A Year Ago Today

A year ago today, June 5, because if I were in Spain, I suppose it would be June 6, but this date, this number is a strong reminder of what I walked away from.

One year ago today, my children and I finished packing our bags and said goodbye to the flat we called home in Málaga, Spain.

One year ago today, I left a city that embraced me, and I embraced back, a city that captivated me in ways I am still trying to find the right words for, and honestly may never be able to do.

One year ago today, I had to shift from a life of community and people, work and leisure, beauty and connection, the Tejeringo's down the block and the purple flowers littering the concrete sidewalk outside of our flat, ready to embark on ten days of travel that would ultimately land us back in the United States.

I am always hesitant to say that a city could take your heart, thinking that perhaps we romanticize the realities of being away, somewhere other than where we are used to, and that very well may be true. But, I can honestly say my time there changed me, and I am still finding out in what ways.

We said goodbye to our landlord, leaving the keys on the table after letting him know we had cleaned up. I handed him a thank you card, one we had made by hand, writing our words inside and printing photos from our time in Spain and from San Diego, to leave a little piece of our home there in Málaga, on our little portable printer, taping them in so they would not curl or fade or come loose. I had made others like it, one for the family next door who owned the bazar and who always let me know when they had ice cream Snickers bars in stock for my son, and one for the restaurant next door, especially for the man we had grown to know ever so slight, who there who had memorized our orders without ever being asked, the Fanta naranja my son misses dearly and refuses to order by name in the United States as Fanta naranja, only orange Fanta, because it simply does not hit his taste buds quite the same way, or the Fanta limón my daughter loved but cannot find here anymore, the Coca Cola Zero he always had ready to go as we sat down. Our landlord and his sister had been such generous and amazing landlords, from the groceries he brought when we first arrived to the visits he made just to check on us, and I wrote him a long message later on WhatsApp, thanking him again, and he told me that this was my home now, too, and to please reach out if I was ever back.

The purple flowers, the same ones I mentioned just a few paragraphs back, the ones that would "litter the sidewalk,", identical to the ones in San Diego, were no longer scattered across the concrete where we waited for our taxi. It was just bare. I stood there looking at the space, my heart dropping, admiring the ground, visualizing the flowers, perhaps a reminder of what we were returning to, because at that point, we're leaving, and my eyes are trying to hold onto everything in my view all at once.

The taxi took us to the train station, which turned out to be enormous, the size of a mall, and something we hadn't even thought to explore while we were there, and we ate before boarding, moving through it a little dazed. Really, my mind was elsewhere, likely already in San Diego, though I wouldn't be back in that city for several months. We did, after all, still have 11 days until we would land in Chicago, and then another several weeks until we would leave to go back to Southern California. But, then I sat down on the train, felt the seat beneath me, and took a deep breath. We were really leaving, and I was not quite ready.

It is hard to think that a year ago, I was crying, sitting in a hotel in Madrid after that long train ride, the one that carried us to a closing ceremony for the Fulbright, the official goodbye to the program that had made all of it possible. We had dinner in the hotel restaurant, surprised to discover we could simply take our plates back to the room, something that felt both small and disorienting after months of knowing exactly where everything was and how everything worked, the people daily, and especially considering I was stressed over how to situate myself initially. My daughter ordered a plate covered in fresh fruit, and it held us through the night in the absence of our local panadería, or the Tejeringo's café down the block from our flat. I thought about Capo Bonifati Gelato, the gelato shop that had the helado de amarena I had left behind, the only ice cream I have ever sought, especially as somebody who is not a big fan of ice cream. This was the exception to my general dislike of ice cream, and now suddenly, the flavors were no longer dancing with my taste buds.

A year ago tomorrow, I would sit in an auditorium, one I wrote about in a letter I wrote to myself six months after leaving, and listen to story after story that sounded something like mine, individuals speaking about the beauty of the Fulbright, and what it means to live and work somewhere entirely new. And, to be changed by it.

I was the only one in that room who had brought children. Other Fulbright U.S. Scholars had children, of course, but they were not in that room, and somehow I had been invited to an event that other U.S. scholars had not, something I am genuinely grateful for, because it meant my children got to sit in that room too, to hear those stories and to understand that this kind of life is possible. To have taken them with me, alone, is something I cannot fully put into words. I could only dream of opportunities like this when I was in my twenties, and when I was their age, I did not even know these things existed. And yet, here were my children, sitting in that auditorium, living something I could not have imagined for myself at their age.

January 2025 always pops back into my mind, though, specifically that first taxi ride after more than twenty-five hours of travel, when I looked out the window at Málaga closing in around me and thought with a sinking feeling, "What did I do?" The pit in my stomach that day was heavy and overwhelming, and I genuinely wondered if I had made a terrible mistake. What did I do, uprooting my children for a life that perhaps may not turn out the way I had hoped? Even if only for several months? That feeling was fleeting, obviously, but in that taxi, it was there, screaming at me in my mind. It would take several days before Málaga began to do what Málaga eventually did, wrapping itself around me in continual reminders of my humanity.

And then, of course, there was the blackout. On April 28, the Iberian Peninsula went dark, tens of millions of people were without power across Spain, Portugal, and part of Southern France, and this was when trains stopped, phones died, and they were completely without network connection, the infrastructure individuals take for granted, now, gone all at once. I carried cash, which meant I could walk to Terra Mia, our favorite pizza chain, where I made sure to tell our waiter that my friend, who was visiting, was allergic to basil, quietly ensuring that, amidst everything, we would not have an emergency, and ordered my children's favorite, a Margherita pizza. Outside, earlier that day, before we realized cash was our friend, neighbors stopped me, speaking in Spanish, of course, asking if I had power or if my phone was working. Cars were pulled up onto the sidewalks, radios on, people standing outside restaurants and shops, and the whole neighborhood reorganizing itself around the absence of the ordinary. Children played well into the dark in the common grassy area of our flat, joy, happiness, and unsolicited childlike freedom we observed from our terrace. We had only a small battery-powered light in the hallway. That eventually died. And I could not reach my family throughout the day, and yes, it was terrifying. But, Málaga had welcomed me, and I had already settled into it, and I knew where to go, who to ask, and which streets to take, though perhaps I should have considered that I might need flashlights. Hindsight, and all. Five months of living somewhere, really living somewhere and being in the community, gives you a level of peace, but not just anywhere, really living somewhere that is welcoming and humanizing.

I left all of that behind. The memories nestled into my brain and my heart. Oh, my heart.

We went on later to visit Switzerland and Ireland until the middle of June, both beautiful and important, and stimulating in their own ways. I will remember the way the hotel front desk could pronounce my name, Holkenbrink, so well and clearly in Switzerland. And the conversations with our server in Ireland about Native American History, the topic she appreciated and valued the most in grade school in the 60s, were there in Ireland. And I will hold and cherish those experiences for my children and the travel I could share with them.

But June 5 is seared into my mind and memories so much more. It was the day I understood that friends are wonderful, but community is something else entirely and something we truly do not value enough in the United States. I had built one and connected with people and places. I knew which bus lines to take, which dishes to order at our ramen shop, where to find the boba place, and which spaces were mine. I had learned, slowly and without quite realizing it, what it means to live without the constant urgency that follows me here, to let things settle at their own pace, and to trust that what needs to happen will happen and there is no reason to stress. I wrote about this at length, about the concept of no pasa nada, roughly translated as no worries, no big deal, and how it is not just a phrase but a way of living that I had actually felt in my body, in the unhurried way a day could open and close without apology, and something I miss oh so dearly today. Something that feels like a memory, and nothing that I capture or live any longer. That lesson does not vanish just because you board a plane, even when this country makes it very hard to hold onto. But, it is a memory nonetheless.

A year later, I am still not where I thought I would be. I am still not securing the tenure-track positions I want, the ones that will let me write and research and collaborate with students the way I need to, or where my projects would thrive. I thought I would have more figured out by now.

And, quite frankly, I don't.

But I also thought I would feel worse than I do, and that part surprised me and still surprises me daily. I do struggle sometimes, well, more often than not, and I won't pretend otherwise, but the uncertainty feels worrisome and fine at the same time, which is its own strange kind of progress, as it was only overwhelmingly worrisome before. I want to travel more, of course, write more, and take more photographs. I have not picked up my camera in a while, not in any meaningful way, and that is hard for me. I do often feel disconnected. But my kids are happy, and we are cared for. We are finding community through volleyball and picnic days and bonfires, and that matters more than I gave it credit for before Spain. Something that I can appreciate more now.

It is hard to transition back, really hard, into this life of grind and hustle in the United States. I stood outside my classroom not long ago and talked with a student who told me they needed to speak with me because they had also studied abroad, and nobody seemed to understand how difficult it is to come back to a life that is not walkable, not connected, and not slow. I understood completely and lamented my own experiences. And that conversation reminded me that this experience does not belong only to me, that others are carrying the same weight and struggle in returning, and really trying to hold onto something that the pace of this country does not make room for.

So, I will keep connecting and trying to imagine what's possible. The Fulbright, and just as important, Spain, gave me extraordinary experiences, but more than that, it showed me what was possible, something I have written about before and keep returning to. It showed my children what was possible. And I will never be able to articulate how valuable that is to me, or my children.

A year ago today, we packed up our lives, not knowing what was next, and I am still there. And a large part of my heart will forever remain in Málaga, a place that showed me love and with which I fell in love. And with that, I will try to always enjoy life, love people, and live a life of no pasa nada, even when it's hard. But things will work out, the uncertainty is okay, and while a year ago today was hard and something I grapple with, the year since has shown me what I am capable of, and allowed me to put into words, finally, what I experienced.