Life Vest Under Your Seat

A few weeks into my poetry class with Ernesto in June, he gave us a poem to read by Luis Garcia Montero, entitled, “Life Vest Under Your Seat.” While I gobbled up the words and zoomed through the text, enraptured by the style and the theme, the other “students” stared at the poem blankly, occasionally looking up to feign a smidgen of caring. After going over the poem with us, Ernesto shot me one of those pleading, “please give me meaning to my apparent waste of time in this classroom four days a week at 9:00 am” glances and I raised my hand as quickly as I could. I opined that I adored the poem very much and that he could be expecting to see it as my final blog entry upon leaving Spain on August 18 – a date that seemed impossibly far away that, with any luck, I would never come close to reaching.

Weeks passed, another new term of classes started up in July. Once again, Ernesto presented the poem. Not so shockingly, it went once again misunderstood and unappreciated by the sheeplike simpletons and I was left to give Ernesto one of those classic, “WTF?” head nods, which he responded to with a sly smile and a half-wink. I decided then that simply posting the poem would not be enough; I would re-write it to put a modern, authentic “me” spin on the whole thing. Yes, that's what I'd do on the eight and a half hour airplane ride, I'd decided.

Once again, weeks passed, school was over for good, I went on the cruise, traveled around with L, and, one day, awoke finding it to in fact be the 18^th of August and my Spanish parents downstairs ringing the bell to come take my luggage to the car and drive L and me to the airport. When I arrived at the terminal, in a hell of a daze of disbelief and sadness, I squealed and squeaked and exclaimed, “But I forgot something very important! I forgot to bring my copy of the Life Vest Under Your Seat poem! How am I supposed to re-write it if I don't have it?!” L looked at me a little strangely, as to any normal human being, there is no need to freak out about forgetting something once you're at the airport unless you left your passport or something else Very Essential behind.

As I sat in my seat and buckled my seatbelt, I couldn't help but giggle when I looked up. See, I was sitted in the first seats of the mid-section of the plane and so instead of a tray-table in front of me, there was a little wall with nothing on it but a pouch of magazines and a sign:

I wasn't sure whether my giggle would turn into a smile or into tears, and so I turned my iPod on to play "Only Exception" on repeat and smile up until tears would win out everytime at the point in which she sings, "I've got a tight grip on reality but I can't let go of what's in front of me here. I know you're leaving in the morning when you wake up; leave me with some kind of proof it's not a dream."

As it turned out, I spent the whole flight back going between crying, sleeping and eating then more crying with a little sleeping and eating. There would have been not enough focus to write something so highly anticipated. Ernesto wrote on my Facebook the day I got back, “Le echo algo en tu blog,” and there are no words to describe just how important and squishy that made me feel! I assured him it was coming – to have patience as I promised to write it and post it this weekend; that I certainly hadn't forgotten.

And so I put it off until today (Sunday, 21/8) – and I can say in all honesty that I couldn't have written a truer version of this wonderful poem if I'd started it the second I left. Mixing the original structure with my own feelings and experiences all while translating it from Spanish to English has calmed me like nothing else could all day long.

<3

XOXO

Jet-set Cupcake

Life Vest Under Your Seat

(Chelly's Version)

Good afternoon ladies and gentleman,

and Madrid already behind me,

the exquisite, old buildings of Spain

framing a jaded, hardened yet delicate girl,

good afternoon ladies and gentleman,

we're currently flying high at an altitude of two thousand feet,

high like my sanguine hopes

after responding to your first email, a question,

you asked could you show me around the city sometime,

according to international regulations,

you'll find four emergency doors on this aircraft,

or how about a stroll around Parque Europa, maybe cupcakes in Retiro,

living without expectation, practically limitless

the many ways the nighttime looked, we'd watch clouds

turn into stars, always taking the night bus

always amusingly too late for our own good,

you giving me the window seat; your favorite seat,

we're flying at a velocity of nine hundred

kilometers, I told you

the truth; how I felt,

that last night after a picnic turned to stone tears,

because I want to remember you at home, cabbaging,

preparing for long walks with copious amounts of water bottles,

under the sweating, cornflower sky

of Spain's late afternoons,

sweaty like the two basking in the glow of half-light,

with Madrid already behind me,

the truth; how I felt,

they ask us to please use

our seat belts, not to unbuckle them

until the captain has turned off the seat belt sign,

make sure seat-backs,

you have to message me, are in the upright position.