Category: Spain

The Spanish Melting Pot

vivaespanamovingtospain

When living in a place, I think it’s important to know something about it. I’ve been to countless museums, historical sites, and prehistorical archaeological sites in Spain. And while it’s been interesting, weaving it all together hasn’t always been easy. I needed a coach.

We aren’t taught much European history when we go through school in the US. Other than the fact that while so many of us have ancestors that hailed from Europe; in America, we wanted to do it our way. But connecting with the history of Spain became even more important to me after having my DNA done last year. I found out I have Iberian, Moroccan and Ashkenazi Jewish ancestry. Yep, this fair skinned, freckle faced, blue-eyed girl has all that. Plus some German, Scandinavian, Eastern European and, yes, Celtic – Scottish, Welsh, Irish DNA (which is what I had always been told I was, almost exclusively).

So, now that I have skin in the Spanish game, I needed to understand Spanish history. To get the ball moving forward, I took a 20 hour lecture series on Spanish history from a professor of anthropology who specializes in the history of the Iberian Peninsula. And in doing so, it’s changed my view of every thing I thought I knew about my own history.

I won’t bore you with all that I learned. I’m well aware that most people would find sitting through 20 hours of anthropological lectures a real snore fest. So I’m just that strange, getting super jazzed before another hour listening to all this rich history that came alive for me in the retelling. And it opened my eyes to not just myself, but how connected we all really are. Whether we want to admit it or not.

Spain has always been a cross-roads of cultures, religions and ideas. It’s position at the mouth of the Mediterranean pretty much ensured that. But it’s also a place with varied terrain and climates, perfect for raising livestock and prolific farming. It’s mineral deposits, and even snow melt from the glaciers in the Pyrenees were shipped all over the Mediterranean and prized by the wealthy in the Middle East more than a thousand years ago. Spain is a literal tapestry of all the cultures who have come and gone over the last 3000 years.

In the US, we think of the Spanish people as dark haired and mocha skinned. But when you walk the streets of any city in Spain you see that’s a stereo-type easily disproved. People here look like those in the US, France or Germany or even Ireland. And speaking of Ireland – when I was in Galicia, the most NW region in Spain – I saw signs of the Celts everywhere. I was told there was a strong connection between Gallegos and those of the Emerald Isles. I had just assumed that Irish mariners had landed on the Galecian shores and settled that area. But nothing could be further from the truth.

Celts came from central Europe in what is now Northern France, Belgium and Germany over the Pyrenees. Their settlements reached far to the south before being pushed back by the Romans and eventually the Visigoths. But it was after that period that they got in boats and ventured to Ireland and Great Britian. So it was the Celts going from Galicia not the other way around. And they brought the bagpipes with them. Yes, the bagpipes, that are the national instrument of Galicia, Scotland and Ireland, didn’t originate from any of those places. It came from Africa where the goat herders used flutes and bags of air made of goat skins to make music. So it’s no wonder I have North African, Iberian and German DNA, if I have Irish DNA. Because the Celts brought it with them when they went from Spain to Ireland.

During this lecture series, covering 10,000 years of history, it started to become clear that you couldn’t tell the history of Spain and not tell the history of the rest of Europe and North Africa and the Middle East. The story even reaches all the way to India and the Americas. And all along the way, there were wars. The conquerors and the conquered. New inventions and technology. New religions and old ones lost to the sands of time. Borders were ever changing and it became hard to keep up with who was in charge of one region or another. Especially in El Anduluz (Spain south of Galica, Asturias, and the Basque Country).

And it got me thinking. Today, we see the rise of Nationalism going on all over Europe and in the US. I hear people from Britian say ‘Britian should be for the British’ and I watch some of the violence against immigrants in Eastern Europe on tv. In the US, the jailing of those crossing the Mexican border trying to escape violence in their own countries leaves me heart broken, as they are treated as sub-human. But if any of those advocating for these ‘nationalist ideals’ took the course I took, they would understand that there is no such thing as pure national identity. If they knew history, they’d know there never really has been. It’s a modern marketing construct with ever moving historical borders. And our DNA is proof.

Riding through Strasbourg, France last year – sure, its France today. But it’s flip flopped so many times that the people there speak their own unique language, a blend of both French and German. This is much like Spain with its regional languages and traditions, whose differences are generally celebrated nowadays rather than viewed with suspicion.

They say America was the ‘Great Experiment’, and there is very real fear that with what’s going on today politically, it’s been irreparably damaged so as never to recover. But after completing this Spanish history course, I think the Greatest Experiment is the European Union (EU). Bringing together so many cultures and sub-cultures. People who had a long history of fighting each other, and a string of wars stretching back millennia. With differing languages and values. But then they figured out they were stronger together. That they had more in common than their differences of the past. And they’re actually DNA cousins, after all. Is it perfect? No, but I pray it survives the current climate.

I think of it in these terms. Its like a person who has been ill. They’ve taken medicine for their illness for a long time and they feel better. So much so that they fool themselves into believing they’re not ill anymore and can stop taking their medication. So they do stop, and they fall ill again, much to their surprise.

This is how we are with history. We know terrible things happened. Wars, genocide, oppression and famine. But it’s been a couple of generations since so many of those things happened in Europe. And in the US, we haven’t fought a war on our own soil since the Civil War more than 150 years ago. It easy to believe things have always been how they are today – filled with relative prosperity and peace. But those things were hard won by people who are no longer here to tell us just how hard it really was. And our collective memory, and our attention span, is short. Like the patient, there is a cure for what ails us, and it’s peace and cooperation. Pretending the solution is the isolationism of the past will only bring disaster.

I was sad when the series of lectures was over. I’m a history geek to my very core. But listening to all that came before, it gave me hope for the future. Sometimes we have to take one step back before we can take a giant leap forward. You see it countless times throughout history. But I truly believe that in the end, we’ll realize that our futures, and those of our children, depend upon our ability to cooperate and to see each other as vital to that future and not an impediment to it. And I hope we do that before it’s too late.

The Voices in your Head

vivaespanamovingtospain

Thinking back, I realized I started learning Spanish from a young age. Sesame Street on PBS in the US taught me my numbers. Old Spaghetti Westerns from the 50’s and 60’s, while horribly racist depictions of people from Mexico, taught me some Spanish phrases that are ingrained in me. So much so, they’re interchangeable with their English counterparts. So I don’t even need to think about it.

Then there were all the shows I watched with my kids. Especially Dora the Explorer. I spent countless hours listening to her teaching Spanish to 3 and 4 year olds. Funny, she was able to teach it to me too.

But as I have pursued my Spanish language education – both formal and informal – I realized there were even more instances where, through osmosis, the Spanish had seeped in without me really knowing it.

Early on, we were in a restaurant on Playa de la Malvarrosa looking at a menu that was all in Spanish. I don’t like to ask for the menu in English because I need to learn. I was reading the seafood options and suddenly Ricardo Montalban’s voice – of the 1970’s American TV show ‘Fantasy Island ‘- broke into my head. He had done a restaurant commercial back then for ‘Steak and Langostino’. Which sounded exotic when I was 10, but it’s just small lobster or big shrimp. When I saw the word on the menu in Valencia I knew exactly what it was. He also did a famous commercial for the ‘Chrysler Cordoba’ so I can say that city perfectly. Although his famous phrase describing ‘rich Corinthian leather’ does me no good here.

But it was also at that moment in the restaurant, it occurred to me that when I’ve been learning Spanish, its Ricardo Montalban’s voice through which I mill the entire language. Sure, he was born in Mexico, and Mexican Spanish and the Spanish spoken in Spain isn’t exactly the same. But it seems to work for my purpose. Seriously, when I learn a new word or phrase, I hear Mr. Montalban’s voice saying back to me. Is that weird? OK – yeah, its weird.

And now that I know this, I intentionally tried it with voice of Sofia Vergara, the Colombian born actress on ‘Modern Family‘. But while she’s a native speaker it doesn’t work for me. Sometimes I can make actor Javier Bardem’s voice work, but I have to really try. Nope, I think for me its Ricardo Montalban. I have no idea why.

But I suppose I should be grateful to him. I have been told by more than one person here – including Mis Amigos – that my accent is ‘muy bien’. Although I will never reveal my secret weapon, now when I’m chewing on a new phrase, I just think of stately Ricardo Montalban in his white suit and black tie and smile. Muchas Gracias, Senor Montalban. This little Langostino thanks you.

Taking a Break

vivaespanamovingtospain

We’ve had a lot of family stuff going on lately and it’s consumed most of my energy. I’ll be heading back to the US soon to be in the mix. But before that, we headed out to take a little break. It may seem strange since we live on the Med, but stepping back is important during times of stress, and since life varies at different points on the Mediterranean (even in Spain) – thinking north and east – we decided some time away was in order.

Luckily, we didn’t need to go far, since everything in Europe is so close. Mostly, I’ll let the photos speak for themselves. But this trip included some of my favorite things.

  • A Place I LOVE!
  • Ancient history
  • Lots of ruins
  • A favorite beach
  • Introducing Jeff to a place he’s never been

Tarragona is just south of Barcelona, right on the Med. It’s easily accessible by train so no stressful flight delays. This time, catching the train, we did the very Spanish thing and arrived right as boarding began. This means 20 minutes before it leaves (that’s when they assign the track). Highly unusual for us, since we’re always early to everything. (As though a train or plane will come sooner than expected). I was in a ‘I just don’t care, even if we miss the train we’ll catch the next one’ mode.

The other wonderful part of it is that where we stayed had ZERO wifi and the city has terrible cell service. I’m not sure why getting a signal was so touch and go, but it meant we were out of communication for days.

If you’re thinking of visiting – I would recommend visiting the Amphitheater first. There you can purchase an all-inclusive ticket for the main sites in the city. These include the Amphitheater, Forum, Murallas, Circus, Tower (Necropolis) and the Archaeological museum (although it’s under renovation and closed now – luckily I have been before). There are palaces within the walled city and other sites not requiring a ticket. I would highly suggest walking the entire perimeter of the walls around the old city.

The history of ‘Tarroco’ goes back thousands of years. It was a key city in the Roman Empire. Rich, well positioned, easily defensible. The city was a classic Roman city, and since then changed hands many times. Visigoths, Moors, French – it was so important it became a military target where empires invested in expensive sieges, and the very costly occupation of unwilling populations. As we know today in most of our current military conflicts around the world – it will not end well. Winning a war is one thing. Winning the peace is quite another.

No matter how many times I visit a place I always learn something new. Perhaps we filter information differently at different times. Changing our focus. But as an enthusiastic student of history, I’m always looking for new insights. This time when visiting the remains of the Roman circus, there were new plaques. They explained how the chariot races were were staged. How rich Romans paid for the races – gave away tickets for free – and their social standing was based on how many of the poor peasants showed up. Basically, just like today with social media and harvesting ‘Likes’. We are all still the same people we were more than 2,000 years ago. Our reptilian brains haven’t evolved that much. The Kardashians immediately came to mind. No matter how rich, they still need to be loved by the masses.

Another thing we learned about is that the social system in The Roman Empire was all about continually leveling the playing field. Rise too high – become too rich, too influential – and eventually, the state would seize all your possessions. They feared any consolidation of power through money and influence. But social breakdowns started keeping this from happening and the fall of Rome was inevitable as the peasantry rose up.

Jeff has usually, very reluctantly, embraced my historical forays, but as we walked through this history, he was struck by the parallels to what’s going on in the US today. Much like the Romans, we seem to be imploding; hoisting ourselves on our own petard. And walking through Tarragona, you are literally walking ON history. You can’t miss the buildings built precariously on the past. I’m not sure what their building codes have historically been, but some of these more modern structures appear to be perched – ripe for an earthquake to take them out. But so far, so good.

Anyway, it was a relaxing time away. Much needed. Who knows what the future holds. But whenever things get too crazy today, a little visit to the past is what my heart needs.

A Political Time Out

vivaespanamovingtospain

With us being Americans, you may think this will be about the crazy political situation in the US. Yes, we watch it from afar and I only read bits of it because it’s too scary and depressing. I felt powerless to do anything about it when I lived there. Now? I can do even less. Yes, in the US we can still vote while we live overseas (unlike other countries) and we can contribute to campaigns. But we won’t be knocking on doors or participating in any caucuses or helping register voters to impact change.

We’ve watched Brexit with horror over the last year. Much like our own politics, Britian’s is broken – so broken. I was chatting with an Irish friend the other day. I told her ‘It’s like the UK fought a war with itself and it lost. And it’s losing the peace.’ She agreed. She has dual citizenship with the UK and can’t believe it’s gotten so bad.

And now, we get the Spanish elections. National elections in Spain are set for April 28th. I’ve taken to watching our local news stations to try to understand what’s at stake. As well as some of the coverage in other areas of the country, and what they care most about. While my language skills are not that great, I think it’s important to try engage in what is important to the people, and to me, it seems to be about a few key topics.

When we moved into our apartment, there was a Spanish flag on the rail of our balcony. It had been put there by the previous occupants and the owner had left it there. He said we could remove it if we wanted. I didn’t care either way until it blocked the sunlight from getting to my herbs. So we took it down over the winter. But that flag matters in Spain and it’s not the same as flying a flag in the US.

In 2017, Catalonya held a referendum to declare independence from Spain. I remember being in Tarragona after my Camino in Summer 2017 and seeing both Spanish and Cantalonian flags flying on nearly every balcony. I didn’t really understand the significance of this at the time. But then we saw it on the news in the US. It was a very big deal when the referendum passed and protests on both sides, and arrests of the separatists started. I don’t know enough to understand all the nuance on either side. But then when we moved to Valencia, we saw all the Spanish flags everywhere and I realized that it was a clear message for unity.

Spain has 17 autonomous regions. They each have their own legislatures, counties with additional layers of local governments, and then cities with their own councils. Each of these regions have their own priorities and very long histories. And the politics of the regions reflect that. Last year, there was a big change in the control of the national government. The Spanish Socialist Workers Party (PSOE) took over the government after the People’s Party (PP) lost a no confidence vote after 6 years in control of the government. They had overseen austerity following the financial crisis.

From where I sit, this change in government shifted the commitment of government spending back towards social programs and refocused the government priorities towards national health care, infrastructure and education. Of course, I don’t understand everything so I’m very sure I’m missing something.

Elections here aren’t every X years like they are in the US. We have elections and then must live with the results (good or bad) for 2/4/6 years, depending on what position is being voted for. But here, if confidence in the government is shaken, a new election will be called at any time. When PSOE took over last summer, it’s because they called a no-confidence vote and won. But this election has been forced because one region (Catalonya) blocked the passage of a national budget – some say in protest to the national government’s lack of support for their independence. Again, I don’t understand it all but it’s interesting to watch how it all works and plays out.

Unlike in the US, here there are more than 2 main political parties. What this means is that unless one party get’s a majority in the elections – not likely to ever happen – the one with the most votes must work with other parties to form a coalition to govern. Typically, under this parliamentary system, it means there are parties that are far right, some far left, and some in the center. By having to form coalitions, it keeps extremism from ruling the day. Of course, this isn’t guaranteed but compromise and coalition building means that even small parties can have a big influence. Their support matters.

The region of Andalucia – in the far south of the country – is where immigration and migration seems to be top of mind. It’s the point where many fleeing conflict in Africa try to enter the country. The ani-immigraton party, VOX, is gaining influence based on this platform and they’re expected to be a Major player in the election for the region. In general, Spain has been one of the countries willing to take some of the boats full of African migrants who have found themselves without an actual port in the storm. Valencia has willingly taken several of these ships. I’m a believer that instead of building walls and punishing migrants, we should look at why they want to flee and try to help the with root-cause problems that prompt them to risk so much and leave their homeland. Economics, war, violence, corruption. In the meantime, we owe our fellow humans our assistance and compassion.

One thing that has struck me watching the news here is that people are very engaged in their politics throughout the country. They don’t seem to sit on the sidelines, but are passionate about who is representing them and how. Throughout the year we have lived here we have seen MANY protests just walking through town on any given day. The Bomberos (Firefighters) were protesting one day in front of the regional congress. They were foaming all the streets and shouting about fair pay. Right next to them was a protest for the LGBTQ community – challenging our ears for equal attention on equal rights.

It will be interesting to watch what happens. Of course, like anyone, I have my preferences on outcomes based on my limited knowledge of the situation in Spain. Democracy takes many forms. When I was growing up, we were told we had the best system in the world. But I must admit, I kind of like this multi-party parliamentary system that forces compromise. I know it’s not full proof and can’t stop all ‘brinksmanship’ (look at Brexit). But I feel privileged to live here. And watching this process, I know I have a lot to learn. At the end of the day, healthy debate leads to the best outcomes and I wish that for Spain – and us all.

He’s Da Man

He’s Da Man

vivaespanamovingtospain

I’ll be heading on a train to Barcelona soon to hang out with my niece, Melody, for a few days. She’s on her first trip to Europe with her HS German language class, and for the last 10 days has been touring Austria, Switzerland, and Germany. She extending her stay here so she can pass through Barcelona and we can see each other. Melody is one of those people I love hanging out with. She’s smart and wise for her 18 years. And she’s paid for this trip herself, all by working at a pizza place in Oregon. So she’ll appreciate every moment of it.

Ironically, Jeff will be starting his journey home from the US while I’m stepping onto a train to leave Valencia. So he’ll be at home waiting while I’m seeing the sights in Barcelona. But I don’t care so much about that. I’m glad he’ll be there waiting, because we’ve hit critical mass on him being away and I’m sort of stuck without him.

First off, I rented an industrial space while he was gone. Well, it’s sort of a warehouse and office space. I need to spread out so I can paint bigger canvases. And I like higher ceilings and a big roll up door. (maybe I’ll paint the door) And an office of my own. So I called a bunch of imobilarias (real estate agents) and scheduled showings. I found the perfect one, and even a back up plan. Then the negotiations started.

I talked them down on the price a bit. But then I hit a snag. The ‘Ask your husband what he thinks’ snag. Huh? I have all the bank certificates, etc. showing we can pay for the warehouse without effort. But then it came time to determine how we wanted to tranch the contract. There were multiple options. I reviewed them and got back to the agent. I mean, I can’t count the number of contracts I’ve red-lined over the years. I could do it in my sleep.

‘I prefer #3.’ I told her and laid out my reasoning.

‘Well, we will let you review the options with your husband first and get back to us.’ she told me.

I laughed. ‘My husband is in the US. I can tell you now, if I asked him at all, he would tell me to do whatever I want.’ I should have said he would laugh, wonder out loud why I was consulting him, and inquire, with some genuine concern, if I’d been hit by a car sustaining a head injury?

‘Well, we would be more comfortable if you reviewed them with him before deciding.’

WHAT?!? I wanted to laugh, again, but then I realized she was serious. I could tell her how it was going to go:

  • He’ll come back from the US and go to her office with me, where she will ask him what he wants to do.
  • He will turn to me very earnestly ‘Let me ask my financial manager.’ Even he knows he has no clue if we have a penny or a pound.
  • Then he’ll ask me ‘Can we afford this?’.
  • I will tell him ‘Yes’.
  • Then he’ll ask me which option I want.
  • ‘Option #3’.
  • He’ll then turn to her and tell her ‘Option #3’.
  • She’ll smile and we’ll both sign and get the keys.
  • Then we’ll leave and he will again turn to me and say ‘What the hell was that? Why did you need me there?’
  • I’ll point to his crotch (he is THE MAN, after all), shrug and we’ll go have a coffee.

What is it with everyone assuming I have no money or financial savvy because I have a v-jay-jay and breasts? It’s like a bad joke. What if I was gay? Who would play my fake husband then? Hmm…I would hire Ryan Reynolds. He’s not super handsome but he’s hilarious and smart. I’d prefer those qualities in a fake husband. But I digress. So while I’ll drop off the financial documents to her office today, we won’t sign until ‘Daddy gets home’. Ick. Do I sound bitter? Cause I’m a little bitter.

Moving on – our apartment hasn’t been this clean since the day we moved in. In the last week I’ve bought organizers for all the cupboards and categorized and sorted every thing we own in the evenings. I re-potted all the plants and trees on the balcony – stuff grows fast here. After that, I ‘Marie Kondo’d’ all the drawers and shelves in the closets. It was then I knew I might be getting crazy. The neighbors would soon find me in their apartments sorting their Tupperware, so it’s at a tipping point, and Jeff knows he’s coming back just in time.

In the end, I was left with a large lawn bag full of clothes and shoes and other sundry items. Now I needed to find out what to do with them. Donating stuff in Valencia isn’t like in the US, where there are multiple donation bins in every parking lot in the country. Or even in Ireland where there were more charity shops than regular stores on every block in every town. Here? I’ve seen two in all of Valencia. And I don’t know how they source their stuff.

Jeff said he’d seen a red metal drop off bin in a Repsol gas station parking lot in Benimachlet, so I loaded up the multiple trolleys that I’ve acquired over the last year – to bursting. Yes, it’s a little strange that I have multiple trolleys and hand trucks, but I bought them each for a specific purpose. And I’ll admit I have a thing for various sizes of hand trucks – even in the US. Jeff just shakes his head when I buy another one. The right tool for the right job, and all that. So I strapped them together and made my way down to the Repsol. .

On the way, I’m not going to say that I didn’t look a little strange wrangling all my trolleys across 10 blocks, collecting strange looks and open mouthed staring. But I’m pretty sure my neighbors on the streets surrounding our apartment, if not exactly used to me by now, are just resigned to my strange presence and modus operandi. And sure enough, there was the bin. Ms. Kondo, of Netflix fame, you would have been proud. Yes, during the process I found out I have 5 versions of the same blue and white striped t-shirt, but I’m keeping them all, Marie. Sorry. On the way back I passed the Soul Coffee where the cafe oglers were. I gave them a thumbs up lumbering by with my montage of empty conveyances. Some actually shook their heads and laughed. I’m pretty sure I saw respect.

So I leave for Barcelona a little lighter. Knowing when I get home things will be back to normal. I’ll be able to sign contracts again and getting dressed in the mornings will be a snap! And in less than a week I’ll be moving into my new space. It’s all worth it.

It Goes BOOM!

It Goes BOOM!

vivaespanamovingtospain

Last year when we arrived in Valencia, we felt like we were inundated by sound. BOOMS! and POPS!. People throwing fireworks under the feet of strangers seemed to be common. And when sitting at a cafe you’d be jumping as someone lit a firecracker under your chair and ran.

We noticed that very small children, maybe 3, also had fireworks and were throwing them. Sure, at that age they were just poppers that burst various colors that made pretty flowers on the sidewalk. But by 5 or 6, kids were carrying around lit ropes with which they could light full blown fire crackers in a crowded square. This usually ‘supervised’ by a man in the family. Of course, there were more responsible Dads or Abuelos in empty tennis courts or parks, but that was rare. Usually they were on the crowded sidewalk.

Each kid had a wooden box hanging from around their neck that contained the fireworks. I mean really, who wouldn’t put gun powder in a wooden box and light a rope for their kids to walk around with? What could go wrong?

But I’ll admit, I had box envy. Being self aware, I know I possess the maturity of a 5 year old at times. Only I prefer to categorize it more as a child-like innocence. Never losing my sense of wonder at the world. Ok, I like to blow stuff up every once in a while and I liked those boxes. But last year, by the time we got settled and had a spoon to eat from and a place to sit in our apartment, Fallas was over and wooden fireworks boxes were gone.

Fast forward to this year and the mayhem has begun to ensue. The pyrotechnic stores are open again and El Chinos are resplendent with fireworks boxes with the red cord to hand it around your neck like a cigarette girl in old movies. And of course, I had to have one. Jeff took me shopping while I perused the selection. It’s taken me less time to pick out a wedding dress than my fireworks box. But now that I had one it was time to fill it.

We headed to our local shop that has sprung up over night in Benimachlet, selling all things fireworks. They’re pretty much unregulated here so you can get things that I’m very sure could take off a hand or burn our apartment down, but nonetheless we purchased them. Bringing them home, it’s clear they won’t fit into my box. Which I think makes Jeff happy since it’s only little kids who carry these boxes. The adults have outgrown the need for one. If I go out on the street with mine he’ll walk very far behind me.

Before he heads out on his multi-city journeys, we’ll light these off and enjoy the show. I mean, if you can’t beat’em, join’em. Time to get our Fallas on!

Back From Bilbao

Back From Bilbao

vivaespanamovingtospain

We are home in Valencia again. It’s nice to sleep in our own bed. But we did see some really cool stuff and Bilbao is a place we’ll go back to. Like so many cities you visit, you just scratch the surface on a weekend trip. It takes multiple visits at varying times of year to really get a sense of the place. But this first visit left an impression.

The Basque country, where Bilbao sits, is unlike other place in Spain. Not only do they speak a completely different language – the etymology of Basque has yet to be cracked – the culture and traditions are different too. Comparing Valencia to Bilbao is like apples and oranges. Valencians seem much more low key. And drinking here is not a sport. In Bilbao, it seems staying out all night on the weekend and getting plastered isn’t a rare occurrence. More like just a Friday AND Saturday night. So sleeping in an area with a fair few bars was a challenge. I never thought I’d miss Falles. We walked around to other areas of the city at night. It was going on all over – younger and older people staggering down the street. We don’t see that here. Water trucks were out every morning spraying the sidewalks and streets. And it’s no wonder because the remnants of the previous nights partying is all over. You have to step over it if you go out for a morning coffee. Still, it’s very clean. Sometimes I wish they would water down the streets and sidewalks in Valencia more often – especially in summer.

But both cities are big on architecture. Valencia’s modern marvels are most uniform in nature. Bilbao’s more eclectic. If I had to sum up Bilbao in one word it would be ART. I use the term in the broadest sense. Yes, there are plenty of examples of fine art. Painting in the various museums, sculptures/monuments. But there is also architecture and costume. Even their infrastructure is done with an eye to the artistic. Below you’ll see some examples of what I mean.

We took a boat ride from the heart of Bilbao to the port town of Portugalete. It’s a two hour round trip that gives you a sense of what it was like to live and work along the river over the last 300+ years. And it’s undergoing a massive renaissance and revitalization. New housing and refurbishment of historic buildings, and warehouses to use as housing. An award winning Iraqi/English female architect – Zaha Hadid – won the bid to implement multiple phases of her bold new plan for Bilbao. It includes new bridges, an island development and much more. Sadly, she passed away in 2016, but her vision continues to play out in Bilbao and will live on.

The government has also invested over a billion $ over the last 30 years to clean up the river after so many centuries of industrial pollution. Today, it’s got a healthy oxygen rate in the water to support the fish, and wild life have returned to the estuaries. And speaking of water – sports involving water are all the rage. We saw regattas and loads of sea kayaking and rowing. Sail boats are everywhere in Portugalete. Jeff was in heaven.

This small town boasts a ‘Hanging bridge’ that is like a ferry in the air for those wanting to traverse the straight. It takes cars and people back and forth across the divide. There are only of few of these in the world and they’re all in Europe. We didn’t stop in the town but we will next time. There is a lot to see and do in the area.

Back along the river in Bilbao, you can see all the new award winning buildings that have sprung up on the river bank. The new futbol stadium that houses Athletic Club de Bilbao – the local La Liga club. A new convention center. All along the river there are walkways and sculpture littering the path.

When we returned to the city there was a procession going on – of course. What was this for? Who knows? And when I say that I mean it. We asked around. No one knew what it was for. They were just processing. But it was cool.

https://videopress.com/v/Y5vC6kNm
Random Bilbao Procession

One of the days we drove up through Mungia to Mirador San Juan Gaztelugatxeko. If you’re a Game of Thrones fan you’ll recognize some of the photos, as this is where Daenerys Targaryen’s Dragonstone Castle is located. In actuality, it’s north west of Bilbao by about 35km and is worth the steep hike down and the hike up the causeway and stairs. The views are amazing and you can ring the bell at the church. The hike down and then the eventual very (it seemed much steeper on the way back up) long climb back up to our car was a little more challenging.

You can stay at the inn at the top where the parking is located. And the pinchos in the bar is not to be missed. Each one is huge – like a meal unto itself. But the best thing about staying there are the views. Priceless.

Just as in Ireland where we watched the Irish sport of Hurling on tv, we watched handball in Bilbao. I remember from walking the Camino Frances that every town, village, hamlet in Navarra, no matter the size, had a handball court. Handball is the thing in Basque country. I’m including a video so you can see what I’m talking about. I can’t imagine smacking that hard ball with my hand over and over.

https://videopress.com/v/C4tMljdT
Basque Handball

One other random thing we saw on Bilbao tv in a bar was just more confirmation that driving in Spain is not easy. They have an actual show where they pick up people and drive them around quizzing them on Spanish traffic laws. They win prizes if they answer correctly. Like ‘Cash Cab’ filmed in NYC but in that case its random trivia. In this case it’s just the law. Sadly, most people failed.

The flight home was touted at a hour 15. In reality its more like 45 minutes. An easy quick weekend getaway from Valencia. We realized we need much more time than we allotted for exploration. We will be back.

Hola Bilbao

Hola Bilbao

vivaespanamovingtospain

We are in Bilbao. Fallas Refugees. We’ve met so many people lately who are Fallas Virgins. They can’t believe we are leaving to escape ‘All the Fun!’. I’ve been called a ‘fuddy duddy’ and a ‘buzz kill’. But they’ll learn the closer we get to March 19th when all hell breaks loose. I heard from an experienced expat that they passed a new law this year; now they can’t shoot off sanctioned fireworks between 2:30 and 7am. Whew! A whole 4 1/2 hours of sleep coming right up. It’s really that last week when it’s non-stop and the entire city goes nuts, and ‘sanctioned’ isn’t really the issue.

So we fled. And boy are we glad. Full nights sleep and a lovely vacation to Northern Spain. Bilbao is a city on the north coast, right on the Bay of Biscay and the Atlantic Ocean. Its the beating heart of the Basque region. Culturally, and culinarily, it’s very different than Valencia. And Basque is a language that is nothing like Spanish or Valenciano.

I fell in love with Navarra when walking the Camino, so it feels wonderful to be back in the region. The Camino Frances doesn’t go through Bilbao. You have to walk the Camino del Norte if you want to do that. And just like so many other places in Spain, the flights from Valencia to Bilbao were cheaper than one way train tickets from Valencia to Barcelona. Who can pass up 7.99 euro airline tickets? Not me!

We are staying downtown near the Guggenheim Art Museum, It’s look alike cousin in Seattle, the famed EMP, (Experience Music Project) means that its architecture is something familiar to us. We will spend a day exploring their current collections in a few days.

The architecture in Bilbao is part 20th century Spanish, part 18th and 19th century cross European, blended with 21st century creative genius, and up on the surrounding hills they look more Swiss village. It’s wet, green and cold with dappled sunlight. Jeff is in heaven. One guy told me this time last year they were under feet of snow. Hmm.

The signs are in Spanish and Basque. Sometimes in Ingles too. Driving here is A LOT easier than in Valencia. Wider roads that makes sense. Imagine! Getting from the airport to town took maybe 20 minutes door to door and I’m happy to report even with me driving there was no swearing, tears or recriminations. When we arrived we saw that Valencia isn’t the only city in Spain to celebrate the Spring equinox. There is a festival in town and marchers for international Women’s Day. Lots of people out and about and rides with the requisite Churroteria to make the celebration that much sweeter – and deep fried.

We haven’t scratched the surface of the area yet but the blend of old and new has our attention and we are ready to hit the ground running exploring and, of course, looking at real estate. So far so good.

The Visa Renewal

vivaespanamovingtospain

I can’t believe it’s been nearly a year. It flew by and when I look back on all the things we did, and all that we’ve learned, I’m amazed. And if I’m honest, more than a little tired. Perhaps its this roller coaster of the bug that has performed a hit and run on me over the last couple of weeks. I went to soccer practice on Monday and tried to pretend I wasn’t more sluggish than normal, but Tuesday let me know that wasn’t the truth.

So far this year, it’s been a bit of a whirlwind of things to check off the list. I’ve never been one to let grass grow under my feet, but even I am a bit surprised that by February 22nd we’ve ticked so many boxes. And my last box for this quarter is gathering the paperwork for the visa renewal.

You can start your visa renewal 2 months before your visa expires, and up to 90 days afterwards. We didn’t file early and there were good reasons we waited. I think it will pay off. But I do want to file before the Brexit (The UK leaving the EU) debacle happens. If Britian goes a ‘Hard Brexit’ without a deal in a little over a month, that will leave the immigration status for many of the 300,000+ Brits who call Spain home in no-mans-land for immigration status. I’d like to avoid the chaos that is sure to ensue with ‘What do we do about these people’ from a Spanish Government perspective. And the rules and requirement might change.

This year we get to renew our visas for a 2 year period, rather than just the one. So this time next year I feel sure I’ll be sipping Mai Tai’s on a beach laughing at how little work I have to do compared to this year. Yeah Right. And it’s a bit of a different process this time around.

We hired a gestor to walk, and talk, us through it because while it says certain words on the Government website, the reality is quite different. And those words – now that we’re in Spain – don’t mean the same as they did when we were in the US. So a lot of the pre-work I did before meeting with the gestor is a bit mute now. I’m not concerned – we gave ourselves plenty of time. Now I know for next time what we really need.

As a refresher – gestors are like administrators. Some specialize in helping you set up a business with appropriate licensing, etc. Others do tax filing (but they aren’t accountants). Some help with immigration stuff. Generally, they’re the dogs body of the bureaucratic engine of Spain. They don’t review contracts or perform functions that an Abogado (lawyer) does. It’s a different job entirely. They give you advice and fill out a lot of forms on your behalf and file them.

When they say ‘bank statements’ they don’t mean the same thing from the US. And what they’re worried about, as far as documentation, is a little different than what we’re used to. Never mind, Jeff is going back to the US next month so he’ll gather whatever else we need that we can’t get from here. Like another Apostilized marriage certificate that can’t be any older than 3 months since the last version 1000 was issued. No kidding, I have 5 of these of varying vintages from the last 18 months. And the funny thing is – if we were divorced we wouldn’t be living together in Spain! Ugh!

Another thing we learned, for the next renewal we will need to show our Spanish tax documents. Meaning showing that we have filed annual taxes in Spain. Of course, we haven’t lived here long enough yet to file for the first time, but we will have to ensure those are ready to go next go round. Spain and the US have a tax treaty so no double taxing, but I’ve met a lot of American’s here, and most say they won’t bother to file. I hope they aren’t planning to be here for a second renewal cause they’re in for a shock. Eek! We are getting a referral from our gestor on who we need to discuss things with as an expert on US/Spanish personal taxation laws, and said treaty.

I was proactive in getting letters in advance from anyone we pay on a regular basis, landlord, etc. to write that we are up-to-date on paying. This was a good thing, as it apparently goes a long way to demonstrating good citizenship, amongst other things, like you pay your financial obligations without difficulty. And we will be requesting letters from the bank here verifying all sorts of stuff in specific language. It’s so different than last time.

And I learned that one local office for filing is not like other offices throughout the country or even the region. Every one of them can ask for different things and in different ways so it’s more an office by office thing. But we’ll roll with it and cross our fingers.

It feels like time is speeding up. The months are water through our fingers these days. My parents won’t be around forever and this year, in particular,, I feel the pull of home more than usual. I’ve been a little melancholy about remembering my childhood over the last several months, which is surprising because I’m not prone to sentimentality in that area.

We’ll be really glad when this renewal is done. Then we can come and go as we please. And, if the timing works out I can just make it to Portland for my Mom’s 80th Birthday at the end of May – and maybe my Dad’s 90th in September. Sporting my new Spanish residency card without a care in the world. Ha!

Too Much Junk in the Trunk

vivaespanamovingtospain

You can already tell the days are getting longer. The afternoon light has started to get that honey colored glow. The afternoons are in the 60’s and even 70’s this past weekend. Spring is arriving in January in Valencia.

Even my beleaguered pepper plant – that I failed to bring in all winter – has some new little baby peppers on it. And I’ve already bought a new basil plant. I’ve never attempted basil so early. Even in Arizona.

Another indication is that my laundry dries outside before the next load gets out of the washer. Even sheets and towels. Oh how my life has changed in one years time. My yardsticks for the season changes have completely changed.

I’ve already begun unpacking my spring and summer clothes. Not necessarily because I wanted to, but with a purpose. After watching Dr. Oz on the Today Show online, he advised that people who live in yoga or sweat pants are usually 5-10 lbs fatter than people who wear regular pants without any spandex or give in them. I didn’t like the sound of that so I went into the bathroom in front of the full length mirror (in my yoga pants) and turned in a circle. Hmm.

The only jeans I have that have no-give are white pants and they were packed away for the winter. I’ve been living in nothing but pants that are infused with give for the past 5 months. So I dug out the space bags and held up the dreaded white pants with no forgiving give-ness. I didn’t tell Jeff what I was doing and he didn’t ask. He’s used to my weird closet swaps and it wouldn’t have dawned on him that it was January – a little early for Spring and Summer.

But he became aware when I came out of the bathroom. Sure, they buttoned. Yes, I could sit down. But I was very worried I might be risking deep vein thrombosis if I wore them for any length of time. And, if I’m honest, there was a little ‘muffining’ around the top. Not Costco muffins – not that bad. More like mini muffins from the Nothing Bundt Cake shop back home. Again, he hardly noticed. Even when I asked ‘Do I look fatter than I did last summer?’

He looked at me over his glasses and iPad. Hesitating, like a man being questioned by the police and wondering what the right answer would be. Understanding clearly that his life might depend upon it.

‘No.’ And he went back to reading Reddit.

Well, he was lying. Dr. Oz would have told me the truth. I have spent way too much time in yoga pants. Ugh! Something needed to give – literally. So we went on a 20 mile bike ride down the coast. Glorious. the sun was out, the beach was uncrowded and the sailboats were on the water catching wind. Jeff got to use his bike flag that he designed and sewed himself. He was sure people were staring and pointing at his new flag. I was sure it was because he was on his recumbent trike but it doesn’t matter.

Then yesterday, I went to my first soccer practice under the towers at Torres de Seranno. It’s an international team of women from the US, UK, Germany, Brazil, Spain and Bulgaria. And they’re all half my age. But oh well. Its a workout – even though we went for beers afterwards, but I don’t drink beer so I got the full benefit. An hour and a half playing soccer will take it out of you. I slept like an 8 year old last night.

And apparently even our building thinks I could shed a couple of pounds. Our elevator was broken all day. So we had to carry a major grocery shop up 7 flights of stairs. Its fixed now that we’re home with it all put away. But holy moly, huffing and puffing lentils vertically should be part of a cross fit program.

And tonight I got invited to play on another soccer team in the town just north of where we live. Right on the Metro line. It’s just two nights a week but it will go a long way into getting me ready to fit back into those jeans comfortably – without taking blood thinners.

So, as I sit here with bruised shins and sore ankle, with the knowledge that just getting up takes a little more oomph than it did a few days ago, I’m ready to embrace Spring in Valencia. No matter how painful that’s clearly going to be.

Perfectly Imperfect

vivaespanamovingtospain

I read somewhere that in Japan they have a tradition. When a bowl or a plate is broken, it is repaired, but with a thin layer of gold along the crack. They don’t try to fake it with super glue or send it out to a master ceramicist to refire and repaint it, so it’s ‘good as new’. They celebrate the imperfection by bringing the two sides together with liquid gold.

This serves two purposes. First, it make the item usable again. And second, it serves as a great reminder that it’s the imperfections that are beautiful. After all, a broken bowl – damaged in a very specific way – is one of a kind. And the knitting it together with the gold makes it an actual work of art. I love this idea.

A few years ago, Jeff and I went to Greece for a few weeks. We bought a tapestry. The owner of the shop hailed us in, as nearly every shop owner does on a narrow Grecian street. Then he plied us with wine and proceeded to compliment Jeff – ‘You’re clearly an orthopedic surgeon’ he told him. Jeff never lets me forget this. When I asked the man what he thought I did, he pondered very seriously and then exclaimed ‘Why, you are the wife of an orthopedic surgeon!’ Jeff laughed so hard he choked on his wine, and I actually heard his wallet open.

The man’s practiced shtick, and the wine, worked eventually. We looked through all his rugs and tapestries. The wine wasn’t working on me enough to agree to purchase any that he showed us. Then he pulled something from the back. BINGO! That was the one. I’m a sucker for pomegranates. And I knew it would look amazing on the tall wall going up our stairs in the Snoqualmie house. But after it arrived and we hung it up, I did little to observe it. It was just there – beautiful, if a bit asymmetrical if I’m honest – and a remembrance from our trip.

Now, that tapestry adorns the wall of El Compartemiento. I sit across from it on my chaise, as I read, and when I’m writing every day. And now I get to look at it in detail. At first, I noticed that it wasn’t balanced. The right side and the left side aren’t the same. This bothered me a lot. Thinking ‘I’m sure we paid too much for this now that I look at it.’ But over the course of the last few months, I’ve spent a fair bit of time following the stitches. Some, on one side, lead to little hearts I had never seen before. Others to little gold coins that are present nowhere else in the fabric. The treasures and secrets it’s held all this time but I had failed to observe. Several artist contributed their expertise to different sections. And that’s part of what I love.

Slowly, it’s dawned on me that the imperfections and the lack of balance are what makes it so amazing and beautiful to me. Even more than before. Its drawn me in and brought me closer, rather than repelling me.

Last weekend was challenging with all the drama over my phone and that gang. After a sleepless night, I cancelled my driving lesson and spent Monday not leaving the house. I looked out the window and thought ‘Out there, it isn’t as nice as it looks.’ And then I snuggled up and licked my wounds and stared at our tapestry between naps.

But by Tuesday I was done with that. This city is a lot like this fabric that hangs on our wall. Nope – it’s not perfect. There are both the good and the bad people in every city. But there are hidden gems too – and I wasn’t going to find them sitting at home. So I rescheduled my driving lesson, and I joined a recreation and activities club. They do stuff nearly every day and tomorrow is my first practice on a Women’s futbol (soccer for the Americans) team in the Turia. I haven’t played since I was 12. Yes, I will be total crap at this but I’ll meet some good people, I’m sure. And make some new friends.

Sometimes, the best things come from difficult situations. And I much prefer filling the cracks with gold than trying to pretend things were never broken. Celebrating the imperfection, and then choosing to swim in it. I hope someday on my tomb stone they write ‘She was held together with liquid gold.’ Then I’ll know that all my very many imperfections were also celebrated by the people I loved, who loved me anyway.

Roller Coaster Sunday

vivaespanamovingtospain

‘God takes care of fools and little children.’ It’s been my motto my entire life. So far it has worked for me nicely. I’ve toddled my way through things and while there were potential dangers – I mostly ignored them. I just kept toddling.

But I digress. I’ll start at the beginning.

We left the house today heading for shopping. But it’s some sort of holiday (I guess the fireworks this AM gave that away) and they were closed when we arrived. We should have known, after walking up the Turia to Campanar to the only El Corte Ingles that is usually open on Sundays, but it was closed. No Dyson vacuum for me today. So we walked up to the tram and headed for Heron City.

After discovering Bauhaus was closed, we had lunch and then decide that bowling at the local bowl-r-rama was in order. I mean, who doesn’t love bowling. We realized we hadn’t been bowling since we bowled with our kids in Snoqualmie at the local pizza bowl. Its across from the town train depot and has just 4 lanes. It’s ramshackle and the guy who makes the pizzas also repairs the mechanics of the place – so the pizza’s have a little black grease on them, but it was part of the charm. $28 for an entire family to bowl and eat pizza on Sunday nights. Golden.

So this time we were both out for blood. No more sand bagging to make our kids feel better. No bumpers or any assistance with rolling the ball down that dinosaur aiming thing. Nope! We were head to head, going for broke. And they even had America sized 13 men’s shoes.

As you’ll see by the photos, I won. At times it was a total blow out. I’m not saying I kicked Jeff’s ass at Spanish bowling. But I kicked Jeff’s ass at Spanish bowling. There is no other way around it. He rallied at the end in the first game but he was no match for me. It’s good he conserved his strength – cause he’d need it later.

We had so much fun! So we went into the arcade area and I decided we should play this insane air hockey game where gobs of pucks come out at the same time. I’m a crazy good air hockey player so I was eager to try this slice of insanity. Needless to say, I again triumphed over Jeff in this game of total chaos. I was crowing about my victory. High fiving strangers. Then I reached for my phone. It was gone. Yes. I had been pick pocketed during our air hockey game.

We looked everywhere. A man and his son helped us after I gave his daughter all my game tickets that had popped out of the slot. I was bereft. Finally, we went up to the counter and asked if anyone had turned it in. No – of course they hadn’t. Someone had lifted my $1200 cell phone from my coat pocket. It was brand new. They recommended I go to the police and file a denunciation. It’s complex but it’s a police report. I’ve never denounced anyone before so I wasn’t really sure what we should do.

We gave my details and Jeff’s phone number to the desk but left knowing it wasn’t coming back. All of my elation from my afternoon of victories was long gone. I felt like a fool. I hadn’t zipped it in an inside pocket. I had let my hubris get the better of me. My enthusiasm for air hockey had hoisted me on my own petard. We walked back to the tram to wait for the train and discovered we had just missed it, as we watched it pull away. Our luck was going south fast.

So we waited the 40 minutes for the next one. In the mean time we became surrounded by a gang. I feel sure they were coordinated. I was a bit teary after my phone being stolen and I think they didn’t know what to do with a crying victim – because I’m very sure they were planning to rob us. When I realized this, I started crying harder and louder. Men – even thieving Men – don’t wanna deal with a crying woman. They looked confused. I got up and Jeff followed. We started walking down the street to the next stop. Eventually the entire gang followed us. And a few more suspects showed up besides.

We sat down at the next stop and one of them approached us and in English he asked for a cigarette.

‘We don’t smoke’ I told him and then easily burst out into tears that were on the surface because of the frustration of losing my phone. I cry when I’m frustrated. It’s just how I’m wired, and my mother will tell you I’m a decent actress. Well Mom – I acted my ass off at that tram stop. You would have been proud. He backed away. What I wanted to say was ‘You don’t know the day I’ve had, Motherfucker, so you don’t want to mess with me.’ But the tears were doing the trick. Jeff just went with it. I was rapidly leaving the neighborhood of ‘Hysterical Female Acres’ heading straight to the border of ‘Unpredictable Crazy Town’. No body knew what I might do. Including me.

They were still circling us like sharks. Some of them with stocking caps and bandanas over their faces. I sobbed louder. Hysterical. Finally the tram came and we got on and sat next to the security guards. Then we got off and got on the subway. It’s the long way home but it felt safer. Jeff put his arm around me.

‘It’s just a phone. We could have been robbed or knifed by those guys at the tram stops but we weren’t. We’ll get it all sorted out tomorrow.’ And he kissed my head. Just then his phone started to buzz.

Turns out, it was the bowling alley calling us to tell us they found a phone in the trash. We hopped off at Angel Gimera and took a taxi back. Sure enough it was my phone. I was so grateful to the girl at the counter – more tears. I mean, my life is in that phone. Banking, photos of my kids, everything.

We took a taxi home – no more Tram drama for me tonight. Jeff made me a Bombay and tonic to calm my nerves – or two. It’s been quite a day. We’re starting to get into our visa renewal process, and crying at the tram station today surrounded by the gang members, after getting pick pocketed at the bowling alley, I had started to wonder if the universe was trying to tell us we should have a rethink. But then it all turned out OK.

God does take care of fools and little children – at least this fool. And for that, tonight, I am eternally grateful.

Zen and the Art of Learning to Drive in Spain: ‘This is why we can’t have nice things’

vivaespanamovingtospain

I don’t know much. But one thing I have learned after two driving lessons is that driving a stick is no big deal. Yup – only killed the engine once in an hour and a half, after stopping at a light and trying to start forward in 3rd gear.

Another thing I learned is that I drive like an American. As a practical matter, this is not a bad thing. But if I want to pass the Spanish driving test I need to unlearn nearly everything I was taught in Driver’s Ed in high school and have employed for the last 36 years.

When we are taught to drive in the US we hear ‘Head on a swivel’, don’t just trust your mirrors. Use them, of course, but also turn your head and check your blind spots. But in Spain, you only use your mirrors when changing lanes. If you turn your head you’ll fail the exam.

Part of passing the exam is theatre – I was advised today. While not twisting my head, I must exaggerate my examination of any zebra crossing so that the examiner sees I’m observing my surroundings, without actually turning my head. All while taking instruction from the examiner in Spanish.

Next, now that I’m a proficient manual transmission driver, I shall never downshift. This would mean I would be taking my hand off the wheel. And keeping my hands at 10 and 2 are of a top priority. I will use the brake and the clutch and then shift into a neutral position – never using the engine to slow the car.

Turning left in front of other cars must be done on the axis point of intersection. It may feel like I am going to run into the other cars but this is ‘normal’. And making a right turn, no free right turn. Only turn on green, but then immediately I must follow a second set of lights to determine if I can proceed.

Speaking of lights, where is the stop light? It’s not the one across the intersection on my side – where it has been in nearly every country I have ever driven in. Nope. If I stop at the line, it will be directly above me or on a pole on the side walk on either side of my car so I’ll have to crane my head to see it.

So, after everything I was worried about, the stick was the least of my concerns. And we haven’t covered parallel parking yet. Here they like to bump the other car’s bumpers, while shoe horning their car into a space that could be smallish – or it could be huge. But either way, there will be bumper bumping. It’s just the way it is.

Jeff was looking out of our apartment window down to the street and called me over to the window.

Not close enough

‘See. This is why we can’t have nice things. I’m not buying a nice car here. Every bumper is dinged, scraped or punctured. I’d freak out if we had any one of the cars we had back home.’

After the lessons, we rolled into the street in front of the Autoescuela. The instructor said I did really well. Apparently, I drive like someone whose had 5 lessons, so after our lesson tomorrow he will inform me how many more I’ll need. Then he told me that tomorrow he was sure I would be able to ‘not run any red lights’. I was a little taken aback.

‘I ran a read light?’ I asked. If so, he never said.

‘Just one.’ he smiled. ‘That’s very good.’

Then he bid me a hearty ‘Hasta Manana!’

It gave me a whole new appreciation for those Autoescuela cars I see everywhere, and it’s a reminder to give them a wide berth in the future.

I’m deep into it now and I’m going to see it through. The instructor told me all I have to do is ‘Fake it for 25 minutes.’ All I have to do, during the practical exam, is forget everything I know about driving and do everything my instructor is teaching me now. And then I can go back to driving like I know how to drive – of course finding all the stop lights and such.

And then I can buy a car that I won’t care about at all. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing – perhaps that’s the Zen part.

It’s a Mixed Bag

vivaespanamovingtospain

We’ve been up since 2:30 am. When you move to another country – 9 time zones ahead of where your US cell phone number’s area code happens to be – any old reminders for a dentist, veterinarian or prescriptions is going to come to your phone at a time that is based on that old time zone. And not to your new one. UGH!

And in this case, it was for a prescription at Walgreens in Puyallup, WA. We’ve never lived there. I’ve never filled a prescription there. Why they would call me to pick up a prescription from there? I have no idea. But since the area code was from the US we are immediately awake!  Jeff’s Mom is in that same area code. So we picked up the phone. But it was just meds and not even our meds. We both had so much adrenaline running through us we stayed up and Jeff made coffee.

I had turned up the ringer because I had been doing banking yesterday and forgot to turn it down. That’s the only reason I still have cell svs in the US. Banking. Otherwise, I’d just use my Spanish mobile and WhatsApp, like every other civilized human and nation on the planet. US banks don’t support WhatsApp.

So we were up early. Too early. And I had needed a good nights sleep. It has been a busy week seeing friends before the holidays. They’re going away and we’re going away. Baking. And then our landlord came last night with some workers to do some maintenance. This is very unusual in Valencia. Landlords here are notoriously terrible. You pay – they take your money – and pretend you don’t exist. It’s part of why I rented the apartment I rented.

He’s lovely and showed up with his adorable little daughter and I gave them the cookies I had made for them. That’s when I found out we had created a stir in the building – and not a particularly good one. His daughter was thrilled with the cookies and ate them happily in the living room. But he had gotten calls about us giving out cookies to our neighbors. This was some sort of cultural divide that we had traversed and it wasn’t received well. Apparently, you don’t give out cookies to people on holidays.

He tried to explain it to us by using a funeral comparison. Even though Christmas is sort of a birth thing –  he said he had noticed on Netflix that Americans share cookies at the holidays. But in Spain, when people die they just go to the church and then home. He knew in the US that people gather and eat things together when someone dies. So ‘it’s different here’. I know he was being earnest and wanted me to understand. But while I still didn’t get the funeral reference, I understood that next year I will not be making cookies for my neighbors.

Except for the lady across the hall, who was so happy she wrote us a card in Valenciano. It’s in cursive writing and, in Europe, cursive writing is different than what they taught us in the US and we’ve struggled to decipher it. So Jeff is going to take it to his final Beginner’s Computer class before the holiday break and ask for some assistance. I know it was positive because she put a smiley face after signing it.

But the balls were a hit at El Horno. There were hugs and coffee. At El Chino? The guy shut off his Spanish completely and was speaking full on Chinese. Walked in a circle, speaking so quickly, waving at the bag of cookies and finally took it like it was on fire. Then he handed me some wine and waved us out. I’m not sure if I should ever go back. I’m thinking a ‘Secret Santa’ or ‘White Elephant gift’ holiday party would cause so much trauma and mayhem here that they’d need days to recover. It’s Just COOKIES, people! I didn’t hand out uranium!

Today, I was determined to get back into the Christmas spirit so we went down to the big square where they have the tree and the ice rink. I love ice rinks and make sure I skate at the out door ice rink in any city I’m in at the holidays. It’s a must do. 

But it’s 65 degrees here. I went to buy my ticket (Jeff knows his limits and watched from the sideline). It’s cheap. 8 euros for 45 minutes of ice time, including skates. Amazing. But they also charged me 2 euro for gloves as ‘mandatory’. It’s 65 out. I could have been in shorts. But I paid and went up to the melted ice to slog through the one inch lake that was sitting on top of a bumpy rink. It took me two minutes to figure out that this wasn’t going to work but I stayed out there for another 15. It’s Christmas, damn it!

We had lunch and walked home. A little disappointed – if I’m honest. I’m really hoping that when we get to Ireland we’ll feel a bit more like Christmas. Maybe it’s the cookie thing, combined with the waking up in the middle of the night, but I’ve slid out of the spirit of the season. Tomorrow our bags will be packed so we can head to cooler climes. And to a place where at least I know the traditions and how not to step on cultural toes. Jeff, Em and I all have Irish DNA running in our veins. We’re spending nearly 3 weeks in a land where they like to celebrate with food (and drink). Whether its a funeral or Christmas. I bet if I handed a random stranger some cookies there, they wouldn’t be a stranger for long.

Oh well. I’ll get over it. It is what it is. But it did make me a little sad to think that our gesture of goodwill required people to pick up the phone and call our landlord. Like we’re errant children. Maybe next year we’ll head out of town a little earlier in December. Norway or the like. Jeff’s family is mostly Scandinavian. And I know they like cookies so we’d fit right in. And I would skip bringing my US cell phone, too.

Fa La La La La…

vivaespanamovingtospain

Chopping nuts with my Great Grandmother’s nut chopper. Listening to the greats – Bing Crosby, Dean Martin, Nat King Cole, Frank Sinatra – singing the Christmas songs from my childhood about Santa, drummer boys, and SNOW!! Flour and powdered sugar everywhere, and cookies on every surface. It must be Christmas!

Mom’s recipes and GG’s nut chopper

Finding some of the ingredients have been a bit of a challenge. You can always tell how many recipes here might use certain things based on the size of the package. Finding powdered sugar at the local Mercadona was very difficult. Finally, I found it in these small bottles and the instructions show that it’s mostly just shaken on Santiago cake or the like. In the US, we buy powdered sugar by nothing smaller than a pound. Usually, I would buy it at Costco in 3 pound bags. When I took 3 pounds worth to the check out the woman actually stopped and looked at me before shaking her head and scanning the many small containers. She didn’t even bother trying to find out what it was for. I could almost hear her thinking ‘No wonder American’s are so fat.’

Powdered sugar in Spain. 

Here, powdered sugar comes in 300 gram containers. I have had to buy a food scale here to measure things. It’s a pretty common thing to use a food scale here. 

Baking the cookie recipes that have been made in my family for generations at Christmas is not optional. I’d be letting down the Field Family side if I attempted to get out of it. Jeff wouldn’t have cared, but I would know. So my traversing the length of Valencia, multiple times, for ingredients and supplies has been met with a ‘We need to go where now?’.

But he’s come along to carry the 10+ pounds of things I needed for the best cookies on the planet from the Taste of American store. As I said, I had already found my powdered sugar and then the guy at Taste of America just threw in 3 pounds of American powdered sugar for FREE. At that point I didn’t need it – now I have too much.

‘Why would he do that?’ I asked Jeff, who was schlepping it all home.

‘Are you kidding me?’ He said genuinely surprised, I was surprised. ‘You bought a carpet knife yesterday at El Chino and the guy gave you a free beer. It’s you. You get free stuff without asking.’

He’s right – I do. But I don’t need anymore powdered sugar- and we don’t need more random beers.

So I’m set. Now that I have all the ingredients I can bake the three mandatory cookies for the holiday season. Raspberry thumbprint cookies (Scottish shortbread with sesame seeds and jam), Russian tea cookies with pecans. And finally, the pis de resistance – the Chocolate Peanut Butter balls. People my Mom hasn’t really spoken to for decades – except a letter at Christmas time – know that staying in touch gets you chocolate peanut butter balls at Christmas.

Raspberry Thumbprint cookies – shortbread.

At our house, my Mom had an assembly line. My Dad is a perfectionist so he rolled and my Mom dipped them each in chocolate. We transferred and swapped out cookie sheets so they could keep going. Every surface in the kitchen and dining room would be covered in wax paper so that, night after night, they could do the balls and she could ship them all over the country before Christmas. 

Our kids ask for them every year and last week, my Mom shipped the balls out via FedEx. I can’t supply them to my family in the US from Spain, but will be sharing them with our neighbors and friends here. They don’t know what they’re in for. Eating them is like heaven. But making them with my kids was always the best. Ours were never as pretty as my parents but they tasted just as good. I don’t get to experience it with my kids anymore, but the smell of the ingredients coming together takes me back.

We’re heading out to spend the holidays with Emilie in Ireland. But, before we go, I’m glad I got to experience a little bit of tradition again this year. And to share it with our neighbors who have been so nice to us. Our coffee lady at El Horno on the corner. the people on our floor at home. Wonder what the guy at El Chino will do when I walk up to the counter and give him his box of cookies. It’s not a Cerveza Navidad, but after he eats these cookies, I’ll be getting a free 6 pack with my next purchase. I’m pretty sure about that.

Tonight, our house smells heavenly. It couldn’t feel more like home. It just goes to show you that the Christmas spirit isn’t in stuff we buy. Its in traditions, and family and friends. The most important ingredients of all.