clairvoyant

I love oil painting and art in general, so I'm heading over to ACHS tonight to see what the art show is like. I was thinking of joining an art club, if there is one. I need to get away from home..
 
btw- Marco's letter hasn't arrived yet in the past three days. What's taking him?

H1N1 vaccination day. Otherwise known as swine flu. Or as the Barcelona’s natives joked about, the American piggy flu which the media got everyone worked up over nothing, really.
 
Pig day or not, Isobel was glad for the break from school. America was new and fresh and exciting, but every corner she turned, every unfamiliar detail, sent a hollow pang in her stomach. She missed Spain’s skies rather than Atlantic City’s always gray skies that seemed to be on the verge of sending rain. She missed the narrow, cobblestone-lined streets in Barcelona, graced with black streetlamps that were always hung with flowers. It didn’t help that at school people gave her looks when she spoke with her accent or couldn’t understand ridiculous American slang.
 
She tried to turn her sadness into something amusing. Please, this was /America/! Everyone in Europe talked about America with the air of somebody describing a faraway land. Prosperous, advanced, huge cities with buildings that soared for floors and floors. She reassured herself that she would enjoy America and get over her sadness sooner or later. The Spanish never let their sadness get in the way of their fun for long. Isobel Moreno sure wouldn’t.
 
On the bright side, she wrote to Marco every day. Long, rambling letters about how she loved America and missed Spain at the same time, and she included almost everything new she had learned in that day as she could remember. She sealed each letter with a kiss—literally, by placing the flap inside the envelope and kissing the waxy paper after applying two generous coats of her signature pomegranate lipstick. Marco responded with letters that only filled about 3/4 of a page. Even so, she loved the way his letters always smelled like spicy cologne. She planned to go shopping tomorrow and pick up an empty cigar box at the drugstore on her way.
 
Then she’d fill it with his letters.

(RL: I really like those shoes too--bossy and clunky yet playful. And they look just like chocolate and caramel!!!! okay im done)
 
Isobel had forgotten that it was Thanksgiving. She had walked up and down Atlantic City for nearly an hour (in her favorite street-shoes from her old Spanish closet, no less) before realizing that it was Thanksgiving, which was why all the restaurants were either closed or booked for the next five hours. Every open restaurant she saw had tables piled full of large turkeys, mashed potatoes, and cranberry sauce. Isobel's stomach growled and she wished desperately for a nice jalapeno steak from the small restaurant in downtown Barcelona.
 
Giving up on a decent restaurant, she headed back to campus to check out the cafeteria. It was warm inside, with tall cream ceilings and glass rows offering a daily selection of food. But it was entirely empty, Isobel figured everybody had gone home for the holiday. Grabbing a Caesar's salad, 2 bean-filled tacos, chili cheese fries, a cup of soft-serve ice cream, and an Orangina (Isobel could EAT), she sat down at one of the glossy tables and ate. It was so silent that she could hear the whir of the heaters behind her. The quiet was thick and embarrassing, not a type of quiet that Isobel liked. She only ate part of her taco and left to write to Marco.
 
Marco- Atlantic City is beautiful, but I just happened to arrive on Thanksgiving. In case you didn't know, it's an American holiday where everyone goes home to their family and feasts! I wish you were here. Write back soon.
 
amor, Isobel

I love those cow slippers

and Tyler too!

(I was saving those shoes but I couldn't resist using them in here, with that Spanish-flamenco-flair-ness that they have.)
 
Isobel Moreno
BIRTHDAY: 12/2/93
BIO: Isobel is Atlantic City's Spanish important. With her perpetually tan skin, straight white teeth, and dark curls, it's no wonder all the boys generally flock to her. However, Isobel is devoted to her long-distance boyfriend, Marco, and she thinks that he's just as devoted to her as she is to him. Silly, Isobel. What happens in Spain stays in Spain.
SIGNATURE SONG: Harder Better Faster Stronger - Daft Punk
SIGNATURE COLOR: Terra cotta
 
----
“¡Mierda!” Isobel swore under her breath, then quickly covered her pomegranate- painted lips and glanced around to make sure Franz hadn’t heard. Sure enough, the pilot’s assistant, or copilot, as Isobel often heard the American tourists say, was leaning back against the belly of the jet and smoking his Gauloises, eyes closed, either pretending not to have heard her or too captivated in the warm sun that deliciously baked the entire city of Barcelona. Her father’s favorite jet, white and slick in its glory, popped against the bright blue sky.
 
Isobel turned back to her suitcase, or rather suitcases, all fourteen of which were overflowing. She stacked three on top of each other and promptly sat down on the pile as forcefully as she could, but it was no use. They remained open.
 
Sighing in frustration, she sat down, opened a suitcase, and started pulling out its contents in attempt to find something that she might not need. A carved whalebone from Ireland—of course she needed that, it was given to her by a foxy male native who she still dreamed of occasionally; a set of Scottish bagpipes—they made the most haunting melody when she played them; her old stamp collection—well, the stamps were all very pretty…
 
“Isobel?” A familiar voice that made Isobel automatically grin rang behind her. She turned and fell into the arms of Marco, her lover of five months. He was 21, she was but 17, he was dark-eyed and “wild” as everyone proclaimed; she was a petite thing, with light honey eyes and was as naïve as the day.
 
They were opposites, but she knew he was perfect for her. Of course.
 
“Oh, Marco! Just what I needed!” She gave him a kiss and turned to her bulging luggage. “I can’t seem to figure out what I need to take out. My suitcases are overflowing, but everything in them is so…special, sabes? I can’t leave them.”
 
Marco held her in his arms, with the back of her head against his tall frame as he surveyed the mess. “Do you really need everything? That whalebone, for instance. Do you need it?”
 
Isobel blinked, turning the perfect white whalebone in her hands. “Well, of course…it’s so delicate and I…” She blinked again, biting her lip.
 
Marco laughed, her head vibrating against his chest, and removed the whalebone from her grip. “You see, Bella, you’re in negación, or what those Americans call…denial. You don’t want to leave Spain, do you?”
 
“No. I suppose you’re right.” Isobel bowed her head for a moment, thinking hard. Then she brightened and said, “I suppose it’s a better idea to leave all the useless items here, anyhow. They would get damaged during the ten-hour flight, and you know how reckless of a pilot Lars is.”
 
Then she leaned back against Marco and watched Franz help empty her bags, her vision blurring with tears. She had always wanted to try new things, explore the world. So it was a month ago that Father suggested she finish her last year of schooling in America. She promptly began a search of the city in America that sounded most interesting, most exciting. It wasn’t Las Vegas. It wasn’t New York City or San Francisco. She had chosen Atlantic City. The name had a nice ring to it—“Atlantic City”—and was far less overrated and more mysterious than “NYC”.
 
Here she was, about to fulfill one of her childhood dreams, but she felt a pang of regret as she gazed up into Marco’s dark brown eyes. Was it worth it, leaving Marco? He smiled down at her. He understood her imagination, the way her dreams worked.
 
“Donna Isobel,” Franz called. “The pilot is waiting.”
 
Isobel pulled away from Marco finally. “I’ll call you everyday, I promise. Or I’ll write to you. Or both!”
 
“Of course,” Marco replied. He gave her a last kiss and then, scooping up her tote, she headed towards the jet, escorted by a white-gloved Franz. Marco watched Isobel go, her dark brown curls waving an innocent good-bye at him, her eyes shining in excitement as she boarded the jet. He felt a smile tugging at his mouth. Silly little thing she was, with an endless heart and hope, willing to believe whatever she wished. He couldn’t tell if he was sad or glad that she was leaving Barcelona. One thing was certain—she was in for some big surprises.