FACING MY PROVINCIALISM 16 MARCH MADRID

I have come face-to-face with my provincialism, and it's frustrating. 
I've been thinking I'm so urbane and sophisticated because I was stationed in Spain and in Italy fifty years ago. "I have seen the world," after all.
Then, on top of that I have friends who are LGBTQ and from every part of the world and who have ancestors from every part of the world, and I have taught in schools with over fifty languages in the halls . . .
And I got knocked on my pompous arse just dealing with day-to-day here.
Because the only stable part of my day is in my own head; I can't go back to my own house and sit. I can't cool off, decompress in my truck on the drive home. 
My home is a third floor (European third floor) apartment, and I either walk or take the bus everywhere I go. I hunger for the sound of American English, a language I am facile in. My Spanish hodge-podges me by, often with a lot of finger- pointing, and I frequently have absolutely no idea what I am seeing listed on the menu. Often I take a S.W.A.G (scientific wild-ass guess) and order it. I know I can more than likely eat whatever comes out of the kitchen.
I am surprised every hour to hear Africans and Chinese and Pakistanis and Indians speaking flawless Spanish . . . as opposed to English. 
I am comfortable in this corner of the world, even getting many of my corners and edges knocked off and sanded smooth. And I love my small victories . . . a hundred a day.
Life is so very, very good.
Bring it!

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