What Sand and Bare Feet Taught Me

I heard the vendor's voice on the warm breeze long before I opened my eyes and saw his bare feet in front of me.I was lounging in that daze-y space between nap and awake, that place of warm contentment, eyes closed but with the aura of orange-red suggested just beyond their lids.

I had been lying on the beach all morning, contemplating whether or not I ought to add another layer of sunscreen and deciding that a burn wouldn't be enough of a price for actually moving out of my blissful, cozy state.

"Fanta," he shouted, "cerveza, agua, Coca-Cola!" His voice got closer and closer. "Fanta, cerveza, agua..." until it was very close, and then it was, "Fanta, beer, water" in uncertain English. I opened my eyes and, as he passed, caught a glimpse of his feet as they shuffled by.

My first thought was, "Is it too early for a beer?" followed by, "Wait. He spoke English when he got near me." And then I was a little stung. "How did he know? Is it that obvious? What signs of being non-Spanish* did he pick up on?" I thought.

The answer was yes. It was that obvious. A quick examination of the damning evidence led me to these realizations:

1. I am super white. Glow in the dark pasty. No tan or pigment to speak of. At all. Except for maybe the red blotches of newly sunned skin that were beginning to form on my back and legs. I certainly did not look like I had spent any time outdoors. That is very non-Spanish.

2. My towel was sand-less. In other words, I had been preoccupied with keeping everything around me orderly, as if I were afraid the beach might actually get on me. Clearly I wasn't used to the grit of living anywhere near a sea.

3. I was still wearing my bikini top. I was pretty much the only one for miles with a top on (other than Rich who didn't even put on a swimsuit until nearly time to leave - another clue). Babies were running around on the beach naked and we had more clothing on than they wear in winter.

4. I hadn't been swimming.  Most folks had already dove into the (freezing) waves or had swam their morning laps. I even spotted an elderly gentleman doing yoga (standing on his head for at least 3 minutes) and then taking a lap.

5. My hair was still pony-tailed in a land where gorgeous dark curls are left untamed to wave in the breeze.

The beach in Grand Canaria reflects Spanish culture: It's warm. Relaxed. Not fussy. Like me.

As I allowed myself to repose in that easy environment, I began to realize how exactly opposite I am from that these days. In my realization, I acknowledged how tightly wound I am, how stone-faced behind my frenzied emotions. In fact, I can't remember the last time I let go. Certainly it was before I began my intense search three, almost four, years ago for a new international job. Somewhere along the way I forgot that every little thing isn't about writing the perfect resume or presenting myself in the most professionally appealing way possible. I have been making a first impression and worrying about miss-stepping in every avenue of my life, whether it be in getting a job, parenting, or deciding what to eat for dinner. My life has felt like one long agenda driven interview where I am hyper aware of everything I do and and say and the effect or appearance it might or might not portray. Some people call this anxiety. And as I am particularly prone to it, I long ago worked out how how to alleviate it without medication, but have forgotten to practice and practice and practice that remedy. The result is this tense, frigid, annoyed, static (non-creative) state.

My back instinctively tightened at the acknowledgement brought on by the oblivious beach vendor.

I decided that I would stop him on his way back and order dos cervezas (who cares if it was too early!) and do the entire transaction in Spanish, confidently, to prove to him that I belong here. I considered casting off my bikini top for the sake of shaking off my anxiety, even for one afternoon, but then reminded myself that I was still, fairly prone to sunburn and that some places are more sensitive than others.. Baby steps.

Baby steps.

*The Canary Islands are part of Spain, for those of you who may think I am being insensitive to Mexico.(ahem)