relativity

Anecdote #1 is an age anecdote. "I was still really young," said my professor, referring to a Picasso exposition he had gone to. He then mentioned that this exposition was held in 1971 or so. At first I thought nothing of it, thinking of my parents who, in the early 1970's, were college-aged. But then I looked at my professor (there aren't too many other options when a) you're one of two students in the class and b) the exaggeratedly slow clock is directly behind you..). Then, in a stunning but true mental feat, I did the math... AND without using my fingers. An additional piece of information is that this professor is EIGHTY-SIX years old. So when I thought about it again, did the subtraction (addition's tricky little friend), 'really young' to him is apparently 51 years old. Don't get me wrong, 51 is by no means old; my parents are in their fifties and in no way do I consider them to be 'old.' However, I somehow tend to doubt that when they nostalgically think back upon their 'young years' that they think back 3 or 4 years like, 'Ahhh yes... 51... THOSE were the days....' I'm willing to bet that they think about when they were in their 20's or maybe early 30's (cough cough, when the light of their lives was born-- MOI!). However, when he first said in his little anecdote that he was really young at the time of the exposition, I thought that perhaps he was reflecting upon when he was in his 20's or 30's... but no, he was talking about his early fifties. Personally, when turning both 22 and 23 I had some fleeting worries of getting older (replace 'fleeting' with 'repetitive' and replace 'worries' with 'crises'). Typical thought processes include(d): 'oh my God my youth is over, oh my God people I know are getting engaged and shooting out offspring, oh my God I'm supposed to start contributing to society, oh my God 1/4 of my life is over, oh my God I can never go back and playhigh school team competitive sports, etc. So while I worry about being 'old' with my 23 years, I'm practically just out of the womb from the perspective of my 86 year old professor.

Anecdote #2 has to do with temperature. Exactly two years ago, during Holy Week, Joanne and I were in Sevilla watching what we came to call "whelp, there goes another virgin" processions. Per the advice of Maribel, my span-mom who knows the schedules of all the processions by heart, we went to watch one of them cross over the river by way of the Triana bridge en route to the city center/cathedral. We had just bought ourselves delightful ice cream cones and were in the process of laying claim to a spot on the sidewalk because shortly thereafter the usual onslaught of people would arrive trying to get themselves a good view. All of a sudden, we hear a woman behind us say, in all seriousness, to her friend "Que frio, verdad?", basically complaining about how cold it was. This would have been fine had the following not been true: a) It was about 75 degrees outside, sunny, no shade, no breeze, no clouds. b) Our ice creams were literally dripping down our wrists because they were melting faster than we could eat it. c) We were wearing short sleeves or tank tops. d) Not that comes as any great surprise, but I was getting sunburned. e) The woman was being serious. Two years later, on hot days Joanne and I still joke to each other 'Que frio verdad?' as we're sweating out buckets just to be ironic.
Now Sevilla is a city whose average temperature during the winter is like 55 degrees and whose temperature during the summer often breaks 100 steamy degrees. When it was 80 degrees out and a few of us decided to go to the beach in Cadiz for the day, one of my Span-sisters was like, "but it's not beach weather yet." Scarves were still being worn in the household as I was getting out the short-sleeves from their winter hibernation in my suitcase under my bed. So again, it's all relative: to my Span-fam, 55 degrees during the summer is the coldest it gets while to me, 55-60 degrees in mid-February is nothing, especially after driving a car in Connecticut for two years that had no heat (please, a moment of silence for the Pontiac... which has since been incinerated by the Old Lyme Fire Department for practice...). I grew up where you have to go outside 10-15 minutes before you actually want to leave in order to scrape the frost/ice/snow off the windows, where if you don't drive with gloves you can watch your hands turn purple and stiff right in front of your eyes, and where the large quantity of water that continuously accumulated on the passenger side floor of the good ole Ponty turned into a miniature skating rink.

So in the end, everything is relative... not that this is any fascinating revelation and not that this is the first time that this has occurred to me. But still, it's interesting to think about. 30 miles in a car is a quick drive down the highway whereas 30 miles on a camel through African desert is a bit of a trying hike. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich is a (utterly delicious) snack to many whereas in third world countries it would probably be a huge meal. 50 feet to a roller-coaster enthusiast is nothing whereas 50 feet is practically halfway to the moon to someone terrified of heights. Hittin' the hay at 4am is just a normal evening to a night owl/insomniac/me whereas going to sleep at 4am means the next day is going to be terrible for someone who usually goes to sleep at midnight.

The end.