Re-release: Dirty Downward Dog

Dear Ira Glass,

Three years ago I traveled around Western Europe with two girlfriends and my cousin Jesse. We, like so many other backpackers, kept a travel blog. In honor of the three-year-anniversary of our trip, I am reposting one of my entries from that trip here. I wrote this before going to graduate school, before becoming a teacher, before moving out of the suburbs, before my mom went back to teaching yoga, before my best friend had a baby- before so many of the experiences that make me up. But I remember clearly the night described below doing silent midnight yoga, taking hold of the uncertainty of my life and twisting it upside down. Before I flew to Europe I was wary, carefully guarded. I had a lot of attachments, still-frame memories, excess emotion compressed somewhere inside me, asking me to move as little as possible. It couldn’t stay, couldn’t live neatly layered in me anymore if I moved. When I traveled to Europe I moved reluctantly, warily, but seriously. Small, subtle, while everyone else slept. In confined spaces. And it hurt, and it predicted hurt. And I owned up to it, and I found the movement that pushes us and also cradles us, that presses on as attachments fall away, that whispers half-formed words in the air around us as we change.

Here is Dirty Downward Dog, originally dated April 25th, 2007:

I think I will start with a quick description of my amazing vegan finds in Barcelona.

We went to a large outdoor market on La Rambla that has everything under the sun (literally under tents), and in the back we found a stand called ”Organic is Orgasmic.” Excellent! I had organic vegetarian paella with delicious Spanish toppings. I can’t believe I found this in Spain! Later, I had falafel salad that sounds strange but was very good and fresh- falafel is very popular in Spain.

After the last time I blogged, we went back to our merciful hostel on Vigatans and I set up to do yoga in between the lower bunks that belonged to Kinsey and me. This was a 1 by 4 space of filthy cement upon which I laid my little yogitoes hand towel (no mat, no block). By this time it was about one o’clock in the morning, and I had not done yoga in ages (a week), so I scrolled through Philip Urso’s casts until I found one called ”One Hour Easy Power”. And oh dear, was it slow- not to mention the fact that I had barely enough room to pose and almost no space to flow. Whatever. I did sun salutations to the underside of the top bunks and let my feet stretch out under makeshift curtains, so they poked out into the hostel room’s mini walkway. I did wheel and sank down on brown-gummed concrete, but couldn’t invert (no room, too hard) so I came up with my own version of shoulder stand. By the time I got to final relaxation I was ready to meet that filth and be in it, under our beds, for awhile. There was a sleeping tipsy English kid in his underwear in the bed on the other side of the partition to my left and windows with iron bars but no glass to my upper right. I closed my eyes. No talking, just the echoing of Philip’s Britney-mic breathing and my own head. The manic mind, but I found peace in my makeshift midnight yoga. So the ending words were like a balm to exhaustion and dirtiness: ”Who you are is who you are now. So it holds that there is no effort required, no struggle to become who you are. And it holds that the problem of time is dissolved as well: we think that we have to make time, go on a voyage to discover our true selves. But really, it’s right here.” On the dirty floor with my black feet and hands and the germs of hundreds of other backpackers. No matter what I can always find it, no matter how tiny my section of cement is. Then I took a shower.

The next day we visited La Rambla again, and made our way to meet a friend of one of Kinsey’s friends at a small town where the castellers (climbing people) were performing. This was truly a family event; everyone from the very young to the elderly were both participating and observing. Turns out it was Earth Day- so Kinsey’s friend tipped us off to the hippie street fair that was taking place at the Arc de Triomf. We made our way there from the metro (which we know and love quite well now) and after taking pictures of the Arc made our way through the park lined on either side with booths. Voila! I found the hippies and the vegans of Barcelona. When I emailed my dad with this news he told me he was very happy I found ”my people.” Heck yes I did. When my brother Nigel and I visited Berkely, CA a few weeks ago we both instantly felt we could live there, and we both know we’ll go back. I commented, ”Nige, I think we both love it here so much because we are hippies on the inside. It’s how we were raised.” He looked askance. ”Corn, look at me. Look at my hair and my clothes. I drive a Volkswagen bus! I am a hippie.” ”Oh yeah,” I answered. ”That’s right. You are a hippie on the outside and I am one on the inside.” This place in Barcelona also called out to my inner hippie. She ached to flow out and write an abstract poem, cook some un-recipe vegan mishmash and make some beads out of recycled material. The minute I stepped into the area I felt at home. I basked in the glow and wandered around making semi-conversation with different artists. Happy Earth Day, let’s celebrate vegetables, vegan food, yoga, incense, handmade things, and the return of macrame. This was my little home in Barcelona. I could talk about the stunning Sagrada Familia or Parc Guell (they were incredible!) but the other girls will let you know, and this was my personal haven, discovery, kindred connection, what have you. Glorious.

Sincerely,

Courtney

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