Viva Espana

The party was amazing but the friendship is everything. Thank you for the invite to share in so much FUN!!!🎉💃🎶🎉🎭 Malaga is amazing!!

Oh the food of Malaga!!

Who has time for words amid Carnival in Malaga?!? The pics so far will have to do!

A very rare wet Friday night arrival!

A glorious 🌞 😎 Saturday. Oh the views from the Castle!!

Let the Games begin!

Carnival is about music 🎶 and dancing 💃 in funny costumes!

More photos and videos to come!!

March 1st marks the 6th anniversary of our arrival in Spain. The day we landed seven hours late to start the clock on our permanent resettlement in another country. A place where we knew no one, how to do simple things, nor how to acquire the smallest necessities. It seems both like yesterday, and a hundred years ago. We couldn’t have believed it would be such a packed stretch of learnings. So much has happened in those six years, thinking back, I can hardly absorb it all.

So, after all these years, you’d be forgiven for believing that we know everything there is to know about living in Spain. How to navigate every bureaucratic situation. How to dodge and weave the health care system. But there are many things that still arise and we struggle to solve them. It takes patience and deep breaths. A lot of deep breaths.

Catching ZZZZ

Our blessed emperor mattress has been in the house for a month now. Since its delivery, Jeff has been searching for high quality wood to hand craft us a bed frame. But, it is not so easy. In the US, we would already have a bed assembled and we’d be sleeping soundly upon it. For weeks. But, alas, we have not yet been able to locate good quality wood with which to build furniture. Especially to hold a very heavy, gigantic mattress. Obramat doesn’t carry this type of wood. Neither does Leroy Merlin. What to do?

Lately, as we have driven to A Coruña and Lugo, I have looked out for lumber yards. Anywhere that might sell wood that is ready to be planed for furniture, not wood for fence posts or building raised flower beds. And then, finally I spotted a billboard. It depicted real woodworking and it had an address. BINGO!

Jeff and I were up in the dark this morning, feeding the animals and getting ourselves ready to head out. Vowing we would be sitting in the parking lot when they opened on this dark foggy morning. And we were. Then, it got interesting.

Are You Stupid?

My greatest superpower, since moving to Spain, is my idiocy. I don’t know what I don’t know. Making terribly inaccurate assumptions all the time, believing I likely know what to do, so I jump in with both feet is my default setting. All this as Jeff and anyone in the vicinity shakes their head in disbelief. Believe me, I know this. And, I do not care.

Today, we entered the vestibule of the good wood lumberyard. Jeff looked around and informed me this would never work.

‘This is a wholesaler. They won’t sell to us.’

He was ready to turn and leave. Just then, a nice young man greeted us in Spanish. I told him we needed wood so Jeff could build a bed for us. He shook his head.

‘Imposible.’ He told me. They don’t sell wood to random people for furniture. Again, Jeff told me we should go.

Behind the nice young man there was a coffee machine. I asked him if I could buy a coffee. Jeff rolled his eyes. 0.70€ later and I had a cafe con leche machina in my hand, stirring the sugar in slowly and hunkering down. I could sense Jeff’s frustration pouring off him in my direction. The nice young man didn’t know what to do with me, this stupid American drinking her coffee at his desk. She was supposed to leave. But I didn’t leave. So he went into the offices filled with women behind computers. Then, he returned, beckoning us to follow him. It was time to make la idiota someone else’s problem. I was hot on his heels. Jeff hung back.

After an introduction to the next person, I apologized for my sad Spanish. She smiled. Then, I explained what we needed and why.

‘We need to build a very large bed.’ Pointing to Jeff as a visual aide. ‘As you can see, my husband is very tall. We have finally found a mattress that fits him.’ I said. ‘But we cannot find a bed. He must build it.’

The woman shook her head. ‘We don’t sell wood to people unless they have a cabinet shop for kitchens and closets. Things like that.’

A wholesaler. We already knew this but I blew past it. I looked appropriately sad about this news and sighed. I told Jeff they couldn’t help us to build a large bed so we could finally sleep. Luckily, Jeff looked disappointed, as well.

‘One moment.’ The lady told us, removing her glasses and rising from her desk. And off she went. Finally, she returned and waved us to another desk.

‘How can I help you?’ Asked the next person. I explained our predicament. She nodded.

‘Can we purchase wood from you to build a bed? High quality wood for furniture?’

She looked Jeff up and down. ‘You are not intimidated about the difficulty of building a bed?’

Jeff shook his head. ‘No.’ He’s an enigma. Somehow his brevity is appealing to people in Spain. In America? Not so much.

She nodded. Then left to a back office and returned a few minutes later with a gentleman whose name was on the building.

‘How can I help?’ He asked.

I, again, explained our situation. Again, using Jeff as a visual aide.

‘We have looked for quality wood everywhere. When we found you guys we were excited. You are the best quality wood company anywhere in Galicia.’

The lumberyard owner smiled, I think he knew I was working him a little. He is my height, but stood a little taller post compliment.

‘I am not as tall as your husband but a good sleep is important. Come.’

Jeff and I followed him to the racks outside where a mile of different kinds of wood was stacked fifty meters high. He explained the quality, size, and planing options. He told us they would cut it to any dimensions we require, and even route the edges to our needs. The only thing they cannot do is deliver it to Palas de Rei. I told him this is fine. We will pick it up.

Jeff took notes and then the owner walked us back to the office and gave me his card.

‘Email me everything and we will get it ready for you.’

Never Leave

Before we left, Jeff perused their tool shop. Everything he’s been looking for the past six years was in there. And he can go back and buy it all direct from them.

We drove out of the lumberyard parking lot as I drank the rest of my paper cup full of coffee.

‘Are you happy now?’ I asked Jeff.

He smiled. ‘Yeah. Now we can get the wood for the bed.’

‘Would you have walked out after the first guy told us they couldn’t help us?’ I asked.

Jeff agreed he would have.

‘You know to never leave. If you don’t leave, they keep passing you up the chain. No one ever wants to deal with me.’

I think he can relate. But, he knows it’s true. Just stand your ground. Impossible becomes not possible, which becomes confusion, which becomes we might be able to do something, which becomes tell me what you need.

And all this happened today because they could immediately recognize an idiot when they see one.

Like every parent, I was convinced my children were geniuses. A first grader who knew fractions. A budding artist who understood light and shadow. A gifted writer who had a way with words that blew me away. His first word was ‘Cool.’ Most parents think their kids are special. But now, I know it’s true. The evidence is irrefutable.

Yesterday Fergus had his first gallina desensitization session with his trainer, who drove all the way down from A Coruña, to our neighbors farm. The farm with the free-range chickens that Fergus likes to chase, and recently ate. This time, the table was set for him, so to speak. Initially, he could chase all he wanted. The chickens were clucking and running in packs as we approached the house. Chusa came out with Antonio, ready to watch the start of training magic.

On the walk from our house the trainer gave me advice on this and other training techniques. Then, at Chusa and Antonio’s front door he took over. Lusko, their dog came out to greet his best friend, Fergus. They took Lusko inside so the training could commence. I was nervous and it showed, apparently. The trainer and my neighbors each encouraged me to adopt a more tranquila attitude. I swear, I must unconsciously look like a ball of nerves to everyone in Spain just getting the mail at the gate. But, I had a right to be nervous about this. I needed it to work. Fergus must stop attacking chickens.

On The Hunt

In the spotlight, at first, Fergus would not leave my side. He had to be encouraged towards the chickens, so the behavior could be noticed and corrected. He was on a very long lead. Eventually, he crouched, put his head down and went into the zone, running at full speed as the screaming pack of chickens fled. He got very close to getting a chicken. First correction.

The gaggle he was chasing ran towards the field with the horses. The one surrounded by an electric fence. ‘Our horses’ that live across the road from us. Really, another neighbor owns them. The ones we feed carrots, who star in tens of thousands of Pilgrim’s photos each year. And who periodically get out and come to visit us at our front door over morning coffee. <see other posts for horse capturing antics> Yup, those horses. Sista and Blanca.

In the nearly three years we have lived on the farm, we failed to understand that our first neighbors chickens are friends, and protected, by our second neighbors horses. But I learned it yesterday after the trainer and I let ourselves into the fence chasing Fergus, chasing chickens. The horses heard the hub bub and came running at full gallop straight for us. I am convinced that Sista, the brown one, would have run us down to protect those chickens if she didn’t recognize me and remember which side her carrots are buttered on. Second correction, and the horse delivered it by stomping both hooves right next to Fergus. Fergus shied away from the chickens and Sista administered some verbal reinforcement as if to say My chickens!

The trainer’s mouth hung open. ‘Did you see that?’ He asked me.

‘Of course, I did. I am right here.’ I told him.

A Star Is Born

The trainer asked me to deliver specific commands to Fergus, commands with which he doesn’t always comply. But, yesterday he was like a dog in the National Dog Show.

‘Fergus, here!’ I shouted across the field, pointing to the ground. He came immediately and sat at my feet. I tried not to look so surprised. More a casual Yeah, he’s always like this vibe. We do have a training routine I put him through daily, but never in the midst of so many distractions.

We continued our following-the-chickens thing, and Fergus, for an hour all over the farm. Fergus eventually went head down, again, making another attempt at getting a chicken. Final correction. He came back to me to check in. Again, we followed the chickens. Fergus was no longer on a long lead. A couple of times Fergus got near the gallinas but his head never went down into a crouch again, ready to pounce. A few times he walked towards them, but immediately turned back towards me. I praised him each time he did this like he’d won the school science fair, or a Nobel Prize. I’m an American Mom. We can’t self-regulate when praising our children. Lead in the school play, or an Oscar? It’s all the same to us.

Eventually, the trainer declared our first session complete and we walked Fergus back home together. The guy was pleased with the results. Fergus learned quick. The trainer pointed at his head saying Fergus was very intelligent. The equivalent of fractions in the first grade. Learning quicker than most dogs. I beamed. Of course he is – I thought. He’s my baby. My babies are geniuses 😉 Ha! Apparently, in a first session it normally takes ten corrections to get the result that Fergus achieved in just three. A perfect score on the canine SAT’s. I think Sista, the horse, did her part reinforcing the message that chasing chickens can be dangerous to your health.

We have another session next Tuesday. Hopefully, this first session will have taken hold. But the trainer says he thinks it will take up to five sessions. We will know more next week how much has stuck with him. Fergus hung with Jeff and I for the rest of the evening , a little subdued. But still basking in the glow of his triumphant performance, and the pride his Mom took in his exceptional job well done.

Walking season on the Camino is already starting. Yesterday we had a couple of Americans out at the gate. They were very enthusiastic watching me drive the tractor around picking up piles of chestnut husks and palm fronds. People always tell us we are ‘Living the Dream’. I think they mean living on the Camino. But some are referring to living in rural, picturesque Spain.

It’s true, more and more Americans are selling up their McMansions and moving to Spain. It’s one of the top, if not the top, foreign destinations for US retirees in 2023. Some move to the Mediterranean. We did. At first. But, more and more Americans are choosing northern Spain because of the weather and the growing number of unbearable heat waves in the rest of the country. Even in winter, it’s getting bad down south. Galicia, Asturias, and Cantabria are hot (or colder) on the list as climate considerations influence resettlement decision making.

Empty Spain

Recently, two articles in La Voz Galicia caught my eye. The first is that Galicia is the Seattle of Spain. That was the headline. They mixed up comparing a city to an autonomous community, but you get the picture. Jeff said ‘Duh’ as I read it aloud to him. Here, we have similar weather without the annual Seattle summer heatwaves. Let’s face it, looking outside right now, we could be almost anywhere in the Pacific Northwest. It’s the reason Jeff wanted to live here.

The other article was about the growing emptiness of Galicia. Over 890 villages are now completely uninhabited. And, a further 700 host only one resident. The problem is growing as the population of Galicia ages and younger people opt for city life. Many of these villages are stunning and hundred of years old. Living history. When passing through, to Americans it can seem romantic. So much potential with a bit of remodeling and some elbow grease. We love a good remodeling project in the US. DIY is practically a religion. But there are consideration most people do not ponder over when thinking about living in rural Spain. So I thought, as a veteran of the rural wars, I would list just a few.

Your Personal List

First up, make a list of everything you love doing. What entertainment do you enjoy? Movies, theatre and restaurants? Do you enjoy traveling? Boating? Golf?

Next, how old are you? Do you have any medical issues?

What about variety stores? Target or the like? How many times a week do you find yourself wandering their aisles in your city or town in the US?

Then, when you have found the Galician or Spanish rural manor house, or quaint little village you can scoop up for a song, before you sign a purchase contract, do something simple. Put each of the things you added to your list into Google maps. One at a time. Then, make note of how far these places you need so badly are located from your potential new home or current pile of historical rubble. You will definitely require a shiny new Spanish driving license and a car.

My List

International airport – How far away is it from your ducal palace?

Train stations – Same question.

Gas station – It will suck to be on fumes rolling into your driveway as the light on the dash goes Bing! when the nearest gas station is twenty miles away.

Taxis – Will a ‘local’ taxi service pick you up or drop you off there? Don’t assume they will. You don’t think you will ever need a taxi service out at the manor house? You will. Believe me.

Cellular Service – Got bars? Most rural areas still struggle with reliable service. Stand inside and test this in every room. Even the ones without a roof.

High Speed Internet – With Starlink, maybe. If it can see the satellite. But most rural houses use a 4G modem. And it is sloooow! Adios! Zoom calling back home.

Ferretería (Hardware store) – <see grocery stores> You will want the big box variety ala Home Depot, not just some guy with an old dusty shop filled with empty pegs.

Indian/Thai/Mexican <insert favorite foods here> restaurants – We all get a craving for our fav foods. Where is the closest big city that might have one restaurant to sate your hankering for a taste of home?

Hospitals or Urgencia – You’ll need it eventually. You will also need to know how to get there. Is it a hour away as you hold your bleeding finger aloft with a dish towel?

Health clinic – <see hospital> This is also where the local ambulance will be parked. How far will they need to drive to get to you when you dial 061?

Police station – same as ambulances but when you dial 112

Movie theaters – Where is your closest Yelmo or Cine? They will play movies in voce (original voice) sometimes, on one particular day, for one movie that they decide and you will grudgingly watch. They all vary. You will have to ask which day.

Veterinario– If you bring your animals from the US you will need one.

Pet boarding – <see travel and veterinarian>

Contractors/architects – If you need remodeling work done – and you will – how far away is any potential business? If it’s too far you will find it difficult to get them to come out. Or to even give you a quote.

Grocery stores – Driving twenty miles on a winding one and a half lane road, each way, will quickly wear on you.

Fire Stations – These are thin on the ground in rural Galicia, with towns sharing one station that covers a vast area. You likely won’t care about this, until you do because your palace is on fire after an electrical problem, and dialing 112 doesn’t bring instant results. You could wait over an hour for help. Invest in a fire extinguisher. Or two.

Neighbors – Where are your neighbors? Nothing happens in rural communities without the neighbors help. If you live in an isolated manor house or empty village without neighbors close by, you will find it impossible to survive here.

Banking – Many banks are closing branches all over rural Spain. And Galicia is no exception. Our bank doesn’t have a branch within 40 kilometers of us. It’s a huge hassle if your debit card gets eaten by the lone ATM (cashpoint) in the nearest town on a dark and stormy night. Ask me how I know.

Variety Stores – The replacement for your US Target fix will likely come in the form of something the Spanish refer to as El Chino. These are stores run by Chinese immigrants who will speak Spanish better than you ever will, and they are each independently owned. Spain could not function as a society without them. They are packed to high heaven with more than you would ever find in a Target, for everything you will ever need, sans pharmacy, baby cribs, or food. But those other things can likely be found next door on the same block. When we looked at real estate all over Galicia, the first thing we did is make sure we had an El Chino close at hand. Within ten kilometers of our potential house. Better if it’s five. You can’t Google map these unless you know what to look for. Words like ‘Hyper’ or ‘Bazaar’. Often, they aren’t even listed on Google maps. Drive to the nearest town and look for them. But, trust me, you DO NOT want to live anywhere that doesn’t host an El Chino within ten kilometers.

AutoVia – Is there access to a freeway, expressway, motorway (what ever you call it) within 15 minutes of your new village home or hilltop castle? AutoVias criss cross this country using Madrid as the hub to its network of spokes. It’s become a real problem the government must tackle, as large swaths of rural Spain are left out of this network, rendering communities cut off from services or viable employment. With the speed of change here, Jeff and I will not live to see the new solutions implemented.

AutoVia access is thin on the ground in Galicia, in the interior. The coasts tend to get the road money and the M, A or AP expressways. We were thrilled to learn a new stretch of the AutoVia M54 will be opening soon near us with an on/off ramp just 1.5 kilometers away from our farm. Our neighbors complained, but we cheered. We can’t wait! It’s a half hour to Lugo for me now. It will be closer to 20 minutes when the AutoVia extension goes in this year. And Santiago, today an hour drive, will be 30 minutes due west. Transformational. Commuting territory for any American. Easily, for us, this is within the time/distance for eating out, seeing a movie, or shopping regularly.

Isn’t It Romantic?

Unless you are filming a DIY show on the silly foibles of moving to a rural country house in Spain, living in a ruin, alone and cold, with sketchy internet and dodgy electrics is less romantic after the tenth time you trip the circuit breaker using the washing machine while heating up the kettle. Too cold to get out of your pajamas and robe for days on end. It’s a winter thing here. No kidding. You might just find yourself outside shaking your fist at the grey, raining sky ‘What am I doing here?!?’ Especially if there are no contractors, and watching YouTube to fix it yourself is nye impossible on 1 megabyte internet. But you couldn’t do it anyway because the hardware store is more than an hour away and your car has no gas. It’s inevitable. Surrender to it.

So, after reading this list, if you proceed with your ‘Living the Dream’ romantic notions of buying a 500 year old village in rural Spain and turning it into an artist’s community, albergue or organic pension, you won’t be able to say you didn’t know. Because I’m telling you right now, the details of living in empty Spain matter. And, as we all know, that’s precisely where the devil resides.

Fergus is now in possession of a personal trainer. No, he won’t be wearing branded exercise gear and going to a fancy health club in the city. Nor joining my new pilates group in Melide. This is a different kind of trainer.

If you remember the devastating day of chicken death in December, when we were summoned by our lovely neighbors and informed our dog is a murderer, you’ll recall our despondency over the matter. It was undeniable. Our sweet Fergus was indeed a murderer. And like any good parent, accepting you have a problem is the first step to getting help. But what to do? And where do you find a trainer who specializes in canine chicken murder?

I called, emailed, faxed, and WhatsApp’d potential trainers all over Galicia to no avail. Once they learned I am a guiri (dirty foreigner), no one would get back to me. It is not the first time this has happened, and I get it. Why would you want to deal with someone whose Spanish is still evolving? And whose Galician is, well, non existent. But I will cop to being frustrated over it. We need real professional help for this one. I had a tantrum. It wasn’t pretty. And then Fergus got out, again!

Luckily, Jeff saw him and jumped in the car as Fergus made a bee-line straight up the road for the farm with the free-range chickens. Jeff arrived just in time. A chicken was running straight for Jeff as he exited the car, squawking at the top of her lungs. She ran behind him for protection. Fergus was hot on her tail, lunging to snag her in his mouth, when Jeff grabbed his collar and the scruff of his neck. Jeff said Fergus was so intent on the chicken he seemed shocked to see Jeff after he grabbed him. The chicken trance broken, Jeff had no trouble getting him in the car. Fergus always gets treats for hopping into the car and he happily complied. So we were in even worse chicken shape than before. And still no trainer. But then, my phone rang.

Whenever my phone rings in Spain I break out into a sweat. It’s Pavlovian. From when we first moved here. Since then I have spoken to a thousand people on the phone. In Spanish. My bank. Marketers (although I feign any Spanish knowledge until they become frustrated and hang up). I’ve dealt with multiple Medical professionals in multiple provinces. I think my sweating reaction is more of a gird-your-loins moment. Breath and switch your brain over, Kelli. We’re going on a linguistic ride!

The canine chicken-murder trainer on the phone was very nice. Juan has a facility up in A Coruña, but he could not guarantee success. An evaluation was necessary. Maybe Fergus was too far gone. A prey instinct is strong in retrievers. Maybe his chicken killing behavior is already too engrained. To find out, we took Fergus for the evaluation today. In A Coruña, an hour north. On the ride I crossed my fingers Fergus is NOT too far gone. Please let this work out!! 🙏 I prayed all the way there. And, I learned some things that had escaped me before.

First, pollo is chicken that is dead and ready to eat. As in the meat section in the grocery store, or on a restaurant menu. When I told this man that Fergus eats pollo he appeared surprisingly unmoved. It seems that gallinas are chickens still moving around and clucking. Fergus eating those is what we were there for. I took notes.

The second learning came when Fergus had his evaluation. The trainer loves him.

‘He is a very good dog with a very big problem. But, I believe we can fix it. He is young and otherwise loving, and he is desperate to please you. We will use this to train him. So, you have some chickens, yes?’

This guy gets our beautiful boy. But, I shook my head. No, we don’t have chickens. Our neighbors have chickens. I thought the trainer would have chickens, but no.

He nodded. ‘I will come to your house for the training. But we must have chickens. Can we use your neighbors chickens?’

I took a deep breath. Returning to the scene of the crime? Those chickens have been traumatized by Fergus. They might die of fright during his training. But, it seems that the scene of the crime is best for desensitization. Who knew? I texted Chusa, my friend and chicken owner. She is on a Mediterranean beach on Cyprus this week. Luckily, enjoying a lovely 🍹 . Chusa was in a good mood😉 and sent her response with a photo of her in the sun with a thumbs up 👍. We are welcome to use her chickens. 😘😘Anything to ensure Fergus is cured.

So, on Tuesday the 30th at 4:30 in the afternoon, the Canine Anti-Chicken-Murdering trainer will arrive on our doorstep. We will walk Fergus up to their farm, when the humane desensitization will commence. Until then, Fergus is asleep on the sofa from the stress of the long car ride and evaluation of his murderous tendencies. What he is blissfully unaware of is that Jeff and I are as relieved as we can be. We were both worried they would tell us it was hopeless. Then what would we do? The trainer isn’t sure how long or how many sessions this will take to proof Fergus’s future loathing of gallinas, but hope is on the horizon for our beautiful boy. He will soon be as sweet as he looks. And I can stop stressing. Perhaps I’ll take a page from Chusa’s book and enjoy a relaxing beverage, sin la playa 🏖️ . (Without the beach) Closing out a rather tear-filled week.

It’s been a week. And it’s only Thursday. Keeping my chin up this week has proved challenging. Some of it snuck up on me when I least expected it.

This is the month of the date. I think for anyone who loses a loved one, the date never stops matter-ing. Even when you pretend, or wish it away, or try to ignore it. Earlier this month I brought up the fact that this was the month containing the day, when Jeff and I were eating lunch on a Saturday afternoon. Then, just two days ago I sat here in the living room feeling low. In tears for no reason. Fergus sat next to me on the sofa, whining. Worried about his mom. Jeff came out of his office, asking me what was going on.

‘I don’t know.’ I told him. ‘I just feel sad today.’

He hugged me and whispered into my hair. ‘It’s the 23rd.

I swear, I had forgotten – consciously. He didn’t have to say anything more. The 23rd is the day. I guess it always will be. The anniversary. It has been four years since my Dad died when I wrote this. I think of him often. At unexpected times I wonder about his counsel on one thing or another. He was always good in a crisis. His only superpower as a parent. Day to day he was a tyrant. Cruel, even. But, as he got older, his wisdom of living for eight or nine decades began to come through. An ounce of self-awareness tapped from the tree of life. At last. It was after he tackled ‘the black dog’ of depression that I now see had plagued him his entire life. Finally medicated at the age of 70, he became the person I always wished he had been while growing up. But, by then I saw him infrequently, living far away by design, and having a family and a life of my own. Believing the water that had flowed under that bridge was long gone to the sea.

It’s as if my parents injected their darkness into their children. Like a pill that sits right under the skin, you can almost feel it there. Worry on it. Unlike a tattoo, surgery cannot remove it. And, periodically that darkness leaks out of the capsule and robs you of joy on the sunniest day. It’s filled with poison and bile, sometimes speaking so you can hear it.

‘Hey Dummy!’

‘Hey Stupid!’

‘You’re too ____!’ Fill in the blank

‘You’ll never be good at ____! Fill in the blank

Coming home from college my freshman year:

‘Be careful or your backside will look like two broken bricks and an axe handle across.’

In hindsight, my parent’s obsession with my weight and date-ability seems obscene. And with what we know about eating disorders now, it’s dangerous. But, after suffering with crippling depression and years of therapy of every stripe, my particular poison pill has grown smaller over time. The demons they gifted me, that still reside inside the pill, are quieter and no longer run my life day-to-day. After more than fifty years, there is less darkness left inside it than before, ready to leak out unexpectedly. As a result, its power over me is greatly diminished.

In death, I have compassion for my dad. I see how his self loathing reflected in his parenting. In some ways, I think he feared we would become like him. I know he watched mine and my brother’s parenting of our children closely. A methodology that was the antithesis of his own.

I still struggle at times, though. At a low ebb. Sometimes, the negative echos are easier to believe than I would like. And that dichotomy between loving someone who embodied casual cruelty, while seeing them for exactly who they were, can be difficult to reconcile. But, as I get older, I feel more comfortable with that incongruity. If a different choice was available to me I would make it. But it’s not. He was who he was. I loved him in spite of it all.

‘Why do I feel like this?’ I asked Jeff on Tuesday. ‘Why am I crying four years later?’

Jeff advised me to cut myself some slack. ‘You get to be sad about your Dad. Whenever you want.’

And now, the day has passed for another year. This year it was easier than last. And the one before it. Today I’m feeling much better. I imagine next year will be easier than this year. Grief has its own calendar that requires acceptance. And perhaps that is the gift here. One more lesson, courtesy of a very complicated man.

As most people know, after those fateful flights from the US in November, I have a problem with my ears. A bad problem. I go back to the Dr on the 29th. It has gotten a little better, but I still suffer from painful symptoms and other weird things. Vertigo has been difficult. This is the symptom that has impacted me significantly. It has curbed my independence. And curbing my independence has been a tough pill for me to swallow.

Due to the danger to myself and others, I have not been able to drive for the past seven weeks. I have never owned a car and been prohibited from driving it for this long. I won’t lie, it has been depressing. Losing my hearing has been hard. Losing my sense of independence has been even harder.

Lately, Jeff has been looking at purchasing a second car. Something, if we are honest, we have not really needed. And after my ear thing, I have been dragging my feet. What could he need with a second car? He has no competition for the one we have.

But, now I have good news. The dizziness and vertigo has seemed to subside. The doctor told me she thought it would. How long would that take? She didn’t know. But I haven’t felt dizziness or nausea in over a week. So, after discussing it with Jeff, we have decided that I will begin driving, again, for short distances. And only with Jeff in the car. Lucky Jeff!

A Teenager, Again

When I learned to drive in high school, I would volunteer to get anything and everything my parents wanted at the grocery store. Driving the four mile round trip a hundred times a day would have be my pleasure.

‘You need a loaf of bread? I’m at your service!’

I felt like a super hero. Of course, that conciliatory tone faded as my teenage social life encroached. But, I have driven a car for all of those next 41 years. Until now.

Before this ear deal happened, if Jeff wanted me to go to the grocery store I would sometimes whine. Ugh. But now? I’m the first person at the door, ready to go anywhere, just like Fergus. Get me out of this house. But, I had to wait for Jeff to drive me. And now? No more!

My near term forays to regain my driving mojo will include such exotic locales as Melide, O Coto, and Palas de Rei. Jeff has dangled the potential of the thriving metropolis of Monterroso, when he feels I’m ready for safely venturing 12 km further afield. I never thought I would be so excited about driving to the ghost town that is Monterroso.

Wheeee!!!

It is weird how much driving means to Americans. It’s ingrained in us from birth, especially to West Coasters. That sense that I can go anywhere I want, whenever I want. It’s why Jeff and I were so keen to get our driving licenses in Valencia. Why I studied and ran the gauntlet of the Spanish driving tests.

Don’t get me wrong. I love the public transport in Europe. Especially, the high-speed trains. They’re truly amazing. But where we live in the back of beyond Galicia requires a car. And owning one, yet not being able to drive it, has been psychologically challenging for me. Especially in this grey and gloomy winter of Galicia.

I can deal with the ear pain. I’m learning to deal with the hearing deficit and some other weird things. I still can not fly. But, I need to drive. And while my next Dr appointment is not for a week, this week I’m strapping on the training wheels and going for a spin around the block. As Jeff hangs on for dear life. Wheeee!!!!

Dear God in heaven. It’s only 18 days into 2024 and I’m already tired. Tired of what, Kelli? you may well ask. Tired of the presidential election in Los Estados Unidos. But you live thousands of miles away. Why do you care? <heavy sigh> Because it’s still my country. And it’s in my newsfeed on FB, Reddit, and every newspaper I read – even the ones in Spain and UK. It’s exhausting. No other country in the world allows their elections to go on for YEARS!!

I think it’s the candidates this cycle that are so awful. And it’s not just the political side of things. Red or Blue. I wouldn’t care so much. It’s the rhetoric and the inflammatory ratcheting up of vitriol and violence day after day, so they can all remain in the newscycle. Out douche-bagging each other so that they are the headline. Solving none of our real issues.

In my old job, I spent some time with the folks in the NY Times innovation lab. At that time it sat on the top floor of their building on 8th Avenue in NYC. They had a huge board where they tracked the virality of stories across all news and social media outlets, globally. Basically, charting how the balloon that is a story stays up and goes down. And studying what can make a story that has fallen, suddenly shoot to the top again. The psychology of news and information. It was interesting and a little scary to see it up on a wall – as big as life. The NYT understood the power of influencers and virality on us as consumers of information long before we did. And, I’m watching this play out in real time this election.

Exhausting

No wonder American’s don’t turn out to vote. They are so tired by the time the actual election rolls around and are likely thinking to themselves Which election is this one? I thought we already voted on that, or for those people. And maybe that’s what the politicians want. An exhausted, apathetic electorate. I am now one of those. I’m tired of it all.

Jeff and I were sitting here this morning discussing the fact that we have ten more months of this nonsense – at least. Ten more months of explosive headlines that twenty years ago would have disqualified all of these people, but today seems to feed the masses on sensationalist red meat. Now that Jeff and I are plant-based, we aren’t eating it up. 😉 Ha! The best way I can make sense of it goes something like this.

There’s Something About Jimmy

America is like a dysfunctional family. Christmas is coming and a man says to his wife ‘I don’t want to go to my Mom’s house this year. Jimmy’s going to be there. He just got out of prison. Again.’

Every family has a Jimmy.

His wife nods knowingly. She doesn’t want their kids around Jimmy, either. He’s always looking at her like he’s just waiting for her husband to leave the room so he can make a move. She never takes her coat off or let’s go of her purse at her mother-in-law’s house. An extra set of car keys stays in her pocket. She’s asked her husband to speak to his mother, but he hasn’t had any luck.

‘She never stops defending him.’ he says, shaking his head. ‘It’s the cops. It’s the teachers. It’s the neighbors. Everyone is out to get misunderstood Jimmy.’

This man’s mother has always favored Jimmy. ‘Poor Jimmy. Everyone is against him.’

‘Mom, Jimmy has been stealing since he was five, when you let him ride his bike to the Thriftway at the Big Dollar Shopping Center to get you a loaf of bread.’

‘They always had it in for Jimmy up there. Little Jimmy. It was only a pack of gum. He was a child, for Christ sake.’

Her younger son shakes his head. ‘Mom. It was cigarettes, not gum. At five years old. Jimmy was running a protection racket in elementary school in the second grade. Threatening to beat up the 5th graders if they didn’t give him their lunch money.’

‘Pfft! Those kids said that because they always had it in for him. They took their own lunch money and spent it on candy. Then blamed Jimmy because they didn’t want to get into trouble with their parents.’

‘Jimmy was the biggest drug dealer in the high school, Mom.’ her son reminds her.

‘That’s what that Principal at the school said. But then, Jimmy told the truth about why she was accusing him. Remember how he cried. She’d been making advances on him, you know. In that way.’ she whispered.

‘Mom! The woman was a few months from retirement. She was 65 years old and wore bottle glasses. She was almost blind and walked with a cane. He made that story up to stay out of jail.’

‘Well, so what! That doesn’t stop a woman like that who is demented from hurting my Jimmy. She deserved to lose her pension. I always wondered if the trauma she inflicted on him is why he stole that car the next year. Or robbed that bank with his friends.’

Sighing, her younger son tries to bring her into reality.

‘Jimmy’s face is now covered in gang tattoos. A swastika. He scares my wife and kids every time we come over here when he’s not in prison. He’s got those tattoo tears by his eyes.’ pointing to his own cheek. ‘The ones everyone knows stands for the people you’ve wacked. Jimmy is in a skin-head gang, Mom.’

His mother makes a face. ‘Your wife should teach your children not to judge people by how they look, especially family. Besides, Jimmy is not in a gang. I’ve met his friends. They might look a little rough, but they just need a nice dinner and some cookies. A mother’s love. And they love my cookies when they come over and have their meetings in the basement. I think they’re playing Dungeons and Dragons down there. Or having a bible-study. You know Jimmy and his friends are Christians now, right? Remember when you and your friends used to play Dungeons and Dragons in the basement when you were in high school?’

What?!? Christians?!? Growing up, Jimmy robbed the collection plate at church. He shook down nuns in Sunday school. The mother’s younger son’s mouth hung open, aghast, but not daring to touch Jimmy’s newfound religiosity, he thinks back. ‘Yeah. I remember when Jimmy would come down and flip the table over when we were playing D&D. And threaten me and my friends if we didn’t give him the money in our pockets? He stole Dave Johnson’s bike when we were in middle school.’

‘You always make a big deal about everything. Jimmy and I talk about that all the time. He just borrowed the bike. Even Dave said so when his Dad came with him to collect it. It was too bad it got stolen from in front of our house. Anyway, you always think you’re so smart. Smarter than me and Jimmy. But you never understood that he was just a little jealous of you. You were the baby of the family and he felt like he got displaced when you were born. You were too spoiled. That’s all. We did too much for you. It’s not his fault. That’s why I’ve always given Jimmy extra love. I don’t think anyone understands my Jimmy like I do.’

So, now a huge swath of America is Jimmy’s Mom. And Jimmy could be president. AGAIN. But the entire world has to wait nearly a year to find out, while loud-mouthed Jimmy drags us around behind his stolen Escalade every day, behaving badly and threatening people with his skin-head friends, spending months in court, consuming all the oxygen in the room, and stealing every ounce of joy from every occasion. All while the rest of the country keeps it’s coat on, hides it’s wallet, and clutches it’s keys. And now Jimmy is living rent-free with his buddies in the basement of our heads. It’s only January, but from thousands of miles away, across an ocean, I’m already so freakin’ tired of all of it.

Inheritance. Always a tricky subject. In Spain, and everywhere else. Who gets what when the will is finally read? In movies and television, this is often a dramatic moment. The stuff of murder mysteries and family dramas.

Up until now, the rules surrounding inheritance in Spain, and Galicia more specifically, were quite straightforward. The owner of a property left everything, equally, to their children. If they had a spouse, that spouse was allowed the use of said property until they died, when all the heirs would take possession. But, that has all changed. A new law went into effect in Galicia governing inheritance, and expats considering a Spanish will might want to take notice.

Unlike before, now you can leave all your worldly possessions to whoever you wish. Your spouse. Your neighbor. Before, the only way to disinherit a child was if they had physically abused you in some way. Or threatened your life in a way that was witnessed by others. But now, you can divide your property as you wish. Threats or physical violence are not required to leave someone out of the will. Leaving your fortune to your dog or cat is still prohibited. But, you can leave it to a person with the stipulation that they care for said pet.

The limits on inheritance taxes are also changed. Inheritances below a million euros incur no tax. That is up from the last adjustment of 400.000€.

In the paper they ran through multiple scenarios where cash is given to one heir, while properties are given to the other. And the question of who pays the inheritance tax. It was really quite interesting. This new set up is more what we are used to in the US. It’s your money and assets, you can do as you please with it. And the old way created a host of complications that effected Jeff and I early on when we moved to Spain.

Land Barons

I hear Pilgrims on Camino forums comment on the towns they walk through, especially in Galicia. ‘These people are just lucky we are bringing our tourist $$ here.’ Or ‘These towns wouldn’t exist without us.’ There seems to be this misapprehension that a woman in an apron and rubber boots herding cows from one field to another is poor, or living in a subsistence fashion because she eats from her garden. But that is pure stupidity and prejudice.

Most Galicians I know own, or are part owners of, multiple properties. And they don’t sell them. Property taxes here (council tax) is so low that selling up isn’t necessary. So land and assets accumulate in families across generations. The cow herder likely owns more properties in towns, and in rural Galicia than most of the Pilgrims walking past her house. Don’t be fooled by her outward appearance. She’s no rube and she’s not poor. And it can be a real problem if you want to purchase one of those properties.

Herding Cats

When Jeff and I began looking at real estate in Spain, Jeff’s favorite sport, we ran into some snags. The heirs. A property was listed for sale. Or one of the heirs put a sign on a gate or in a window. We called the number. Someone came to show us the house. We might like it and ask for more info. Then, cousin number 51, who saw American $$$ said the price was not really 290.000€. It was 350.000€. This would kickoff old feuds, fresh grievances, and overall chaos within the family. They had a fish on the hook, (us) let’s reel it in. But, no. Ultimately, they had to get all 51 heirs to agree a) that the property was for sale. And b) the price for said property. They needed a mediator or a family therapist, not a real estate agent. In Spain, where everything moves at a glacial pace, it meant that this deal would never happen. We were incredibly frustrated.

But this new law, while it doesn’t impact old inheritances or properties, allows for whole ownership. A parent can leave an apartment in the city to one child. And the farm to another. If either chooses to sell they don’t require consultation of another sibling or cousin. Or they can give the whole kit and caboodle to one nephew or niece. Dealer’s choice.

Our Spanish will was done a few years ago. And, while things can drive me bananas living here – bureaucracy – it’s nice to see progress, and Galicia rising to meet a changing world. A little at a time.

Art is in the eye of the beholder. I’ve said it before, artists create from their own thoughts and feelings. They exhibit, publish, or release that art so that other people can experience those feelings. But they can’t control how it lands with each individual. By its nature, this is impossible.

I had someone recently reach out to tell me how they felt about the book. They loved it. But, they said the themes in the story are such that I might consider a trigger warning in the description, or on the cover. To alert someone who might be upset by the story. A trigger warning? I was very surprised at the suggestion. Shouldn’t all creative endeavors be triggering? By design, aren’t they supposed to elicit strong emotions? When did we become afraid to feel uncomfortable things when reading a book, viewing a painting, or watching a film? Even if the beholder doesn’t like the art itself. When are feelings considered dangerous or subversive activities? Maybe that’s why they’re banning books in the US. I just don’t get it.

Whenever I read something, or watch a film that stays with me – stirring up the dust of my inner-life – I think ‘Why is this bugging me so much?’ Or perhaps ‘Why can’t I stop thinking about that?’ And it’s because it struck a cord, so to speak. In the reading or viewing experience is a message I might need to listen to. Dig in to my emotional dirt. Something inside me needs attention that the story brought to the surface, rather than hiding from it because of the warning label. I think feeling is healing. Just like when the art was created. I would imagine that there isn’t a painting painted, a song lyric or cord scribbled down, or a book written that didn’t begin with deep emotions in the artist, musician or creator. Something they wanted to express or share with others. Questions they wanted to ponder. A trigger warning is a foreign concept to an artist. But, if forced to apply this, then every creative expression should come with the same warning. ⚠️ Beware! You will probably feel something. And that feeling might make you less comfortable than you were before. That’s the whole point.

Did I feel uncomfortable writing my first book? Oh yeah! The characters did things I would never do. Some seemed heroic. Others, selfish. And they switched places, sometimes. Just like regular people. We are the heros and villains of our own lives. Petulant, selfish, ridiculous, and remarkable. Sometimes, all in the same day.

And now, I am writing the second book. I took a nearly 8 week hiatus due to travel and the ears. But, I’m back now and am knee deep because I am thinking about the story 24/7. While I was looking out the car window on the drive to Santiago yesterday, I wrote scenes and dialogue on my phone and my little notebook. I swear, half of this book will have been written on my phone before it hits the manuscript. I have to send myself the notes and scenes to cut them back in. Inspiration striking at inconvenient moments makes for a richer story, if I don’t lose them, but it is tedious. Jeff has stopped asking what I’m doing when I’m furiously typing while he’s trying to get my attention. He knows I have to get it down. But the discomfort of writing the story has begun to disrupt my sleep.

It’s Disturbing

When the creative juices are flowing my dreams become vivid. I start doing strange things with which a psychologist might have a field day. But I can’t, for the life of me, understand or interpret them.

On Saturday night I had two dreams. One, I thought I was awake for, but I wasn’t. I was paralyzed, fully, from the neck down. Until I woke up at 3am with a dog stealing my pillow. Awful. Scary. And not the dog. The second dream was one I awoke from as the sun rose. Jeff found this one very interesting.

I was a 20-something CEO of a startup called Flash. We sold the service of delivering your divorce papers in, well, a flash. Process servers, for the Americans in the audience. Like in the movies when there is a knock at the door and the person answers.

‘Mrs. Susan Johnson?’ The person knocking asks.

‘Yes.’ Says the unsuspecting woman, wiping her hands on a dish towel.

An envelope is shoved in her face. ‘You’ve been served.’ As they walk away.

Only, my service hired people who could run fast. Process serving being a dangerous business, I only hired the fastest runners and they all had Go-Pro type cameras on helmets so I could see what they were seeing whenever I wanted. And, it wasn’t pretty. I kept losing employees. And when I say losing I mean what you think I mean. <she runs a finger across her throat>. In my dream, finding enough replacements who could run fast enough was proving a difficult task. Like the Hunger Games. My friend, Joe, is a fast runner so I employed him to vet the talent pool. He couldn’t get me enough people for the volume we were processing at Flash.

Suddenly, my lead investor called a board meeting and tried to oust me as CEO. Even with my staffing problems, the profits of this business were crazy.

And then I woke up.

What The Hell Was That?!?

I don’t know why my imagination runs wild in my dreams when I am writing. It just does. Maybe I’m trying to work something out. I’m not sure what either of those dreams means about me, but upon waking I was decidedly uncomfortable. And it made me think of the suggestion of the trigger warning for the book. Except now, I’ll need one on my pillow every night until this second book is finally done. Warning ⚠️ Your dreams are going to be very triggering in the near term. Sleep at your own risk.

First off, we are not zealots. I feel I must say that right out of the gate. Jeff and I are terrible joiners. We are not people who generally affiliate with clubs or political parties. Fans of the shades of grey, more like. Jeff has belonged to a few groups of folks who enjoyed water sports and such. But he went on excursions only when time and other commitments allowed.

I, on the other hand, struggle with organized anything. I’m a terrible church member. Yes, I give generously to the offering plate, when I go. But I just can’t get in to the dogma. Rules. I’m a terrible rule follower. Especially if those rules make no logical sense to me. Painting outside the lines is my specialty. Our local Lutheran minister found me exasperating as a child. I was born with the curse of ‘Why?’ I have used this word with abandon my entire life.

So, on that note, it might seem strange that Jeff and I are venturing down a new road. And, it will surprise most people that it was Jeff’s idea.

Here We Go Again!

Regular readers know I’m gluten free. It’s due to need, not want. I would eat a wheat field, if I could. And I’ve endured questions about it over the years. ‘For medical reasons or because its a fad?’ Ugh. I try not to make it a big thing. But, here we go again.

After thorough research, Jeff has decided that we should <wait for it> eat a plant-based diet. Very specific wording, I noticed.

‘So you want us to become vegans?’ I asked at the New Year.

‘No,’ he explained ‘Plant-based.’

I frowned. ‘Is that splitting hairs?’

‘No. As much as possible I think we need to eat a plant-based diet. If there are eggs in bread or butter in something, I’m going to eat it. But I think we should stop eating meat of any kind. After looking at it, it’s the healthiest diet. We aren’t getting younger.’

I nearly spit out my New Year coffee and walnut milk. Duh! To say I was shocked is an understatement. You could have knocked me over with a feather. If you know Jeff, he’s always been a steak and potato guy. A hamburger eater. Four beef tacos. Emilie knew his order by heart at Taco Time. Meat was a must for him. Who was this new guy?!? But he had the facts and figures ready. Of course. It was time I did my own research.

Wait…There’s More

It turns out Jeff is correct. Plant-based, if you can get enough protein, is the healthiest diet. It seems there are plenty of ways to get enough protein from nuts, seeds and legumes (beans). This was my first concern. And the shift to high fiber is great for the heart and the gut – the body’s second brain. The key contributor to an overall healthy immune system. ✔️

I started digging deeper, and eating plant-based contributes to saving the planet. Cows generate more harmful carbon leading to the heating of the planet, twice as much as all cars combined. First, via methane excretion. And, second, because of humanity’s voracious need for beef means decimating the rain forests for more grazing land. America imports massive amounts of beef from Brazil, contributing to the destruction of the Amazon. Rain forests are the lungs of the planet. They extract carbon dioxide and trap it. Burn the rainforest and a hundred thousand + years of trapped carbon gets released all at once. Overwhelming our atmosphere. Welcome to climate change✔️

OK. So eating plant-based is good for our health and good for the planet. But, I had a few more concerns. How would we find enough to eat in a country where meat is a religion? So, I did what I had done before with gluten, and I started reading labels. There are more options in our local grocery stores than I would have thought. I had just never looked. And there is more protein in plants than I assumed. Sure, it matters how you cook it, cool it, then reheat it to maximize the benefits and limit some of the downsides. But I can do that.

Shhh…🤫

This weekend, Jeff and I met a vegan friend in Santiago. She’s helping with advice on the Spanish version of my book. But we also wanted to ask her how she dealt with the backlash from friends and loved ones of becoming vegan.

‘Uff!’ She told us. ‘I don’t say anything. I just order what I want to eat. Sometimes I will ask in a restaurant if they can make it without meat, etc. But I avoid talking about it to anyone.’

I understood completely. I went through the same with eating sin-gluten. I always felt other people made a bigger deal about it than I did. Our friend told us she has to eat eggs sometimes because that is all there is. But she feels like you just do the best you can.

So we are plant-based eaters now. Jeff doesn’t like labels and he doesn’t like the stigma of vegetarian or vegan. It’s not a club, but if it was we wouldn’t be members. He just wants to do the right thing for health reasons. And so far, after ten days, we are both happy and we find we feel and sleep much better. More energy. A breakfast of lentils and brown rice, with a bit of sliced avocado for me, is packed with protein, and we are full until mid-afternoon. Our sugar consumption has plummeted as cravings have started to subside. And chronic indigestion is fading. Hopefully, the benefits will continue to be felt and 2024 will be a much healthier year for us both. But more importantly, this is the last you will hear about this because it’s just how we eat now. And we don’t want to talk about it🤐

The past few weeks have been full of reflection. The end of every year is like that for me. Some might call it melancholy. But I am not sad, just emotional.

I use this time to look back and remember the year. Where was I sitting this time last year? What was I thinking about – maybe, worried about? And what, actually, came to pass. The older I get the more I see worry as a useless time waster. It never helps to propel me forward. It just makes the journey I’m already on a bit miserable. This exercise in reflection seems to prove this to me. Every time.

A Great Year

This past year I’ve met some frustrations head on. The business and permissions have taught me to let go of what I can’t control.

My health has taken some hits, as well. Even today. But, again, it has taught me to let go. I can’t control everything. I need to take better care of myself, physically.

This year I’ve done a lot of emotional healing. I’m in a much better place today – better equipped – than I was a year ago. And I realize that the continuing theme of ‘letting go’ has been the key to this, as well. Hmmm…I’m sensing a pattern.

And on the other side. The ‘Wow! That was great!’ side, I saw 2023 give me just what I needed. I can celebrate the community of friends I have, near and far. This year saw me able to reconnect. And to see old friends. But it also saw me jumping into a new community of like-minded co-conspirators. 😉 And to connect with an amazing group of people who have reached out to lend a hand when I needed it. Saving the day! How lucky I have been this year. 🍀

I was watching a news segment recently featuring an author who wrote about reaching our full potential. (I’ll include a clip). He mentioned that the ideas of a goal are fine. But it sets us up for a pass/fail scenario that can be discouraging. Instead, the real goal should be to incrementally get better at what we are trying to learn. Slowly, slowly or Sin priza pero sin pausa as we say in Español.

Be Bold

This year I am committed to getting better with each attempt. As they say There is no failure, only learning. And I am rabidly committed to authenticity.

As most who know are aware, much like my Grandma, whose hair color changed so often we never knew what she would look like when we visited her, I like to color my hair on a whim. Meet me for coffee in the morning and you might be having a chat with a blond. Reconnect for dinner and I may just be a brunette. I embrace change. Raising my daughter, I always supported whichever color Emilie wanted to try. What’s the harm? She had excellent taste, even as a little kid. But this year I’m going to find out what is under my hood – so to speak. All those layers of color. To achieve this I cut my hair very short last week. It shouldn’t take but a few months and one more cut to find out. By Easter I should emerge from my hairy chrysalis as a grey goddess! I think. Maybe the majority of my hair is darker than I thought. We’ll find out together.

2024 will find me digging in the dirt, painting in my shed, and learning new recipes in a kitchen Jeff is incrementally refitting for me. My travel will be of the slow variety. Trains and cars (due to the ears). I want to make a loop around France to see places I love, and those I’ve yet to experience. I want to go see where 23 and Me says my family is from in Denmark and Northern Germany. And I want to go to Morocco.

I am signing up for Spanish classes run by the Xunta in Lugo, and MariCarmen and Chus are committed to helping me practice and get better.

The Spanish version of my first book with be published by a Spanish publisher in Madrid in February and will be promoted across the Spanish-speaking world. Yup – from Mexico and south. And let’s not forget, at my gate to Spanish-speaking Pilgrims. I have to pinch myself. I really want to have it translated into Korean and German, but finding translators might prove a challenge. I’ll put links to it here when it’s out in español. A shout out to Maria Seco who connected me with my literary translator, Paola, who helped me with a Spanish publisher. Paola has done a very thorough job, based on her questions of me. My friend, Matilde, is reading it to ensure it makes sense and maintains the emotional tenor of my original story.

Everything in 2023 was about making connections. Without John and Stephen my book wouldn’t have been ready. Without Leigh I wouldn’t have met Brian and Micheal at Hacker, and launched it. Without Alen I wouldn’t have met Sandy and Sheila who have been so encouraging and helpful. All of these people made a difference on this journey. And the audio version will be ready soon because of the advice of Whale. You can listen to me read my own book on your commute or while gardening, if you like. Again, I’ll post links when it drops.

In 2024, I’ll continue the Santiago de Compostela Book Club I started with my friend, Leigh. We have more than 500 members and are committed to highlighting and celebrating Camino stories and authors. And Pilgrims interested in staying connected to this gigantic community through great storytelling.

I’m still working on book 2 of The Camino Family Trilogy. Slowed way down since my trip to New York. But the rumination break will be well worth it. I think you’ll be pleased at the course corrections and increased depth of the story. I’m still learning the craft. It takes patience and experience. I’ve discovered that sometimes the periods when you are not writing is the best writing you do.

Time To Dream

This year I am tossing out self-limiting thoughts ‘I can’t possibly…’ or ‘Who do I think I am doing xyz?’ And switching to ‘If not now, when?’ Or ‘Why not? There is only an upside as time runs short.’ I’m banishing every woman’s arch enemy- Imposter Syndrome. And embracing each opportunity that comes my way.

I’m convinced that 2024 will be a year I’ll do things I’ve never done before. Surprising even me. Things I can’t imagine yet, but will sit here one year from today thinking ‘Wow! I’m so glad that happened. How lucky 🍀 am I?’

Happy New Year, friends. Here’s to 2024 being the best year so far 🍾🥂🎉 For all of us.