Reflections on Weaving, Turkey, and Americanism

The analogies of life to weaving and thread have been going around for centuries; from the Bible to philosophers to normal people walking down the street, trying to understand why they are there. The latter was me this past Wednesday.
I was walking to school from my house, I passed our street´s dumpster and the old lady who leaves mushed rice out for the wild cats was at her post, setting out styrofoam trays of the ucky looking stuff, right across the sidewalk from the street dumpsters and recycling bins. We smile at each other because one of my first encounters with the various giant, differently colored and differently shaped recycling bins was not a simple one and she helped me through it.
Another block along and I pass the portly little mechanic, always standing at the door of his garage, watching life go by and fixing cars in between. We, also, have established a "hello"ing relationship which has now grown into small comments and laughs about what groceries or books I may be carrying. It was right here that the realization hit. These people have been woven, in small ways, into my life and I into theirs. It made sense and my mind´s eye could see us each as a thread.
I thought of all the other threads of life with which I come into contact. There are my friends and loved ones. Who, although we may not be physically interwoven right now, I can feel, running parallel to me, reinforcing me, and hopefully I am doing the same. There is the nest of amazing women who have so graciously welcomed me into their lives and homes. There is the bakery lady who always responds to my inquiry as to her health with "bien, gracias a Dios" and who knows that I prefer my barra de pan a little on the white side, rather than too toasted. These people, who make up the living waypoints of my day, who pass through my life in this regular and rhythmic pattern. Creating for some grander design for all of us.
It was a stabilizing realization for me. For as strange as I may feel being in such a different place, it is impossible for me to fall off the grid, because I have these connections and they have me.

This past week was Thanksgiving. I know, SURPRISE! I got to talk some about the holiday to a few of the classes and my mention of pumpkin pie was generally greeted with looks of incredulity and disgust. The kids didn´t even know about home-made chocolate chip cookies (they sell neither chocolate chips or canned pumpkin over here), all they had ever heard of were Chips Ahoy!
Thanksgiving was a rainy day which I spent thinking of my family and sending as much love as I could to them. Trying to imagine what they were all doing at certain times, as well as thinking of all that I have to be grateful for. The list is a long one. On that day the closest I came to a Thanksgiving meal was a turkey sandwich.
On Saturday an American mother from one of the schools I work at invited me to the "American women in Mallorca" club´s Thanksgiving meal at some schnazzy restaurant on a cliff over the sea. On our way there I realized this was to be my second encounter in two months with other Americans.
We certainly were an ecclectic collection. There were embassy people, international business people, Burberry clad children and their matching parents. Most were international couples
"I was a shipping merchant from the US to Mallorca and I met my Italian wife here."
"I am in international shipping and I met my Sweedish wife in Germany and we keep our summer house here."
"I just graduated from college. I am here because I want to grow up to do everything in the world."
"I studied Spanish in University, I came over here on holiday and fell in love and have lived here 20 years now."
We each had a story and they were all interesting and I enjoyed the exchange. The political debates, the funny things we miss, why they dub movies over in Spanish with annoying voices, where do you land a personal jet on Mallorca, etc.
It took quite some effort, I learned, to get the cooks at the restuarant to understand what we wanted to eat. The women who had coordinated the meal had come in a week earlier to show them recipes and ideas as to what we eat on Thanksgiving (again, they were appalled by the idea of pumpkin pie so we had some kind of berry pie instead).
Over here, one of the major points about a meal is its presentation. Small portions arranged in such an elaborate way as to make one unsure how to approach desecrating it. Thinking about this brought another interesting obeservation to mind. The simplicity of the foods we eat on Thanksgiving (please don´t hate me all you folks who worked so hard to prepare the meal, hear me out). The foods are simple. Meat, potatoes; no colorful displays, no exotic ingredients. A turkey and mashed potatoes, as a founding feature of a national holiday. These are the same foods that people armed with muskets and ploughs ate. Something like that could not have come from European people. The truths of America are best seen and easiest understood in these subtilties. But they are difficult to explain. Especially in Spanish. So mostly these observations are just for me. And now you.

Happy December everyone!