The Land of Happy

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Sometimes I think about my old life in the US. About the decades of commuting to and from a job. In the early years via mass transit. Then becoming an American car commuter, in the flow of humanity going the same direction, to and fro, day after day. Often, heads down buried in a book or phone on a bus or train. Or on speaker phone in a meeting on the way into the office. My own bubble.

I used to feel stress just sitting in my commute. Worried I would arrive late. Or perhaps about a presentation or a looming deadline. Often texting someone ‘Where are we at with…?’ Not wanting to walk into the office without every single piece of pertinent information. Who knew what I might be asked in an elevator on the way up to my office?

‘Where are we at, Kelli?’

My life today couldn’t be more different than that. Mostly because I have no commute. No looming deadlines. And I sit and observe the flow of people passing me by, no longer worried about getting anywhere on time. And that distance has given me perspective. Especially a cultural perspective of those passing. I thought I would impart my observations here.

North Americans walk faster than any other Pilgrims. Heads down, they are the least likely to stop and chat. In general, they often won’t make eye contact. And they will wave you away if you greet them as they zoom past. Where they are going so fast, I have not clue. It is almost funny if it wasn’t so sad. Many look glum. Like they just need to get this over with. Like they’re commuting to a job. In this case, the ‘job’ is completing the Camino. Box checked. ✅ A missed opportunity at connection.

South Korean people always take a stamp. It is the wife who will carry the credentials and she will get the stamp for the husband. They are friendly and will practice their 10 memorized words of español with abandon. Adorable. They make me smile.

Aussies are always up for a good chin wag. And they have their own stories to tell. Australians look the oldest. That’s what happens when you take fair-skinned people and colonize a country whose sun wants to blister you with skin cancer. These people are probably 30 but look 60! Ha! But they are friendly and open.

Germans are very circumspect and pilgrims of few words. Stamp, please. Auf Wiedersehen. They are not a chatty bunch. Their credentials are always the most orderly.

The Portuguese will stop for a stamp. And they will speak Portuguese to you like a machine gun. Even though your eyes are spinning – as your Spanish language skills are screaming at you that they have no idea how to decode it. In the end, most will say goodbye in ingles. They were just messing with me😉

Spaniards always stop and chat. Happy to tell me where they are from. Fascinated we live here ‘in Galicia?’ Then, they tell me about their town, city, province and ask me if I know it. Encouraging me to visit. Proud of where they live.

South Americans and Mexicans always stop. And they are usually smiling. Mexicans who live in the US, even Americans who have Mexican heritage living in Texas or Florida, will proudly say they are Mexican. I love hearing this. But it is the Colombians who win the prize for happiest people in the world. I can always tell the Colombians. And I say so.

‘Let me guess. You are from Colombian.’

They smile, surprised. And I am 99% right. They are the happiest, and the kindest people. I don’t know what is in the water in Colombia but they should bottle it and sell it in the US and Canada to the North Americans whizzing by.

The Irish also stop, no matter what. They will be rushing down the trail and come upon me quickly, but then stop short and stand in line for five minutes behind a crowd for my stamp, before rushing down the trail once again.

Americans are more likely to walk alone. Especially older, retired men. And none of them stop to talk. Heads down, poles clicking. People from other non-white cultures tend to walk in friend groups and are more animated. Except those from Asian counties, like Korea, Japan, or China, who walk more quietly and, while together, seem to spread out on the trail. But they always want a photo with me. I must be in thousands of vacation photos in Asia by now. Especially those from Taiwan. I’m crushing there🤣

Of course, these are all generalizations. It’s not scientific, just my observations on one stage of the Camino Frances. I wish my countrymen would slow down a bit. Would lift their heads up off the trail. Look around and see the beauty instead of the pavement at their feet. Stop trying to ‘Make good time’ as my Dad used to say. In commute-mode. But everyone’s Camino is their own to walk.

Yesterday it snowed here in Lugo. Pilgrims pulled up photos on their phones from their snowy walk from Portomarin to Palas de Rei yesterday and shared them with me as I stamped their passport. Wild, it’s nearly May. And I’m sure you can guess which friendly Pilgrims they were. Colombians, of course. Now I know my next holiday destination. To Colombia – The land of happy. If just for a glass of their magic water of smiling contentment.

A Light in the Fog

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It’s no secret that I have been questioning some of the craziness around here. I haven’t even written about most of it. <deep sigh> And then, walking season kicked in and what a difference a week makes.

We knew when we moved here that the Camino ran in front of our property. It was a feature, not a bug. Of course, this comes with built in challenges – from planning boards to contractors. We have battled it all. A few weeks ago I was ready to throw in the towel. Past my breaking point.

Last Monday had sideways sleet, wind and rain pummeling us. But Tuesday blossomed with sunshine that has sent temps into the high 80’s or 30’s for Europeans. And I set up my table at the gate and began to stamp pilgrim passports. At that point, the light began to dawn. Oh yeah! I remember why we moved here.

Every day, for four hours I sit out at the gate and stamp credentials. And I keep a box of tissues at the ready as people stop to tell me how the Camino is impacting them. And how their personal stories of heartbreak, regrets, and healing are being processed as they walk. Sometimes I’m crying, too. We have a bench and I invite them to sit. They will likely never see me again so they feel safe unburdening themselves of their secret sorrows. And I am privileged to hear them. People need someone to listen to their story. To know there is no rush – ‘Take all the time you need.’ As I hand them the tissues.

The view from my table

I sit and watch the greenest Galician leaves burst forth and the metaphor of rebirth in parallel to the Camino isn’t lost on me. This is why I am here. Not just on the Camino, but the planet. Yes, I have my own story. My own struggles, hurts, and frustrations. But I am here, I’m convinced, to help those I encounter to feel a little less alone. To be heard and seen.

I had a pilgrim from Peru today. She stood at the table and cried. Her story is her own, but I felt it in my heart.

‘Why do I cry walking.’ She asked me.

I am no guru. I cry myself on the Camino.

‘Maybe it is because, for some of us, the Camino is the first time we are truly present in the now. No one is demanding anything of you. You are here, that is all you know. And you just have to walk. It sounds easy, but it is not. The voice in your head gets louder before it will get quieter nearer to Santiago. Demanding your attention with nothing to distract you. You get to feel it all, every day. Release it, at last.’

She nodded, wiping her eyes. ‘Yes. This is it.’

The pilgrim put on her pack, then thanked me.

‘It’s my privilege.’ I assured her, as she carried on walking. And it is. That is the only way to describe it. We are on this planet for a blink of an eye. I am lucky beyond measure to participate in the lives of these people as they ask the big questions. Feel long forgotten feelings. If just for a second, to be the one gifted with some of their most vulnerable moments.

I have rich pilgrims and poor ones. The Camino and its magic transcends money, titles, or education. In the end, none of us will get out of here with any of these things. The Camino strikes at the heart of the human condition. It strips us down so we can see and appreciate ourselves for who we truly are. Shed the old voices and the old masks. Forgive ourselves and others.

I know I said it might be time to dream a new dream. But I was being foolish. There is no dream better than the one I am living for four hours every day sitting at a table at my gate. The Camino has reminded me, yet again, how privileged I truly am.

Gas Station Chicken and Other Stuff

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We aren’t normal people. We already knew this, for obvious reasons. But there is more. So very much more that most people don’t know about us. Not big things. Just a series of weird small things. Harmless stuff.

It all began in 2020. Well, not all of it but this particular thing did. Back when we had watched the entire internet, everything on every streaming service, and were actually fed up with doom scrolling social media for hours a day. Like prison inmates we were restless, unkept, and unruly. Pajamas had become every day wear. But for introverts like Jeff, the pandemic was HEAVEN. He didn’t have to talk to anyone – except work. His office became his haven of creativity. Laser cutters, sewing machines, and his 3D printers were humming all day, every day. But he was also in the bowels of Youtube searching in the hidden corridors for entertainment. Then, one day BINGO!! And it has been a guilty pleasure for us ever since.

Ripley

If you‘ve watched the recent Netflix series Ripley, you understand the discomfort and thrill of rooting for the anti-hero, so you’ll understand our obsession with the Youtube videos put out by the King County Sheriff’s Air Support Unit in Washington State in the US. The helicopter police.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=GxSbHgu0kcs&pp=ygUSS2luZyBjb3VudHkgcG9saWNl

It’s rando, I know. And we are busy these days so we don’t watch it that often. But yesterday was a miserable day in Galicia. Like biblical weather that the pilgrims I met today at my daily book signings at our gate described as ‘a nightmare’ on their 23km trek from Portomarin to Palas de Rei. Hail, freezing wind, rain by the buckets. It hit them like bricks, and I stamped a lot of wet passports on this blessedly sunny morning. A day as bad as yesterday means a fire in the grate and the animals curled up on the sofa. That was when I was summoned to el Jefe’s office.

‘You’re gonna wanna see this.’

It didn’t sound good. We haven’t heard from our tax guy in the US. I gulped. Then I wandered into Jeff’s office. He pointed to the screen. The words ‘Bellevue’ and ‘Snoqualmie’ popped out. There is only one place where those names go together. And we have lived in both cities. Jeff pulled up a chair. I sat as he clicked play. And for the next hour we followed one stolen car, then the guy stealing a second car, all throughout our old stomping grounds. This while shouting at the screen. The only thing missing was the popcorn.

Gas Station Chicken

‘Don’t turn down Center Street!’ As we watched him go past the Mexican and Indian restaurants we ate at every week. Then blow by the Community center where our kids went after school.

‘Look! They have a pool now?’ I shouted. ‘They had to move the Easter Egg hunt to another play field this year.’

The car flew by the street where Emilie’s friend, Keely, used to live. I had to get up to use the bathroom at one point. When I returned I asked Jeff where the stolen car was.

‘Gas station chicken.’

I knew exactly what he was talking about. When Nick was in middle school he would ask for money to go to this one gas station – so odd – with his friends to buy and eat chicken that had been under a heat lamp all day. It was dry and awful. From then on that gas station was called Gas Station Chicken. I have no idea what it was actually named.

‘Did you get gas for the car?’ Jeff might ask me as I walked in the door after work.

‘Yup. I stopped at Gas Station Chicken.’

It’s weird. But it’s a thing.

The guy was all over Snoqualmie Blvd. He went past our street a bunch of times with a host of cop cars following him. And the helicopter recording his every move. Then, he crashed near the TPC (The Pro Course) at Snoqualmie and stole another car. Right under the noses of the police. Gripping television!

He wove in and out of cars. Drove the wrong way on the I-90. But I didn’t care so much about that.

‘Do you see that traffic at the Highway 18 interchange?!? It’s only 4:30 in the afternoon on a Wednesday! Dear Lord, I wouldn’t get home until 8 o’clock with that traffic if we lived there now.’

It looks like they are finally putting in the promised fly over from Highway 18 to I-90. The Biden infrastructure bill did it’s job. Every politician in WA State had been promising it since 2011. It will be years before it can make a dent in the east King County traffic. But I digress.

The guy drove to North Bend, and shot on and off the freeway. I kept shouting that he should get off at Exit 32 and head south up into the forest where we used to board our golden retriever, Mr. Perkins, when we traveled. Jeff disagreed.

‘That golf course is there. And the road is winding. You can’t really hide from the infrared on the helicopter.’

He was right.

‘I forgot about that golf course. We played there a few times. They have a good breakfast at the clubhouse.’ I remembered. ‘Emilie liked their homemade mac-n-cheese on Friday nights.’

The car thief was still on the loose. He turned off on Bendigo Blvd and into the outlet mall.

‘That’s not good.’ I observed. ‘He’s behind the Nike store. He’s trapped.’

But he wasn’t. He blew through the brush and up onto the on ramp. Back and forth, up and down I-90, countless collections of cop cars tried to lay spike strips but they couldn’t get him. He finally turned on the exit 32 but made a left into town, instead of a right – as I was advising at volume. Then headed out towards the Snoqualmie River where we used to fly fish and Jeff used to kayak. He ditched the car in the woods, then set out on foot walking towards a bridge along the riverbank. The helicopter circled, calling in their coordinates to the ground forces. The thief tried to hide but his heat signature meant he wasn’t going anywhere. It was then Jeff spotted our friends, John and Harriett’s house. The thief was crouched under a rock on the riverbank right across the water from their house. In summer he could walk across that river. This time of year it’s running too high. He’d be swept down stream towards the famous Snoqualmie Falls.

We watched as the police collected him with the help of the K-9 unit. It was over. We were sweating and tired

The last video of these we watched had the thief in the parking lot of the Petco in Covington where we bought stuff for our cats when they were kittens. There was another where the guy raced by the old REI headquarters in Kent. It’s weird. I know. But it made us feel better somehow during the pandemic. Today it’s just fun to see places we used to go. And to see how much they’ve changed. The running commentary is the best part. Pointing at the screen. Arguing about what we are seeing and where it is. But the ridiculous part is that it’s recorded. Our head shaking and shouting are useless. This car theft happened a week ago. The guy is in Jail. I know what you’re thinking – we’re a little strange. But we all have those weird things that nobody knows about us. Now you know some of our weirdest – including Gas Station Chicken.

Don’t Look Away

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Once upon a time... No. I won’t write it like that because this is no fairytale. It’s a true story and it starts more than 85 years ago on the eastern Mediterranean.

In 1939 a little girl named Claire Serhan was born in East Jerusalem. Born to a Catholic family, the day she came into the world Claire landed in a country known as Palestine, even though it had been occupied by the British Army since the end of WWI – two decades before. The League of Nations had carved up the colonies of the former Ottoman Empire and had ‘given’ Palestine to the British. Palestine has been the crossroads of many occupiers but they are a people and a country nonetheless. Claire’s ancestors called Palestine home for thousands of years. That has never been in dispute.

Even amidst the British occupation, Claire and her sisters lived in East Jerusalem with their parents and relatives in peace. All the religions, Jews, Christians and Muslims, lived and worked side by side. Each religion had a history in the country dating back millennia. There was room for all. The family worked and attended school. They raised children and enjoyed the same life their grandparents and great grandparents had before them. And then, it all changed.

Between WWI and WWII, the British allowed nearly a million Jewish refugees to enter Palestine. And after WWII, the British withdrew from Palestine and TransJordan (modern-day Jordan). In 1948, with the withdrawal of the British, war broke out in Palestine and the modern state of Israel was born. This resulted in nearly a million Palestinians being ejected from their own country. Little Claire and her family were among them, taking what they could carry on their trek north to Lebanon.

Not Welcome Home

Now, Claire and her family were lucky. They had some relatives living in Beirut. Instead of landing in one of the Palestinian refugee camps set up on the outskirts of the most cosmopolitan city in the Middle East, the family was taken into homes to live in the city. Lebanon, like it’s neighbor, Palestine, had been turned into a European colony after WWI. And they had just won their freedom from France in 1943 – now under self governance – when Claire and her family, and hundreds of thousands of Palestinians arrived on their doorstep.

At first, the Palestinians assumed that they would be allowed to return to their ancestral homes and land in Palestine. But, as the years ticked by more and more of their property was taken by the Israeli government. Palestinian ancestral homes and farms were stolen from them and given to the new settlers arriving from Europe. The rights of Palestinians in Israel were stripped from them and they lived under military occupation. The Palestinian refugees would not be allowed to return. Claire’s family never saw their homes again, still they yearned for their life in East Jerusalem. But they were not allowed back and were forced to assimilate as much as possible in Lebanon. Of course, we all know obtaining citizenship and a passport in another country doesn’t mean that its people view you as a native. And Claire’s family was no different. Discrimination against Palestinians was rampant. While the Serhan’s were incredibly lucky, most Palestinian refugees remained state-less – some even until today – and without a passport or ability to travel they were stripped of their humanity as if they don’t exist. Claire and her sisters would always be Palestinian, in the eyes of their neighbors in Beirut and the entire world.

Growing up, Claire attended Catholic school and was fluent in Arabic, French, and English. She could speak some Italian, as well. And she grew up, eventually meeting Sami Khouri, another Palestinian refugee from Haifa, Palestine – now part of Israel. They married and soon had two boys, Joseph and Hani. Their life in Beirut was good. While not their home, they were safe and so were their boys. Claire worked for a French company and her husband ran a spare parts business. But that would all end when their children were still in elementary school.

War seemed to follow Claire and her family, and the Palestinians wherever they went. In 1975 a civil war broke out in Lebanon that would go on for nearly two decades. The Christian falangists were tired of power sharing the Lebanese government with Muslims. And, they were tired of the Palestinian refugees who were living in their country. They had a scapegoat in the Palestinians to rally the falangist troops. Lebanon was soon torn apart, and so was Claire and Sami’s family. Beirut, the jewel of the Middle East, became a war zone, and the once thriving Lebanese economy was bombed into oblivion along with the rest of the country. Horrible, heartbreaking decisions had to be made to keep the family with a roof over their heads. Sami would take a job in the then backwater of Dubai, where visa-less Claire and their children were unable to join him. He would send money home to war-torn Beirut so they could eat.

The war raged on. Their children were shot at by snipers on the way to and from school. Some of their school friends – just small children – were killed in the street while playing. Survival was a random roll of the dice. Bombs rained down on them from all sides. One day, Claire gathered her children under the kitchen table during a particularly brutal bombing campaign that shook their apartment in East Beirut. The trauma was such that afterward Claire couldn’t speak for days. Her family helped with the boys as her husband pulled every string he had in Dubai to get she and the children visas to join him in relative safety.

Yet Another Country

Now they were Palestinians living in Dubai. Still, not their country – neither Palestine nor Lebanon. Often, they were looked down upon or discriminated against. Yes, they had Lebanese passports, but Lebanon was at war, too. Palestinians were war refugees, but now, so were the Lebanese. Employers in other countries exploited the labor. They took advantage of the desperate.

Nearly a decade passed and soon Claire and Sami sent their boys to University in the US. Visiting them when they could for holidays and brief school breaks. It was difficult, and then one of her son’s informed them he married an American girl, and Claire’s heart was broken, yet again. She came to check out that girl, barely acknowledging when the silly American uttered a word, baffled at her 1980s fashion choices. Their relationship remained an icy detente until Claire insisted her son’s wife learn to cook real food. Healthy food to feed him when Claire was back in Dubai. Over bread baking, meat grinding, and copious amounts of Turkish coffee and cigarettes, Claire’s story came tumbling out, unfolding like a piece of khubiz (pita bread) as the American girl sat quietly in rapt attention, and tears fell down Claire’s cheeks. What Claire had lived through and the internalized trauma she continued to carry wasn’t anything the girl could related to, but she could feel the weight of the pain and grief inside her mother-in-law. The repeated loss. The feeling that she would never belong anywhere. And the survivors guilt Claire carried when she watched Palestine and Lebanon in the news, and the plight of her people at the hands of the Israelis. There were times Claire would have to lay down in the dark quiet bedroom after watching a story on CNN, knowing the world had abandoned her and all of the Palestinian people.

Years passed. Her American daughter-in-law was no longer her American daughter-in-law. But the families remained close. Her youngest son remarried and opened a couple of restaurants. He bought apartment buildings and constructed his own American Dream. By then, Claire and Sami were living in a house he purchased for them in the US. And the family was together again. Safe, or so they thought. But, in 2001 9/11 happened, and suddenly, the nightmare was at their door, once again.

Americans began looking for people to blame for 9/11, and they found anyone who had a ‘Middle Eastern’ sounding name to be the enemy. And Claire’s youngest son’s business had ‘Middle Eastern Cuisine’ right in the title. The death threats started first. Then, the rocks through the windows, even though they were all passport carrying Americans by then. It was just like when they went from Palestine to Lebanon. And from Lebanon to Dubai. No one had to tell them that a passport doesn’t make you a real citizen according to the natives. The citizens of the American Melting Pot wanted to close the door behind them. Claire’s suffering continued as she watched her son sleep in the restaurant, ready to put out any fires if someone tried to burn it to the ground in the middle of the night. Fearing someone might shoot him.

A Never Ending Nightmare

Still that silly American ex-daughter-in-law, I think of Claire and her story a lot these days. Of her and her sister, Haifa – one of the kindest, gentlest people I have ever met – and her generous husband, Lutfi. Of Sami, Hani and Joseph. And my Palestinian college friends. I see their faces as I watch the news from Spain. Those desperately trying to survive in Gaza. The descendants of those who remained after the creation of the State of Israel, and have tried to survive and fight back against their oppressors. I see more Claire-s and Sami-s struggling to protect their children. And the faces of their boys scavenging for food. I know Hani would have risked his life for his parents. Sacrificing everything to see them safe and fed – even as the bombs fell.

I don’t believe this is, or ever has been, a conflict based on religion. Palestinians are Catholics, Muslims and more. Religion is often the tool of the politician or despot, the colonizer, to muddy the waters. To divide. This situation in Gaza is deadly power and politics, plain and simple. A geopolitical chess game, and the Palestinians have been used as pawns, never viewed as human beings for the last 100 years, no matter the occupier. I know this to be true because I know Palestinian people who were there. They lived it from the beginning. They are good people – no matter which god they worship. This is a horrific situation in Gaza and The West Bank, and it must stop. I pray that for once the world will not blink or look away.

Tragedy!!

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Growing up in the 1970s and 80s, music defined each era, distinctly. In our house, we weren’t really allowed to listen to music as my Dad was nearly deaf. If you listened to the radio in your room you did so at your own peril.

‘Turn off that racket!’

His hearing seemed to come and go depending upon the musical crime you might be committing. Only music from the 40s and 50s failed to assault his ears. But we were like prisoners in a prison camp. He couldn’t keep us from something so fundamental. We would resist the random rules, smuggle in contraband, and keep our ears glued to the speaker for Casey Kasem and America’s Top 40 on Sundays. In the car with my mom, she would sometimes allow us to listen to music if my dad wasn’t there. It was a gamble. But we had to remember exactly where my dad had the dial set for his talk radio and AM radio news shows. Or we would all be in trouble, including her. My brother was the best at being able to dial in the correct station, before pre-sets showed up in newer cars.

True Love

The mixtape was a real thing for my generation. Often, it would be compiled of songs off the radio, where we would listen at one of our friend’s houses until the song came on, then hit record. Sure, it was pirating – we didn’t know that then – but it was the only way to get the recording on our meager allowance. Whenever we successfully recorded a hit song we cheered. It would be shared so often the cassette tape would wear out.

Back then, if a boy really liked you you would know it because he might gift you with a mixtape. Something that took hours and days to record. Real effort. If he wanted to ‘go steady’ with you he would offer up the tape. It was a valuable thing. As valuable as an engagement ring, even in the 8th grade. And, as such if you broke up with him he would ask for his mixtapes back, and you would sadly hand them over. The relationship was well and truly finished. I always missed the music more than the boy.

So, it might not surprise you all to know that I was tipped off that Jeff wanted more than a platonic friendship when he handed over a mix cd he had burned for me. Yes, I was over 30 years old, but we both knew that a mix cd was like a mixtape in high school. There was no denying that it meant something. Decades later, when we were clearing out all our stuff before we moved to Spain I found that cd. It went in the box of important things. An artifact from the very start of our romantic relationship.

The Soundtrack of Our Lives

Music in our immediate family has always been important. Jeff would memorize all the latest songs and sing them when dropping the kids off at school. They liked it when they were little, but grew to loathe the embarrassment when Jeff would perform in front of their friends. I, too, got in on the act, but for a different reason.

When they were growing up, I rarely denied my children anything. They had way too much, I will admit. One time, a girl on Emilie’s sixth grade soccer team came to the house. She was wearing a limited edition pair of UGGS I recognized. These were not UGGS you could run out and buy. I worked for a large luxury retailer. There were six pairs in the entire chain. I had one of those pairs and happily gave them to Emilie. I asked the girl where she got the boots and she said Emilie was giving out UGGS to all her friends. It seemed I was supplying the 6th Grade girls select soccer team with UGGS. Emilie would ask for another pair, I would buy them, she would give them away. Like Robin Hood, if Robin Hood had a benefactor. Except, well, not. I overheard her tell a friend once – ‘My Mom will get me whatever I want.’ At her boarding school in high school, I am pretty sure I supplied the entire girls dorm with premium hair care products and make-up. Even Emilie couldn’t go through that much product herself. She is nothing if not generous. 😳

Emilie called me once to ask me to send one of the girls a full kit for softball. The girl’s mom had said NO to her playing softball. Emilie had a workaround. She told the girl I would pony up the gear. Ugh! When I said Nope, she was a little upset.

‘What am I supposed to tell her now?!’

So, after the UGGS thing years before, I began paying a little more attention to the supply chain in our house. Products entering and exiting. I will admit to some random spot checks of backpacks in the morning. It did not go down well. And, instead of blindly purchasing whatever my children asked for – premium brand names – I said the dreaded word ‘No.’ Gasp! Wait, What?! Their faces went white. They couldn’t spell N-O. And, after that, music began to play a role in the No, as well. If they asked me for a 40th pair of Nikes ‘I have to have new Air Force Ones!!’, or another pair of Jordans, I began shaking my head. ‘Not today.’ This is when the negotiations would start. Pleading, Begging. Sometimes, other less than benign words and phrases would be thrown my way. But I stuck to my guns and wasn’t above serenading them with that Bee Gees classic Tragedy! They grew to hate that song and the dance I might perform in the middle of a store, in front of their friends or random strangers. It was practically torture! I am not sure they have ever heard the Brothers Gibb belt out the original, but I did my best impression. My thought was that if they didn’t want to hear the song they shouldn’t ask for yet another completely unnecessary, high-dollar-value, thing-a-ma-bob. It worked. Mostly.

The Modern Mixtape

Music has moved on through the years. And the mechanisms for delivering it. But I know Jeff still loves me because on our adventure south this week we got in the car and he immediately turned on the music. And not just any music. It was a playlist – the grandchild of the 70s mixtape – that he had made just for me. All the songs from our childhoods. The music from high school, including the songs we used to play for the kids. And, then, there it was. The Bee Gees were singing Tragedy! I hadn’t heard that song – other than me singing it – in more than 40 years.

We sang out loud. We butchered forgotten lyrics. We laughed until it hurt. My new playlist ran from the mid to late 70’s, up to the 2000’s. The disco era was a long one. It can get you all the way from the farm to the Portuguese border. We played our own version of the 70’s American game show Name That Tune. I had forgotten how happy these songs make me. How many memories come flooding back of my brothers and sister, my friends in the neighborhood, after just a few notes. But the best part is, after all these years, this latest playlist lets me know that Jeff still wants to ‘go steady’ with me.

It’s Weird, Man. Really Weird

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So this last stretch has been super strange. I won’t go into all the details. But suffice to say it has involved a couple of protests and stealing some of our land.

Not In My Backyard

The city of Palas has proposed something that has the entire community within a 40 km radius up in arms. Like a pitchforks-and-torches type of deal. I won’t bore you with the details because the details don’t matter, but our mailbox has been stuffed with fliers about it. And our friends in Melide, restaurant owners who turned out to be lawyers in a past life, are leading the charge.

I was having lunch with a friend when my neighbors called me.

‘We need to see you immediately. It’s an emergency.’

I was alarmed. Normally, my friend and I have a lunch that lasts until after dark. But this time I had to go. An ‘emergency’ had been called in the neighborhood and like any good Batman I answered the call!

Over beers, including getting Jeff involved, we canvased the neighborhood and it seems the danger is real. My community activism gene has been activated. There is no turning back.

I’m Gen X. Like first-year Gen X. I watched the protests of the Vietnam war with interest as a child. It seemed to me that the only way to effect change is to demand it. Even if you have to do it at volume. And all my siblings are boomers. Boomers generally liked protesting. So it rubbed off on me. I have marched for women’s rights. For unjust firing of professors at my university. For the end to gun violence. Give me a sign and a bull-horn and I’m there for it.

I may not be a real citizen of this country but I still care deeply about it and my community. So I’m marching any time justice is under attack. I can’t help it. And yesterday was no different. I accompanied my neighbors to our local cultural center in Melide and we protested something that impacts us directly. I shouted and chanted right along side my neighbor. My picture is in our local newspaper paper. And I met a ton of new people! Really cool people. 😎 And we had a funny misunderstanding.

‘Would you like some Ex, Kelli?’

I was shocked. Sure, I remember the protests in the 60’s. The drugs, sex, and rock-n-roll. But in 2024? Besides, ecstasy isn’t my bag. ‘Uh. No thank you?’

‘You don’t like ex?’

Ecstasy? 😳

‘No. I’m not really into Ex. But thanks for asking.’

Then, the guy standing next to her caught on to my confused look.

‘Huevos.’ he said ‘Ex.’

Ah. ‘Oh. Ok. Yes, we love eggs.’

Jeff laughed when I told him this story. So many times he’s been frustrated when people don’t understand his accent in spanish. Now he sees how the difference between the ex sound and the eggs sound matters a whole lot! An egg-white omelette’s worth.

It will be a long fight for this issue. I am now in charge of a few things to help the struggle. Research, letter writing, etc. But I will gladly do my part. And am happy to be included.

Except When It Is In My Actual Backyard- Sneaky Bastards

In the front of our property they are taking a little more than two meters.

I got home late after my Dr appointment in Santiago yesterday. It was a busy day of protesting, driving, and medical procedures. I took Fergus out to the barn to switch out the laundry when I noticed bright orange markers a meter inside our property line. WTF?!? Jeff heard my shout and we stood with our jaws open. Who came on our land and laid these markers?

After printing our property records of our four plots, Jeff and I headed to the ayuntamiento in Palas this morning. The same place I have graced with Christmas cookies for the past three years. I was loaded for bear and as I breached the top of the marble staircase in front of the windows for the customer service counter, the gentleman behind the counter didn’t miss a beat. He pointed towards the city architect’s office. Somehow he knew and we went straight there.

Jeff had it all typed out. The guy was courteous but explained that they were taking part of one of our plots of land for a new road. One meter of it in some places. Two meters plus in others. And it would be going down the centre of our Horreo and our woodshed. Like slicing them in half. You can’t physically do that. Again, what the actual fuck?

He explained that our land had been reregistered into someone else’s name – a Solar company – and they probably got the letter explaining imminent domain. They had a year to protest but they didn’t. Why? Because it isn’t really their land. So now Palas can take 1500 sq meters of our property for this road. That’s when I LOST it! And Jeff let me off the chain. We have spent years – years!!! – getting permissions from the GDM patrimonio and Xunta. Years following the rules. Fucking stupid rules with twisted nonsense and bureaucracy. And then, they can reregister our land to someone else to bypass the imminent domain notification and waiting period, and then steal our property. CROOKS! They better show me the money or I’m calling our lawyer.

What about the blessed forestry study we had to do? No one came to do that for their new fucking road. They will take out more than 40 of our trees in this land grab! Old trees. Big shade trees. In our albergue permissions they said if we cut down a tree we must plant another. Where are they replanting 40 of my trees? Remember that stupid roads guy who showed up last year without a measuring tape and told me I couldn’t have a gate because he could ‘tell just by eye-balling it?’ Genius!

We drove home from Palas with a hand full of papers and bullshit excuses rolling around in my head. Including a type of dejection I had yet to feel but was now drowning in. A new low, and that is saying something. Has the universe stopped whispering ‘Leave Galicia’ and it’s now shouting at us ‘Run! Before it’s too late?’

I want to stay and help my neighbors win this fight. But today we need to seriously consider if this is the right place for us. Jeff is vacillating, but leaning towards selling up. The next owners would have all their permissions to build. The ones we fought for. But none of our bitterness. Is it time to dream a new dream? Find a new place to call home far away from here? France 🇫🇷 , anyone? There is one upside, I guess. Until then at least the Ex, I mean eggs, are free.

And Then They Came For Me

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Back in the summer of 2016 the world was going a little nuts. We all remember it. One sunny morning I was sat in my office in the US, when one of the smartest people I have ever worked with entered knocking on the door frame.

‘You saw it, didn’t you?’ she asked, leaning into the doorway as I was behind my desk.

I knew instantly what she was talking about. But we were likely the only two people in the entire building who took note of it.

‘Yes. I saw it.’ I told her, disgusted.

‘Can you believe it? Are they crazy?’ she asked me.

I just shook my head. ‘Lunacy. The world is losing its mind.’

And it was in 2016. Well, it still is. But now we all see it, right? Hmmm. Anyway. Back on that summer morning it was all about how Great Britain had voted to leave the EU. Somehow, Nigel Farage and Boris Johnson had wormed their way into the brains of otherwise relatively sane citizens in the UK, convincing them that they needed to leave the EU so they could go back to measuring things in Imperial gallons, pounds, cups and teaspoons, instead of metric litres and milliliters and grams like the rest of the world – except the US <she rolls her eyes>. WHAT!? This referendum was never supposed to pass! We all thought this was impossible, but then it happened. What now? What happens with the Good Friday Agreement with Ireland? Was anyone thinking of that? Breathe, Kelli. Not my circus. Not my monkeys.

Other than the obvious geopolitical implications of this seismic diplomatic earthquake, did it really matter to me? The two passports I held wouldn’t be impacted by this in the slightest. The UK wasn’t fully in the EU anyway. Yes, they led the bloc on many matters, big and small, but they had never adopted the currency or the immigration flow. They were not in the Schengen zone. So the 90 day rule for me traveling there would still reign. Whatever. I had bigger fish to fry in my country who was about to elect a monster of its own. It would take years before I might care even a little bit about Brexit.

Inching Closer

In 2018 we moved to Spain. The British expats we knew in Spain were still debating the referendum to leave the EU two years after. And it was heated. This vote had torn families apart. It had destroyed long standing friendships. In other words, it was a nightmare. But I understood nightmares because we had the same with the MAGA thing in the US. My own family hosts a MAGA supporter who laughed at us all back then, scoffing at our fears and outrage of what could happen. And then he learned that the not-so-funny joke was on him.

My British friends had families who had to sell their houses here because of Brexit. The consequences were getting closer to us. It was sad. Of course, I mostly stayed out of these debates about Brexit. Yes, I thought anyone who voted for it should have an immediate MRI or CT scan of their brain, but I also understood how disinformation can worm it’s way into people’s subconscious. And how FB contributed to this outcome – in Britain and the US.

Living in Europe, we followed the news on the negotiated exit and the chaos of the UK government and ‘hard Brexit’. Burning it all down seemed to be a feature, not a bug. It was like watching a slow motion train crash. You could see it coming from a long way off, but no amount of shouting from the EU warning the Brits of impending disaster could stop their eventual self-inflicted wounds. <she shakes her head, yet again>

But, what did I care? Even after ‘Brexit’ finally happened in 2021, it didn’t really impact me. Except for things we ordered on Amazon. We stopped buying anything from the UK. It always took longer and sometimes it never arrived. There is a whole world to purchase from. Why the UK thought they were the only show in town was beyond me.

Wait What?!

So Brexit seemed like someone else’s problem. Until it was my problem. The rolling shit show of Brexit just keeps on giving. From afar, it might seem like Brexit already happened. But there you’d be wrong. The Brexit negotiated by the UK was more of a slow-rolling dumpster fire or a really bad divorce. Or a combo of both. They wanted to get rid of anything having to do with the EU, but it was more complicated than they thought. As a result, they cut off their nose to spite their face – as grandma used to say. And they insisted that all trading with the EU would be under their rules. Creating unprecedented bureaucracy, and that is saying something. Brits were ‘taking back control’ after all. And this meant friction at every turn. British companies wanting to import goods from the continent would find it had become so costly and cumbersome that the EU didn’t want to trade with them. This was supposed to mean that British farmers would make more money as their produce would be first to market. Except, the cost of producing food in the UK has skyrocketed since leaving the EU.

It turns out that growing tomatoes in an English winter doesn’t really work. Growing anything in winter in the UK is rather a stretch. And they wouldn’t have the workers from Eastern Europe to pick their crops anyway because they ditched free movement. Hmmm, it sounds like the US’s problem, too. But I digress. The Brits need produce grown by southern EU countries. But with their new ‘taking back control’ policies, importing tomatoes, and anything else perishable, isn’t profitable for EU growers. So the UK can’t get cheap EU fruit and veg or French cheeses like before. And there are a hundred other examples of how this just keeps getting worse.

The new mounting paperwork checks needed expensive new shiny IT systems. But the UK government implemented these policies and left Britain and the EU without the ability to process this ridiculous paperwork electronically. They branded the EU bullies, but they did it to themselves as the EU leadership’s jaws dropped at how insane it all was. The EU gave the UK all kinds of extensions, even when the UK government didn’t want them. But this year, the EU has implemented the asked for Brexit importation agreement. And now I can finally hop into this Brexit debate because the Brits have royally screwed me!

Throw The Book At Me

As most of the readers of this blog know, seven months of the year I stamp pilgrim passports at my gate for Pilgrims walking past on their way to Santiago de Compostela. And, as I am doing this I sell copies – a lot of copies – of my book, as well. It’s great! But I have to order those books from the publisher in the UK. That is where they are printed. And now? Do. Not. Get. Me. Started.

This weekend I was notified that my latest shipment of 500 books are stuck in customs because, unlike last year, I have to jump through paperwork HELL due to Brexit customs rules. Wait, What?! I’m not British. I didn’t vote for this stupid thing. But no. I reached out to the printer in the UK and they told me I now have to supply a mountain of paperwork to get my books. What half of these forms are for, I have no idea. I must write them a letter to tell them the story of what I am doing with these books – what?!? – and why they are vital for me to receive them. I have to explain that people, wait for it, read books? Not kidding. In a letter. As in ‘Dear Customs Person’. Seriously. Is this 1824, instead of 2024? What is the publishing industry in the UK going to be reduced to?

It’s taken weeks to get this far. I kept trying to track my shipment but it’s stuck in the UK. I reached out to the publisher and asked for help. They are trying to find a different printer in Italy so I never have to go through this again. Apparently, my situation of selling an English language book in Spain is somewhat unique. But still. Hopefully, I will never have to order books from the UK, ever again. But it makes me think. As voters, we sometimes just fly through our ballots. Often, we don’t do the math and extrapolate the far-reaching consequences of our vote – just ‘going with our guts’ or voting based on anger at some shadowy group or policy we’ve been whipped up about. Or it’s a ‘protest vote’ against rather than for something. But this vote in the UK, nearly seven years ago, in a country far from me at the time, is now impacting my business. And I’m mad as hell about it.

The UK used to be one of the business and financial centers of the world. But from where I sit they look like diminished fools. I’ve said it before, you can mess with me all day long, but if you mess with my money we’re going to have a problem. And these Brexit court jesters and their antics in the UK aren’t so financially funny anymore. Because now they’ve come for me and my wallet. And I’m just not having it.

Lisbon at Easter

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Whenever we travel, I like to look for advice online on where to go and what to do on a trip. Even to places I have been before. But, one thing I don’t think I have done well is utilize this community to the fullest, to crowdsource the best of what to see and do. So, here goes.

This year, we are spending all of Semana Santa (Holy Week) and Easter in Lisbon, Portugal. Jeff has the time off. We have been there before and have our favorite places, but I wonder if you all have any advice on where to go and what you like to see and do in Lisbon and the surrounding areas. Jeff loves Lisbon and we are going there because it’s one of his favourite cities in the world. And it’s one of mine, as well. We could use the sun and amazing food available in one of the most international food cities and capitals on the planet. But we only know what we know.

We’re driving down from Galicia – it’s not really that far. So we can stop off at some places we like along the way, as well. The Silver Coast. Perhaps spending some time in the hills bordering the east of the country. A more beautifully pristine place is difficult to find.

In the comments – if you know of a place in Lisbon that is a Must See. Or is a I want to go there next time I’m in Lisbon let us know. We are going to truly take a break for Holy Week and Easter. And we’ve agreed to fully check out of social media, blogging, WhatsApping and what have you. A true digital cleanse and just enjoy being in the present moment. Soaking in all that Lisbon has to offer without our heads in a screen. But, that doesn’t mean we can’t compile a list of things to see and do before then.

Thank you in advance, everyone, for your input, insight, and advice on Lisbon and southern Portugal.

Not Again

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It’s been raining cats and dogs here in Galicia. A train of storms are bearing down upon us from Greenland. It’s dropped 10 degrees C in the past week. Winter has returned to Galicia.

https://www.lavozdegalicia.es/noticia/lugo/2024/02/26/temporal-deja-decenas-incidencias-provincia-lugo/00031708943302887873990.htm

You know it’s cold when we are bundled up inside. Our ugly, yet invaluable, fleece Snuggies are required over clothes. Seventy pound Fergus wants to shadow us everywhere. Even attempting to sit on my lap on a chair. And staying downstairs on the sofa by the dying embers in the fireplace each night. Then, at a chilly 5 am coming upstairs and jumping up on the bed to snuggle between us and warm up. Jeff’s favorite. NOT!

And speaking of snuggling up with others. Last night I had a rather curious text from some unknown person. Or, so I thought. It declared me ‘preciosa’ and asked me how I am doing on this cold miserable Sunday night. It was all in Spanish. I showed the text to Jeff. It was a head scratcher. Then, the emojis started.

For those who have read this blog for a while, you might remember an unusual 2022 New Year’s Evening encounter Jeff and I had on the farm with a couple from town who just turned up at our gate uninvited. We call him The Chicken Guy. He is as skinny as a chicken and unattractive as they come, with red dreadlocks. And he is Italian, while is partner is French. I completely misread the situation until hours after they departed the farm when a text arrived inviting us to ‘swing’ with them in various configurations. Jeff laughed until he learned that the dude was equally as interested in him. This was the moment I learned what an eggplant emoji is used for. 😳 I know, I’m just not keeping up with the cool kids in the vegetable animation department. After politely declining, I was then accused of ‘not accepting other people and their sexual preferences.’ This seemed extreme and I said so before I blocked him.

‘I accept everyone’s sexual preferences. But that doesn’t mean I need to participate in those preferences with anyone who randomly turns up at my house for a booty call, or texts me on a dark and stormy New Year’s Eve. No thank you.’ Jeff would have responded with more force. I was restrained in my response, omitting vulgar expletives suggested by Jeff, who lobbied for inviting The Chicken Guy to go have a sexual encounter with himself, declining with extreme prejudice and decidedly more brevity than my long winded brush off.

So this fresh text last evening shouldn’t have surprised me as much as it did. Clearly, a new phone number was acquired, likely after this couple inappropriately texted more than just The Americans in a very small town in the far Northwest corner of rural Spain. Tongues must be wagging in Melide. And not in that way😉. But I truly had no idea who this text was from. And then the foto arrived and the light dawned. Again, I showed it to Jeff, who broke out into hysterical laughter before I reminded him that if he was included in the proposed festivities last time, chances were better than 50/50 he’s included this time, as well. That put an end to the hilarity of the situation for him. This time I didn’t respond at all, and blocked the new number.

Yes, it’s cold here. The four of us, including LuLu kitty, are snuggling up for warmth under a duvet before the fire. But, if the next ice age arrived overnight and this couple was my only source of warmth, I would choose the path of human popsicle. Looking outside now, the leaves are beginning to burst forth on chestnut trees. We seem to only attract these two in the winter. So, for me, Spring cannot arrive to Galicia soon enough.

Take It To The Bank

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Our six year anniversary of arriving in Spain is fast approaching. I have been thinking a lot about the most important things we’ve learned in all that time. I even wrote about it recently. The housekeeping of deciding to live in rural Spain. But there are other things, as well. Things you have to experience. More subtle stuff that you can’t explain to anyone who hasn’t lived it themselves, yet.

Moving here, the two year mark is the first hurdle. If you make it two years, after you’ve done your first visa renewal and filed your taxes, you have a decision to make. Will you stay or will you go? Is this life in Spain really for you? Have you learned enough español to get by? Are you ready to get out of reaction/temporary mode to everything new and move into living mode? Are you prepared to stop complaining about how different everything is and recognize that this is just how you live now? If not, it’s time to go somewhere else.

You Got People

We have lived in two different places in Spain – Valencia and Palas/Melide – for three years each. And it’s at that three year mark that seems to matter. Not just with us but with the people living near us. When we left Valencia our neighbors next door came over and cried, hugging us. It took two years before they believed we were really staying. And in that final year, we were finally invited in to light off fireworks with their children during Fallas. To help us with medical things. To drive Jeff to pick up our car on the A3. They didn’t know we were leaving Valencia, but they knew we weren’t leaving Spain. And, thus, we were worth the investment of friendship. And I completely get it. Why spend time with people who are not staying?

And now, we have lived here on the farm for almost three years. And it’s finally starting to happen here, too. Yes, Maricarmen embraced us right out of the gate, but other neighbors are doing so now, as well.

I walk from Melide to our house 7-8 km, four to five times a week. I’m in training. More on that later. But it takes me forever to get home and Jeff scratches his head as to why. On our way Fergus is an ambassador. I might appear unremarkable, but not Fergus Black– as they call him. So everyone on the route remembers us. I am now invited to enjoy a coffee on my way with people I didn’t know this time last year. Women wave to me from their gardens or kitchen windows. I am stopped at the dragon ducks – as Jeff and I call this farm – for a chat with the grandparents of the people who own a restaurant in town, and who own the local milk truck. An old man who walks his dog is often sat on a rock, and he chats me and Fergus up as the dogs sniff each other.

People hug me and give me double cheek kisses. They ask after Jeff, and I ask after their spouses and grandchildren, before they wave us goodbye until the next day. I like that people stop to chat. No one is hurrying around. The garden or the dishes can wait. I feel seen here. Like my presence matters.

On the way home I pass my housekeeper, Chus’s house. I think she sees me go past sometimes. Last weekend, she sent me photos of her hiking group hiking through local megaliths. It looked like fun and I told her so. The group photo of the 30+ participants were awash in smiles.

‘You should join us, Kelli.’

So, on March 2nd I am joining the Toques hiking club to go on another of their historical hikes.

Jeff and I were discussing why this is. Why, suddenly, it seems like it’s okay we live here. We aren’t such strangers anymore.

‘It’s because they can count on your presence. They know we are not leaving. And, a few times a week they know that Kelli and Fergus Black will walk by. You’re predictable.’

He’s right. I go to the grocery store now and I see so many people I know. They smile and wave. Sometimes, their little children do too.

‘¡Hola! Kelli.’ in their little-kid Spanish. I wish I spoke as well as a three year old.

New Kids

Now that we have lived in Spain all these years (that sounds strange, but it’s true), it can be difficult to relate to people who have just arrived. Not that we don’t understand what they are going through. Or how difficult the adjustment can be. We have lived it. We know. But, it’s that we find ourselves in the same boat as Spaniards. Will they stay? How much are you willing to invest in someone who won’t be here next year? And, I’ll admit, now that we live here permanently, it can be difficult to hear people complain about the country in which you have chosen to live. Their current concerns have been lost to mists of time, and are no longer your concerns. I know the bureaucracy is HELL! Even Spaniards know this. Our neighbors are furious for us with the food truck. But, sometimes it wears on me when so many conversations turn to this amongst english-speakers. Imagine only talking about the nightmare situation in the US while you lived there. You would decline every invitation from your friends back home if that was all they wanted to discuss.

I can talk until I am blue in the face about how this thing or that thing will pass. I can give advice, and tell them not to worry so much. But, they don’t know what they don’t know. And they can’t know it until they’ve lived it. I get it. It will be years before they sit where I sit now.

The other day, I was having lunch with an American friend. We were discussing this very thing. She has been here several years, as well, and we were talking about how we’re in a different place than the new expats we meet. It can be tedious, especially when they insist they know, when you know their information is going to get them into a heap of trouble, if they rely upon it. More and more, I keep my mouth shut. My own wise counsel. Not everything requires a response. Even answering questions on expat FB forums isn’t something we are focused on anymore. There is a search function on FB. They can get the answers they need, without our comments, if they want them.

It Takes Three Years

The three year mark in any one place is when you get people wherever you live in Spain. Spanish people. Especially if you try to learn español. We are convinced of it. Until then, it can feel lonely. But having people is everything here. And, after six years, that is wisdom you can take to the bank.

Paid Up

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Moving to a farm is ridiculous for people like us. It’s true. And moving to a farm in rural Galicia is, very simply, the height of absurdity. Even after three years we have yet to scratch the surface on how to be farmers.

Farm Shopping

Are we real farmers? It’s debatable. Jeff has tackled farming like a true American who is not a farmer. He shops. I haven’t written so much about this but we own so many farm implements we could hire ourselves out to scrape, plow, furrow, mow, or chip/shred huge limbs. We have so many pieces of equipment Jeff is looking at building a new building aka another barn, in which to house them all. Seriously. And I’m the one with a shoe storage problem?

Most of our farm stuff comes on big trucks from Italy. In large wooden crates. And the wooden crates need to be stored, because apparently you can’t have too many good, heavy duty wooden crates. Dear Lord.

Trucks pull up all the time delivering things. Jeff has alerts set up so he is notified when the tractor chestnut raking system is back in stock in Italy. We were on the train to Malaga last week when the notice came through. It should be here any day. <eye roll>

But, I get it. It’s the American expat go-to. Shopping our way out of discomfort. Except, and I can’t believe I’m uttering these words, eventually that has to stop! 🛑 Especially for farming equipment.

Neighborhood Politics

They say What you don’t know can’t hurt you. But that isn’t strictly true. As we have learned, being a foreigner in a place like this can come with a host of disadvantages you are blindingly unaware of that are working against you, every day. Your very presence is grist for the rumor mill. Gossip is a sport here, in a place where information about a new neighbor can provide a year or more of collective eye rolling and head shaking. Idiotas. And if you do anything, well, foreign – as you inevitably will – it restarts the clock. But, as we have learned, there are other considerations.

The community will determine your success or failure. They can kill your new business. Or ensure no one will come out to fix your electrics or plumbing issues. Ask me how I know.

Living in a farming community – US or Spain, it doesn’t matter – means relying upon your neighbors. American individualism and independence doesn’t work here. You can not do it all alone even if you were born here, just like the fifteen generations of your family before you. It’s a universal truth. And we all, old and new (foreign) neighbors alike, relearned this lesson this morning.

HELP!

Jeff and I pulled into our driveway this morning after running some errands in Palas and Melide. It’s a quiet morning- Ash Wednesday. The madhouse of Melide during Carnival is gone. The 40 days of Lent have begun. Even the chupitos (booze shots) to boost an old man’s coffee in the morning are no where in our coffee house. A little liver cleanse seems to be in order until Easter.

Jeff and I have already given each other our Valentine’s Day gifts. Jeff made our local jeweler’s day yesterday when he stopped in first thing in the morning to pick up a lovely ring for me in the shape of a torques. It’s good luck here. You must wear it up 🔝 so the luck doesn’t run out. It’s a symbol of strength. The moment of force, it assists in starting something new. Or in finishing difficult tasks. Jeff liked that. I do, too.

As we walked from the car to the house on this cold morning, I heard a noise. Then, I saw my neighbor waving to me and calling my name. I suspected it had to do with their horses. Yes, those horses that have ‘visited’ us many times, but cannot now that we have an electric fence. Something was wrong.

I ran to gather a bag of carrots from the fridge. We always keep a bag of carrots for those horses. And Jeff grabbed a rope. Then, we rubber booted up and ran to where our neighbors were in another field.

One of the horses was out. That meant they were stuck. They couldn’t get her back inside their fence because the horses wouldn’t leave each other on either side of the fence. So getting the one who was out to follow to the gate would not work.

These horses know us and are comfortable with us, but something was spooking them. They would not comply. And the one who was out was under tremendous stress. Sweating like she had run miles. So much that she barely nibbled at the carrots. And then, she fell over and lay down hard. Luckily, neither Jeff nor I, nor our neighbors were under her as she fell.

We petted her and I talked to her in a sing-songy voice I use when we feed them. Jeff sat with her talking to her and scratching her behind her ears. This went on for a while. Finally she sat up, but she wouldn’t stand. Another hour passed. I was getting worried she was sick or injured. The neighbor tied her to a tree but had to leave to make a call for help from other neighbors. We stayed with her and her sister. One neighing on the other side of the fence, encouraging her sister to get up. But it didn’t help. Then, I had an idea.

The brown – healthy horse – is the alpha. If I could get her to follow me along the fence line maybe the white horse would allow Jeff to lead her towards us. I went around to the place we usually feed these horses. And I called to them like I always do. They will usually run across a full pasture when they hear me. This time, the brown horse turned my way. She made a few steps and stopped. I put out a carrot and she came and got it. Then, I moved up the fence line. She came again. We did this three times, but she turned back towards her sister and neighed. The white horse got to her feet. Progress.

I walked back and gave Jeff a bunch of carrots. Then repeated what I had done before. We needed the white horse to follow the brown horse along the fence line by the road until we could get them up to the house to the main gate. We had a half carrot left when the white horse stopped. She got a little feisty with me. Jeff tried to keep up her momentum. Luckily, she decided to comply, but head butted me in the back.

Pagado!

When we arrived into the courtyard of the house, our neighbor came out and ran ahead of us to open the gate. Afterwards he smiled and asked me ‘How did you do this?’

He had tried everything. But, nothing worked.

I shrugged and told him our winning strategy. ‘No pasa nada.’ Then we waved goodbye. ‘Luego.’ As if it had been no trouble, at all. We were both muddy from head to toe and smelled like a horse.

And that, my friends, is how you spend Valentine’s Day in rural Galicia, adding points to the neighborhood gossip bank. And more importantly, how you pay your debts when your dog eats someone’s chicken😉

No Accident At All

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A friend recently told me they thought we were crazy moving to such a rural place. Won’t they get bored? they said, when discussing it with other friends. But in typical Jeff and Kelli fashion we have blown that notion out of the water. The doubters doubt no more. And I can’t, for the life of me, believe they ever did. Long ago I had another friend tell me I was the only person he knew who could find a way to stay busy, while naked in the middle of a corn field. As disturbing as the images from that visual might be, he wasn’t wrong. I have things to do. And so does Jeff. But sometimes, the unexpected begins before we’ve even had our first coffee.

Take today, for example. We were in Melide running errands. I had decided that bringing Fergus was a better idea than putting him in his dog run. It’s a sunny day here. But a very cold morning as we strolled through town. Jeff made a haircut appointment with Alfonso at the barbershop on Rua San Pedro for tomorrow morning. Then, we walked down to the Hyper Melide and picked up a few necessities. On the way we saw two cars with their flashers on and the drivers on the hood writing on papers in the middle of the traffic circle.

‘Accident or just catching up?’ asked Jeff, sarcastically. We have seen this before and it was 50/50 that they were just having a good chin wag in the middle of traffic. This should have been an indication for us of what was to come.

Fergus stopped, repeatedly, sniffing much of the lower half of the town, so we were delayed heading back the ten blocks to our car parked behind the church and the ayuntamiento (town hall). My suggestion that we stop for a coffee was met with resistance from Jeff. He shivered and wanted to get home to get warm.

Jeff was twenty yards ahead of me, practically race walking to the car as I went through Fergus’ training on the lead, and he was already to the parking lot when Fergus and I came around from side of the building that was blocking our view. Jeff stood at the back of the car with the hatch open. I knew when Fergus saw it he would take off running and jump in. He loves to go for a ride. Just then, a car was pulling out from beside us and made a very weird shallow three point turn. He wouldn’t make it clearing our car to leave the lot. I held on to Fergus and stood back. Jeff did too. The guy stopped, and backed up, again. Then, instead of turning his wheel hard he stepped on the gas as his head went down, as if he were asleep. Jeff shouted but the guy didn’t ‘wake up’ until his car hit ours. Yes, we were rear ended while parked in a parking lot, and we watched it happen!

The guy’s car was still running and his head was bobbing. Jeff shouted at him to shut off the car, which he did not do. But he opened the door and stumbled out. He could not stand up. I turned Fergus around and started running. A woman was walking towards me on the street and I asked her where the police station was. She pointed and we took off in that direction. The station door was blocked by non-police men smoking. I swear, this seems to be the default setting in the winter everywhere you go. I had to weave my way through them, and the smoke, with the dog to the desk, where I amazed myself, explaining in español that a drunk driver hit our car. Well, I had to mime the drunk bit. It’s not a word I commonly use. They asked where it was and I pointed and told them. Then, I walked out with the police following me and Fergus on foot.

We arrived back at the parking lot. Jeff was trying to get the guy to give him his information and insurance. And Jeff was pissed off! I asked Jeff what was going on but he just shook his head. The guy couldn’t stand and couldn’t really speak. Neither of us have patience for a drunk driver. And a drunk driver at 10am? Even less.

Soon we were like an episode of Cops!!. I could almost hear the theme song. Bad boys, Bad boys, what you gonna do? What you gonna do when they come for you…? We stood off to the side as more cops arrived in what we call squad cars in America. Here? They are just little Fords or KIAs. We had the Policía Local and the Guardia Civil as back up, and were there long enough that people we know with business in town began to arrive at the aparcamiento (parking lot), including our contractor, Diego, who we needed to meet with anyway – so we did it standing up in the gravel lot. Two birds with one stone.

The young local police officers were very nice and kind. They understood the situation and interviewed the other driver. And then it turned into something altogether different.

Jeff had noticed the car when we parked. The man had been sitting in it the entire time. And, the driver, it turns out, was not drunk. As he explained to the police, he had sat in his car and taken a bottle of pills in an attempted suicide. This accident with us, and my running to the police station to get help, had actually saved his life. And, likely the lives of anyone he might have hit if he had been able to leave the parking lot. Pedestrians are everywhere. He would have killed people at a zebra crossing before he died from the pills behind the wheel. An ambulance was called to take him to the hospital to pump his stomach.

If we were in the US the driver would have been handcuffed immediately. A firearm might easily have been involved. But here, the police just spoke to the man. Let him sit down. They showed compassion for him and his state of mind.

This was a refresher for me on what to do in an accident in Spain. I’ve only had one other here, when I hit that pack of javalies on the A6 outside Lugo on a rainy October night during Covid. Today, the police helped us with everything and our insurance agent in town is already filing the claim with the guy’s insurance company. So the back end of our car will be repaired. It will cost us nothing. In the end, it’s just stuff. Cars are just things. We are not hurt. When we were driving home from the insurance agent I thought about the man. So desperate, so despondent, that he would take a bottle of pills alone in his car behind the church in Melide. What must have happened to precipitate that? The loss of a loved one? I looked at the claim form with his name on it. It listed his birth date. He looked 70 but he is three years younger than me. A hard life. We all have struggles in our lives. Things that take us down to the very bottom, where we are drowning and can’t see a way out. The possibility of a brighter future where this will pass is lost to us. I know that place. So while this car accident is inconvenient for us, this man needs help and compassion. He needs our understanding and our prayers. I send up a prayer for Juan, the man from the parking lot. That he gets the help and support he needs. Then, I think, that perhaps this accident was no accident, at all.