, not having Internet in 2008 was just weird. I mean, I could understand if you were 70+. But young university students all living together? That was just foreign to me.

Nowadays, in 2012, it seems to me that having Internet and Wi-Fi at home is much more common than it was just four years ago, in 2008. But it’s still way slower than I’m used to. Most people still have DSL. It’s not slow, but it’s not like the cable Internet I was used to in the States.

Another thing I don’t get: we live in Madrid, a large, cosmopolitan city with over three million residents. And only two companies could actually install Internet in our home: Movistar and Orange. No Jazztel, which everyone tells us to is the best offer. Nope, no such luck. I hadn’t heard good things about Orange, and Movistar is basically a monopoly, and who doesn’t love Monopoly? Thus, we chose Movistar. However, we found out that their DSL would only be able to provide us with an Internet speed that’s slow as molasses—and yes, that’s the technical term. So we’re (rather reluctantly) making the upgrade to fibra, fiber-optic Internet, which is indeed fast, but also expensive. But we’ve been waiting on them to come and upgrade for a week, and there have been no calls. Patience, patience …

In the meantime, I’m enjoying the molasses.

Things I’m Realizing about Madrid and Our Life Here

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It feels like Spain, but it’s different than the Spain I’ve known. Madrid is huge, and getting anywhere can be somewhat of a challenge. People speak Spanish mainly, but there is a large international population, and thus the Spanish can sound quite different than the Spanish I heard in Zamora or Salamanca.
The metro is not as fast as I thought. The metro is great, don’t get me wrong. I just had this mistaken idea that getting anywhere in the city was as easy as zippity doo dah. Transbordos, where you change lines, can take anywhere from three to ten minutes. And ten minutes is a lot when you’re in a hurry!
I have no super-close grocery stores. I mean, in Salamanca we lived above a Carrefour. No such luck here. The closet one is at least ten minutes away, and that’s a lot when you’re carrying anything heavy.

Parque Tierno Galván

Madrid has some pretty cool parks. We live right by one, Parque Tierno Galván, and a few others are just a hop, skip, and a jump away.

In the Parque Lineal de Manzanares. With La Dama del Manzanares, which lights up at night.

Mario’s job is for serious, guys. I mean, I knew it would be a time-consuming job, but Mario’s been working from 9 a.m. until 9:30 or 10 p.m. He’s got a secretary (shared, but still). He’s getting an American Express card for company expenses and a Blackberry. He’s a big-time lawyer now.
I love my coffee machine. It’s a German brand, Rowenta, and it makes espresso and steamed milk. So I’m obviously in coffee heaven.

Teaching English seems inevitable. It’s hard to find another sort of job, when most Spaniards can’t. So, yes, I’ll be doing that again, but this time in an elementary school mainly. I’m excited to work with younger children, and, yep, I’m the type that loves working with the infantil age (i.e., three to six years old). Yes, those people exist. I am one.

As is British English

There are lots of Americans here. It’s not hard to spot one, like it was in Zamora. I’ve already met two fellow bloggers, Cassandra and Jessica! I’m excited to meet more, so if you’re in Madrid, let’s meet up.

On Not Owning a Car

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I got my license when I was exactly sixteen years old and thirty days, on December 31, 2002. To say I was excited is a gross understatement.

Pulling out of the garage in my first, a 1993 Mitsubishi Eclipse. (Yes, I learned to drive a manual from the very beginning!)

Driving is a rite of passage in the US. Teenagers eagerly await the freedom and autonomy that comes with obtaining a driver’s license. I was no different, and I had parents who purchased me a used—but still functional and nice—car. I drove it everywhere: to school every morning, to work after volleyball practice, to youth group, to my friends’ houses. I loved driving when I was in high school.

Some people hate driving; some people will always love it. My love of driving started off strong, but faded over the years until I now loathe driving long distances and stay in the house to avoid getting in the car.

Which is why living in Europe opened my mind to a whole new idea of mobility—walking. (I promise, I did walk before, just not as a means to get from Point A to Point B.) I loved walking to work as a Conversation and Language Assistant in 2011, especially since it meant I lost weight without even trying. I had a long commute on the bus, which I didn’t like, but I did enjoy the morning quiet, and the break after a long day.

These sorts of views don’t hurt.

There are times when walking isn’t as fun: when it’s raining, when it’s bitterly cold, when it’s so hot you sweat just from standing outside … but most of the time, I enjoy walking, and I think it’s the best way to get around, from a health standpoint and an environmental one.

So, Mario and I are moving to Madrid, as you know. He gets there Tuesday. I get there Thursday. We won’t have a car. Is it weird to say the idea is oddly freeing? I know, someday we’ll want one, no matter where we are. Our life will be full of getting from Point A to Point B. (That’s what you get when you’re in a relationship with a foreigner.) However, owning a car is just not a smart decision for us right now. We don’t know what country we’ll be in in five years, let alone what city. We don’t want to pay astronomically high fees to park our car that we’d only use once or twice a month anyway. (Driving in Madrid is not my idea of fun!) So we made an almost-unspoken decision to forego a car. Let the walking commence!

Walking the streets of Toro.

But for now, we’ll be carless. We’ll use public transportation, including the metro (Madrid’s metro is widely renowned), buses, and trains. We’ll probably be healthier and happier because of it.

If you live in Spain or somewhere else in the world besides the US, do you own a car? Why or why not?

Two Threads

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The music is loud and it fills the room. All eyes are on us, and I can’t stop smiling. He grasps my hand, a bit harder than normal, and whispers, “Vamos.” So we enter the room, bright lights shining hotly on us, and I try to see everyone and everything, take it all in, remember everything about this moment. All these people, all this happiness, happened because we happened. We are the cause of these beaming faces, this raucous laughter, this clink of glasses. We are so loved. And we are so unbelievably lucky.

Pretty close to where it all started

My life and Mario’s life have become intertwined, two threads of the same story, irrevocably twisted together. I didn’t mean for it to happen, didn’t head to Spain looking for love, let alone looking for him. But happen it did.

Nevertheless, sometimes I feel a twinge of envy as I look at others’ lives. Perhaps I’m crazy, and feel free to say so, but I do sometimes envy those who aren’t headed to Spain, who aren’t married to foreigners like I am. I think of their lives, and I wonder what it’s like not to always yearn. I miss half of my world. Every day.

In the US, I miss Mario most of all, his contagious laughter, our bilingual jokes, how he tells me he loves me. I miss the sunshine and dry plains of Zamora. I miss speaking Spanish, feeling like I’m always learning and growing somehow. I miss our friends: R with his earnest attempts at English, J’s jokes, M who sees Mario much like I do. I cannot help but think of café con leche, chorizo, salchichón, and lentejas. I miss walking past the corner store that sells salt cod, sweet wine, and aguardiente. I reminisce about drinking sweet liqueurs out of frozen tiny beer steins after long lunches, the orujo staining our upper lips a milky brown. I think of paseando after dinner in the summer, when the streets are finally cool and sometimes smell of an afternoon downpour, the pharmacies’ thermometers blinking the temperature in red. I remember how to savor wine and food, linger over a meal, and—because I must—speak deliberately, with a purpose.

In Spain, I miss my family—my mother’s hugs “on both sides,” my father mowing the grass, chatting with my sister-in-law about the Hoosiers, the family get-togethers. I miss the green grass, the smell of fires in the fall, my backyard garden with its endless sweet green peppers and curious rabbits poking about. I miss the local Mexican restaurant, its colorful, joyful booths and waiters who already know our orders. I long for cookouts, pitch-ins, and barbecues; fireflies, dandelions, and open fields; barns, cornfields, and corner stores. I miss them all, but know they’re waiting on me to return, and I hope one day I will.

I think that coming back and forth exacerbates it all. I read posts from former Conversation and Language Assistants who are reminded, every so often, of Spain, and they miss it. Understandably. I wonder if these feelings fade. I think they do, over time. They become less and less frequent, less and less painful. Is this good or bad, this lessening? Who’s to say? I just know that my feelings do not become less frequent; in fact, as I become more deeply entrenched in another culture, another country, another place altogether, I’m realizing that these feelings are more frequent, and often more gut-wrenching. I will never stop missing the other place. Never.

And so I face my future, knowing that something will always be missing, some hole will always be present. These holes I will fill when I return to that place; they, in turn, will be emptied when I must inevitably leave.

And please, don’t think I’m complaining—there’s no reason to complain about my life, fortunate and blessed as it is. But remember that your life, too, is fortunate. T-minus twenty-six days until I’m officially a madrileña.

Student, Auxiliar, Expat

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Do you remember study abroad? I’ve talked about it often, if only because it was the beginning of so many things (good, bad, and neutral) for me. It was the first time I set foot in Spain; it was the first time I felt overwhelmed by the idea of becoming fluent in another language; it was the first time I truly embraced my Americanness.

At La Fundación José Ortega y Gasset in 2008.

The next stage for me was being a Conversation and Language Assistant, una auxiliar de conversación. Being a C&LA was different than being a student. I had responsibilities other than studying. I had more bills to pay. I had to deal with a lot more bureaucracy (although not as much as some people).I felt much more alone than I had as a study abroad student, surrounded by scores of other naïve Americans like me. But still there was a built-in group of people I could make friends with, my fellow C&LAs in Zamora, where I was located. Together, we found common ground in complaining about the lack of respect shown by our students, being the token Americans everywhere we went, and laughing about the abundance of zapaterías (shoe stores).

Now I find myself about to embark on a different sort of journey—one without a set end date, without a built-in group of fellow Americans, without a sense of surety. Daunting is a word that comes to mind. Sometimes I see the new(er) C&LAs and their blogs describe their countless trips, how they see Spain—and I see myself in them, but back in 2009. And obviously 2009 was not that long ago; I’m not saying that I’m infinitely more mature than them or anything of the sort. I’m only saying that we’re always changing, and I’ve changed since then, I’ve been altered by the transient nature of life.

My time in Spain has gone from student life to auxiliar life, to life life. No longer am I thinking, “Just until June” or “I can’t do that, because I’ll be gone by then.” Instead I’m thinking of work permits and marriage licenses and in-law dilemmas. I’m thinking of buying furniture and settling down and sending boxes across the Atlantic Ocean because when did I get this much stuff?

It’s all his fault. Mario’s, that is.

Perhaps the more seasoned expats will smirk at me and my naïveté. Perhaps they’ll feel a bit of sympathy because I don’t know what I’m getting myself into (and I suppose I only have the faintest idea!). Perhaps they’ll view me with nostalgia—they remember their beginnings too, their first trembling steps into the “real world.” I cannot say how, in a few years (or decades), I’ll view the Kaley of 2012. I can only hope that the me of today will not allow herself to be intimidated, to say no, to live a fear-driven life.

Let’s go.

Going Back—Ready or Not

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I don’t think of myself as a very strong person. I cry easily. I can turn against myself in a second, doubtful and drained of self-confidence. I prefer my own bed, my home, my comfort zone. I can’t sleep on airplanes or anywhere that isn’t a bed, basically. I get cranky when hungry. My pain tolerance is kind of low (a.k.a. nonexistent).

So maybe you won’t be surprised when I say that, even though I’m thrilled to be reunited with Mario, I’m also terrified of moving back. To Spain, that is. You see, the time I’ve spent in Spain hasn’t always been the happiest. If you read my posts from 2010–2011, you might see this, lurking in the background, the truth I was trying so hard to avoid. It was through no fault of Spain’s own—not really. I was depressed, down in the dumps, and I did nothing to change it. My own worst enemy, if you will.

But don’t get me wrong. I did find Silly Bands in Spain. So it wasn’t all bad.

And although I say it wasn’t Spain’s fault—and it wasn’t—with each passing day I think more and more about our future together. By marrying that Spaniard of mine, I’m tying myself to this place. Home is no longer a simple concept, a place I’ll be sure of. Instead, home will be here and there, Indiana and Zamora, the US and Spain. Am I ready for that? Can I handle a life full of comings and goings? Can I live in Spain again—and be happy about it?

Mario, my pick for world’s greatest future-husband/boyfriend/human, reassures me often that the future can and will be different than the past, that we’ll work together to find solutions, that we’ll endeavor to make our path a happy one. He knows what I went through; he endured it too, and for that I could never repay him. Because of him, I do feel comforted, more ready to face what’s coming.

Yeah, he’s pretty awesome. A bad ass. Or as Google Translate translates “bad ass,” un culo mal.

I can feel your incredulity. After all, here I am, a twenty-five-year-old woman with her whole future ahead of her, ready to move to Spain, to Europe, to get married. Hello? Is this girl crazy? And I am, I admit; I’m crazy to feel scared about it. But that’s just me, I guess—as I said, I’ve never seen myself as that strong.

But in writing this, in thinking about it all, my opinion on my own strength has begun to shift. You see, what kind of weak person would get so very homesick in 2008, and yet turn right around and move back for another crack at it in 2009? What kind of weak person would be detained in an airport, but go back as soon as possible—three months later? What kind of weak person says, “Yes, I’ll go. Let’s move back. As long as we’re together”? Accordingly, I’ve begun to see that this kind of “weak person” is not weak at all. I am not weak, and I will make this time better than all the last times because I finally get it.

I’m strong.

4 Reasons Why I Love Castilla y León (And Why You Should Too)

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I am still a member of the Spain auxiliares’ group on Facebook. Why? Good question. I like to take a peek in there every now and then, as the discussion can get entertaining. The latest comment thread I read (it was from November, I think) was highlights and how some poor girl was willing to travel “anywhere” to get them done correctly. I couldn’t really identify, as I’ve never really dyed my hair (that time with a slightly reddish-brown shade doesn’t count; it was barely noticeable), but it was an amusing thread nonetheless.

I joined the 2011–2012 auxiliares’ group back when I was still in Spain. I don’t live there currently, nor do I wish to sound arrogant, but I do know a thing or two about Spain. (Reasons include: study abroad in 2008, internship in 2009, being detained in the airport due to visa issues in 2010, chilling with Mario in Salamanca in 2010 for three months, and a year teaching English in Zamora [from 2010–2011].) Sometimes I felt qualified to answer their questions, so I did. When I was first applying, the group wasn’t that active, and I had approximately a zillionquestions, many of which I just had to find out about on the job.

One thing I notice(d), though, is the lack of love for some regions of Spain. Okay, I get it—you want to live on the beach in Málaga, walk Las Ramblas in Barcelona, eat the best pintxos of your life in País Vasco, live la vida madrileña in Madrid … I do understand.

But why no love for Extremadura? None for Castilla-La Mancha? Or, nearest and dearest to my Spanish-American heart, Castilla y León? I found these questions puzzling—still do. I know, I know: they aren’t glamorous and they aren’t near the airport and you most definitely cannot spend Carnaval on the beach like you can (supposedly) in Cádiz*. But I want you to know that, if you choose one of these regions (or other lesser known ones), there’s no reason you can’t have the best year of your life. Here’s why I love Castilla y León (and why you should too).

The Spanish spoken there is, they say, “pure.” Now, let’s not get into linguistic debates about this because I know all accents have merit and if you can understand a Gaditano, you can understand anyone. But I’ll tell you one thing—these people speak like the people you hear on TV, the news announcers, the academics. I love the accent. (Mario has the best one.) I love the ceceo and leísmo. What’s more, this accent has become the neutral Spanish accent to me, much like the General American Accent is neutral to me in English. I know there’s technically no neutral, but to me, it’s the norm. And I like it.
The food. Sure, San Sebastián gets all the good press with good reason. The food there is astonishingly good. Nonetheless, I believe wholeheartedly in the value of a good Castilian meal. I don’t mean what you get in a bar when you’re having a coffee—this is often rather hit or miss. What I mean is the food you get in someone’s home, someone who has taken the time to lovingly prepare a hearty, delicious, and almost always healthy meal. Mario’s mother, my suegra, is a marvelous cook. Her food is, without fail, fresh, delicious, homemade, and (most importantly to any good Spanish woman over fifty) filling. I can’t get through one plate without her asking me if I want more. There usually have to be two denials before she’ll stop asking. She’s introduced me to lentejas, cocido, patatas a la importancia, pescado a la plancha, solomillo adobado, aceitadas, roscón de reyes, pan de queso, menestra, potaje de garbanzos, natillas con un toque de limón, and many more. (Not to mention homemade salchichón, which is my favorite thing. Ever.)

There’s also meat and potatoes—more my dad’s style

The Scenery. There’s much to be said about Barcelona, Madrid, and Galicia (all gorgeous places in their own right), but I’m partial to my adopted home in Spain (no duh, right?). I love Salamanca’s Plaza Mayor, Zamora’s old Roman bridge, Ávila’s Lord of the Rings-style wall, Segovia’s aqueduct. I love the ancient feeling of it all, and this feeling was no strong than whehn I saw the Roman statue of Romulus and Remus in Segovia. Just thinking of the Romans—the Romans!—being there millennia ago gave me goose bumps.

The Heart of Spain. Spain has been stereotyped as the land of bullfights, flamenco dancers, sun, and beaches. When the average person (not Hispanophiles) thinks of Spain, Castilla y León is probably not what comes to their mind. That’s okay because I truly believe what the Lonely Planet says when it states that CyL is “Spain without the stereotypes.” It may not be a place you go expecting to be wowed—and you probably won’t gasp in amazement too often—but it’s a place that will give you a peek into the heart of Spain. This heart of Spain is growing ever older, ever feebler with each passing year, and I fear that much of its everyday magic will soon be lost, forever hidden in the annals of the great libraries. Every year, it seems, there are fewer births—there are few children on the playgrounds, yet the park benches are full of ancianos. They too are a window to the Spain’s soul, a soul found everywhere, but, for me, most vividly in Castilla y León.

If my grandma can do it, so can you.

You should visit.

It’s Christmas

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The lights were blurry as they whizzed by. My cocoa was still too hot to drink. It smelled marvelous, almost magical. Dad switched on the radio, the announcer’s voice crackly and distant. “… Santa and his reindeer were spotted tonight,” he was saying. My pulse quickened and I imagined a tiny silhouette of a sleigh, of eight reindeer dancing in the inky night sky. Santa’s on his way …

From the window our tree blinked. The car pulled neatly into the garage, and we leapt out, eager to enter the house’s glowing warmth. The heat hit us as I pulled upon the door, my glasses fogging up. Four stockings hung above a cheery fire in anticipation of presents. It was finally time to open the first gift of Christmas. I ran into the living room and flopped myself down onto the couch,ready to feel the thrill that the unknown evokes. The present was always pajamas, yes, but the knowledge could not take away my excitement at the prospect of ripping off the red and green paper, of the scent of newness upon the clothes as I held them up.

But first…first, we read from the oversized family Bible with its gold-rimmed pages. In the days of Caesar Augustus… began my mother, stealing glances at my brother and me, our feet dangling over the edge of the couch, our eyes lovingly focused on her for this moment, this one magic moment. The story, although familiar, the phrases well-worn in the deep recesses of our memories, yet the words never lost their magic. For unto us a Child is born, unto us a Savior is given.

Soon enough, it was time. Time to set out Santa’s snack, to write him a letter, to thank him. My hands grasped the pencil tightly, etching the words onto the lined sheet of paper. Thank you for the presents. I hope you enjoy the snacks. In our home, Santa ate snack cakes and Pepsi, not cookies and milk, an eerily similar combination to what my father ate on a daily basis, but my mind failed to make the connection. My father promised to set out food for the reindeer, and off to bed we went, our bellies full of cocoa and anticipation.

Snuggled under the covers, sleep evaded me. The Christmas lights outside twinkled, a tease that told me I still had a good eight hours to wait. I could not help but listen for the distant jingle of sleigh bells, of hoofbeats, of the snack wrapper being opened. I turned over, sighed, and wished for sleep. Sleep never came easily that night. Santa was on his way, could be placing carefully gift-wrapped packages under the twinkling tree this very second, and sleep would not come.

Soon enough, however, light bled faintly through my blinds. Jolting myself awake, I sat up in bed, my pulse once again picking up speed. Was Seth awake? I had to use the bathroom, but dared not leave my room for fear of seeing the surprises awaiting me in the other room. It was a dilemma – to exit or not to exit? My full bladder told me one thing while my mind told me another. And so I waited anxiously. Perhaps five minutes went by, perhaps ten. But I had to leave, could not stay, my racing mind unable to take the weighted speculation. Seth too was awake, his face lined with the anxiousness I felt. Together we waited impatiently. We raised our high-pitched child voices, stomped around the tiled bathroom, flushed the toilet, all in the hopes of being heard in the other wing of the house. We dared not enter the bounds of the living room, dared not catch a glimpse of the presents awaiting us under the tree, but we longed for our parents to awaken, to venture into our bedrooms and say breathily, “Merry Christmas, my love!” whilst gathering us up in a hug that meant safety, love, and magic. A hug that, in the end, meant Christmas itself.

The presents were never the reason I loved Christmas. They were nice, sure: dolls and sweaters and lip gloss, smelling of everything my girlhood represented. But Christmas, for me, was more than just a box in snowman wrapping paper. It was the smell of cinnamon rolls in the oven, laughter, nose-crinkling smiles, snow falling softly outside my window, mashed potatoes with obscene amounts of butter, spoons on noses at the kids’ table…Christmas could not be contained in a box wrapped in red paper. Christmas was family, was fellowship, was cookies baking in the oven, was the love that my parents and I could not express in words.

To this day, I am unable to say what Christmas means to me. I once heard that when you turn 24, they neglect to tell you that you are still 23, 22, 21 … 1 years old too. So when I wake up this December 25, forgive me for feeling like a child once again, full of hope and anticipation and desire for the magic of Christmas.

Kaley…& Más