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March 1, 2010 - Grand Rapids, Michigan Sometimes when you look at something you just know that you already understand it. Usually you are wrong. I woke up early one morning a few years ago. I walked toward my balcony and threw open the vertical blinds -- they clinked as they slapped together a few times before coming to rest on either side of the sliding glass door. It was summer in Spain and I lived on the forth floor so the glass doors were already wide open. I gazed out over the neighboring buildings to the beach just beyond... I could see the Med. I could feel the fresh air blowing over the Sea, I could smell its salt and taste it ever so subtly on my lips. Today, I woke up and threw open my curtains and saw inches upon inches of snow. Oh, Michigan, how I love thee; yet long for my days back in warm Catalonia. I remember, again, that day I woke up early in Barcelona and how I worked a full day and later met a few friends for dinner in a quaint local restaurant on the opposite side of town from my apartment. After dinner my friends hopped a bus home; I decided to walk. It was common for me to choose to walk -- even miles --to get home; I really enjoyed walks through the city, getting to know every street and learning to enjoy the slow pace as I took in the architecture, sights, sounds, smells... On this particular evening, as I had approached the nearly-half-way-home point, it began to rain. A slow drizzle, it was refreshing so I kept walking. Then harder... a steady sprinkle. A light rain. A downpour. Because I was already walking, and already wet, I decided to keep at it. By the time I reached my apartment building, I was drenched. My key dripped as I slid it in the lock on the exterior door. My shoes made that squishy-squeaky sound as I crossed the marble tile in the entryway. I left a puddle where I waited for the elevator. My shoes were off before I entered my apartment; I sloshed through the living room and began to disrobe, hanging my outer layers on backs of chairs on the balcony to dry. Ending my day in the same place I had begun it... I glanced down from my perch and noticed a car stuck in large puddle. I could just barely make out the driver of the vehicle struggling by herself to get the car moving. She kept getting out, pushing the small car, then jumping back in and pushing the gas. I wanted to feel the warmth of my bed wrapped around me and some fresh, dry, clothing; but that small Jiminy Cricket voice telling me to "go help her" won out,. I threw my dripping clothes back on and slipped on my shoes. I footslogged my way down the steps and out the rear door of the building. Hopping over puddles and bounding across the street, I reached her car just as she was about to get out again. She gave me the most desperate look. She didn't say a word, but her big, beautiful dark eyes begged for assistance. Her long dark hair was soaked, her olive-colored skin covered with droplets of water. She was a typical Spanish beauty... and like all of them, my lack of mastering their language meant I could not, actually, have a conversation. But I was here to help... "quieras ayuda? (want help?)" I inquired, mustering as much Barca lisp and accent as possible. "Si" she replied sheepishly. I pushed her little car. She gave it gas. I wanted to give her instructions; I wanted to tell her how I wouldn't push the gas so much, it might flood the engine. I wanted to tell her when to give it gas... or maybe just put it in neutral, I could probably just push it myself. I wanted, really, to have a conversation. But I don't speak her language, instead I pushed and pushed again, she gunned it... and suddenly the car rocketed forward, free of the puddle and ready to go. I walked quickly to the driver's door as she rolled down the window. Her eyes sparkled as she smiled at me. OH HOW I WISHED I SPOKE SPANISH... I racked my brain... I wanted to tell her to be careful on her drive, let her know it was no problem helping her, remind her I was a knight in shining armor -- okay, wet armor. Maybe even get her phone number, could I be so bold -- could I be so lucky? ... suddenly memories of words from my schooling hit me like the driving rain: "Tenga cuidado y tenga seguridad en su coche. La ayuda es una placer de mio. Puedo tener su numero?" I had no clue what exactly I had said; I hoped it was close to what I wanted my words to mean. Then she looked at me blankly, blinked those gorgeous doe-eyes and waved her hand out the window, "Thank you so much!" As she drove off, she called back "it was very kind of you! Sorry, I don't speak Spanish." I began laughing; she was gone in an instant. I laughed and headed back to my apartment... Sometimes when you are SURE you understand the situation, you are so very wrong. I start this new month of March keeping my mind open to new circumstances and attempting, every day, to approach life without assumptions. I am still laughing. Chris Koens lives in Grand Rapids, MI, but has lived for short spells in Spain, Japan and Mississippi. He has also visited destinations such as Egypt, Malta, France & the UK, but Chris loves calling Michigan "home." You can often find Chris downtown - sometimes still trying to speak Spanish - many times assisting with GRSD events. Follow @chriskoens on Twitter. If you are interested in blogging for the "Diary", please email us at: grandrapidssocialdiary@gmail.com Are you in? "pretty girl" ~photography by Tim Motley 
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