Tag: kindness

Brazil – Not Candy-Coated

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We are home at last. We’re both glad to be back in Spain. Not because we didn’t enjoy Brazil but because it’s truly home. Our language has changed now – and its a subtle thing. When in Sao Paolo we referred to ‘home’ and it wasn’t the US. It was El Compartemiento. And I almost ran from the tram the few blocks to our apartment. Of course, I was tired and wanted to put down my suitcase and get cleaned up after 24 hours of travel, door to door. But it was more than that. It was the familiar. The routines and being surrounded by the things that make a life all our own.

I missed hearing Spanish and being able to understand people when they spoke. Being in a Portuguese speaking country, I found out I know a lot more Spanish than I thought. And I pulled it out liberally to try to communicate. Since the rest of South America speak Spanish, many people could understand us. And some of the words are similar. Even my shy husband was speaking Spanish – something he’s always reluctant to do here since his is not perfect. But we had to go along to get along, and needs must. The people in Brazil are friendly but they don’t speak much English. A lot of smiles and some hugs from strangers, so we muddled through using what I called Pidgeon Spangluguese.

I’m the human version of a Golden Retriever. I smile when walking down any street in the world. Even in the US, I had a boss once that pointed that out to me. ‘You’re always smiling’ she told me – like it was an anomaly. I don’t know know why, but that’s just me, and it seems to mean when I travel that strangers talk to me and I meet a lot of people.

I have spent time in other areas of the world but my focus has been mostly Western Asia and Europe for my foreign travels – although I’ve been other places. But South America was never a priority. This was a big miss on my part. And this trip rounded out my perspective on many fronts.

First Impressions

Just a heads up – This will be a longer than normal post. I’m going to try to squeeze all our impressions – sights and sounds – of Sao Paolo – into one post. And there is a lot of ground to cover in a place that assaulted the senses from the moment we left the airport.

As I said a few days ago, Sao Paolo is HUGE. It’s the 11th largest city in the world. The others that are larger are mostly in China. Looking out the window of the Uber to the resort hotel where we stayed the first few nights, there were high rise apartments as far as the eye could see. But scattered amongst them were homemade cinder block buildings; some stacked or almost piled precariously on top of each other without windows or running water, or HVAC of any kind. And shanty-type buildings that would barely stand up to a strong wind.

So the visual disparity of the ‘Haves’ and Have-nots’ is front and center. We had been warned right from the start to be very, very careful when out and about. Brazil’s – and Sao Paolo’s – murder rate is through the roof as one of the top cities in the world, if there was an award for such things. We found it unsettling, but we heard it from so many locals that it made us a little paranoid, and in some sense, it kept us from fully enjoying our time there.

Note: While we saw a lot of things – some of it, I didn’t include in the photos and for this reason. I don’t feel like taking pictures of people living in poverty is the right thing to do. They’re not a tourist spectacle for my viewing, but are living their lives the best they can. They deserve respect and the dignity to do so.

I also didn’t take photos of people pulling carts (I did take a photo of a cart without it’s owner). Their work is honest work and I felt like it needed to be treated as such. Again, they’re not a tourist amusement.

More on the Haves and Have-Nots

I had been asked to speak at a gathering at the hotel where we initially stayed. We wanted to leave the hotel compound to go for a walk but the security guard at the gate at the end of the drive was having none of it. This we found curious since the area was filled with manicured lawns and homes and buildings of the wealthy. But upon further inspection, each building was surrounded by high walls – some with actual razor wire – and each of them had an armed security guard at the front gate, at a minimum. Some had guards stationed at intervals along the walls surrounding various compounds. All of them standing under umbrellas to protect them from the intense sun, looking menacing to those who might be inclined to breach the defenses.

They all had ear pieces – ala Secret Service – tipping you off that they had counter parts inside, and probably more than one. And the cameras patrolling the properties were fanned out to cover every corner. The message being ‘It may look nice here, but this is a dangerous place’. But we didn’t really understand why, in an area that sold Lamborginis, Range Rovers and MaClaren’s, and we saw them driving around the area, it seemed so unsafe. No one – and I do mean NO ONE – was walking on the street outside. So strange.

We changed hotels halfway through the trip because we wanted to be right in the city. It turned out to be a good move. Much more to see and do. We’re not ‘Lay by the pool’ kind of people when we travel. So the resort got boring pretty quickly.

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The homeless population is exploding in the city. They’re everywhere sleeping rough. Oddly, we encountered almost no pan handling, but more people willing to do the jobs no American would ever do. Selling candy to cars at stop lights, one industrious guy actually put the candy neatly bagged and signed on the side mirror – even containing a price.

But also recycling. We saw a lot of people pulling carts of card board, and one guy with coolers on his cart, stopping at each guard station to sell drinks and snacks on a route he clearly traversed every day. They knew him.

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The average wage in Brazil is under $700 US a month. But that’s not the whole story. It costs a lot to live there. Historically, the taxes in Brazil are quite high and public corruption – we heard this from everyone – has been rampant for decades. So the people of Brazil have been ripped off, essentially. Their roads, infrastructure and public services are broken. You can see it clearly.

Let’s face it, every person in the world wants the same thing. Security for their family. Education to allow the next generation to do better than the last. They want to know that the future is secure – as well as the present. They want to know that if they get sick, their family’s won’t suffer, and they want comfort in difficult times. We are not so different from the average Brazilian.

When people found out we were Americans, they always asked if we ‘Liked Donald Trump’ because in Brazil they see him as a strong leader. They feel their new president is a version of him and the average person is very happy about it. This made us curious. Why would the average person feel this way? So we spent a lot of time speaking to people to understand and this is what we found.

After years of paying taxes and having public officials embezzle the money, and rob the country of its resources, people are desperate for something new. They are so desperate that they’re willing to give up almost anything to get it. And it struck us. We in the US have problems with our country. But the wealth disparity in the US is nothing compared to what it is in Brazil – South America’s largest economy.

In the US, we have time to debate social issues and economic issues. We aren’t starving. But in Brazil, they are. It’s critical, and hope has faded as something they can’t hardly remember. So electing someone they think has a snowball’s chance in sub-tropical heat to turn things around – even though he says things and advocates for things liberal democracies find horrific – well, the average Brazilian doesn’t care about that stuff. They want to eat.

But desperate people, in desperate circumstances, will sacrifice anything and do anything to save themselves and those they love. It’s a timely reminder for me since yesterday was Armistice Day. My family always laughs at me for my obsession with history, especially the 20th century wars. But the treaty of Versailles, after WWI, is what decimated post-war Germany and punished them so harshly for starting the war. And it’s what created such inflation, and desperate poverty in Germany in the 1920’s, that it set up the perfect circumstances for the rise of Hitler and the Nazi’s in the 1930’s. We’d do well to remember the lessons of history, because they’re repeating themselves in places like Brazil today. Hungry people will follow even the most despicable leaders if they’re handing out bread to feed their starving children. This is where aid and good foreign policy matters. Go to Brazil and you’ll understand.

Pollution

As a general rule, the air there is not too bad. Especially compared to say, London – whose air is regularly considered well above what is safe for humans to breathe on a regular basis. So there, they have the more western (non-developing) nations beat. But there is another side entirely.

On the way to the hotel from the airport, we drove across the two main rivers of Sao Paolo. The Tiete and Pinheiros rivers flow throughout the city. They were historically a source of fresh water and fish for the people of the region, but they’ve been so polluted with sewer and industrial waste that now they are dead rivers. Driving by them, the smell was sulfuric and it almost hurt to breathe in the fumes.

The banks of the rivers are lined with trash, as were some of the major thoroughfares we traversed. But I have seen worse in other countries. And for a population that size, I frankly would have expected more.

A View of Myself

In all this, it made me take a look at myself. And I wasn’t happy with what I saw. As I said before, I was asked to speak at a gathering at a luxury hotel. So I brought clothes that were appropriate for the occasion. The same as I would have if I had been asked to speak at something in NY or LA. But I wasn’t in NY or LA, I was in Sao Paolo. And after driving through the city and seeing what we saw. And then looking up some of the statistics on the country, I didn’t feel good in the clothes and accessories I had brought.

Among so much need, it felt obscene to be wearing shoes that could pay a family’s expenses for two months. Or carrying a handbag that would pay the salary of an average Paulista for 6 months. Looking in the mirror, before I headed out to give my talk didn’t make me proud. It made me want to cry.

It might sound a little dramatic. That’s OK to think that. I get it. I came from the luxury retail business. My job was to make rich people feel like opening their wallets and shelling out big bucks for name brands that they could proudly walk down the street with and show off to their friends. I bought into it too. But the absurdity of it and the hubris (my own) was right up in my face. When I was done with my obligation, I couldn’t wait to get out of that stuff, and I never wore it again or carried that handbag, on the trip. Thinking of it makes me sad sitting here.

Street Art

I was in London’s East End several years ago with my friend, Eric Olsen. Eric is a person who always makes me think differently. He has his MFA and his sensibilities have always challenged my own perspectives on things. Eric is a truly unique individual and it was in Brick Lane that he helped me see graffiti and street art in a new light.

Some truly world-class street artist display their work on the buildings of Brick Lane and the surrounding Tower Hamlets. It’s the first time I saw a Banksy in person. And Sao Paolo is festooned with amazing street art. Sorry Valencia, but these guys put you to shame. I’ll let the photos below speak for themselves. Some are sanctioned by the Prefeitura de Sao Paolo – others are more organic. Enjoy.

Ibirapuera Park

The ‘Central Park’ of South America is Ibirapuera Park and it’s in Sao Paolo. It’s a national treasure and it’s easy to see why. Complete with a large lake and a small creek, the park is lush and is safe during the day. You can rent bikes and there are runners galore. It’s a gathering place for festivals and is the host of the Afro Brazil Museum.

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The history of modern Brazil includes slavery – just like in the US. Captives from Africa were imported into the country to work on plantations and mines. They took care of colonial children and are one of the foundational populations that make Brazil what it is today. And in the faces of people on the street you can see their legacy, everywhere.

The photos below are from the museum celebrating the contribution of Africans to the life and culture of Brazil.

Unlike in the US, being brown in Brazil isn’t an historical stigma. It’s a point of pride. When people looked at me, they knew I was not from Brazil. It was the first time in my life I’ve ever been called a ‘Gringa’. Certainly, to my face. I was warned by others that once they understood I wasn’t Brazilian, it would endanger my safety. But in the park, where I heard this, I didn’t feel unsafe. I just smiled. What else could I do? I am what I am – just like everyone else.

Cuckoo for Coconuts

Everywhere, especially the park, stands selling coconut milk drunk straight out of the shell, or blended with other tropical juices, are every 100 yards. Men deliver and replenish the coconuts to the stands on bicycles with large baskets piled with green coconuts, who looked to be owned by the same company.

The guy working there taps the coconut and, either drains it into a larger container with a funnel, or puts a straw in it and hands it out to the customer. I took a few pictures so you can see what it’s like. Its not touristic but a staple food and drink.

The photos below are more of the park and a few of the statues and artistic features on display. It’s a lush space amongst the urban sprawl.

I’ve been to big cities in Asia. The skyline from our second hotel, looking out over the vast expanse of the city-scape left me in awe. It’s not the most beautiful of skylines. It’s not easily identifiable like those of NY or Paris. But it gives you the sense of how large it is. I took some photos below so you can see what we saw when we woke up at sunrise and when we pondered what it might mean to live every day in such a large place.

Brazil is a true melting pot of cultures from around the world. SP has the largest Japanese population, second to Japan itself, in the world. Vancouver, Canada is a distant third. No one we spoke to knows why they found it such a hospitable place to resettle, but you can get amazing sushi in the city.

There is also a huge Italian segment of the cultural soup. And speaking of soup, I ate some of the best Italian food I’ve ever had at a place close to our hotel. And the building was pretty spectacular too.

Driving and Traffic

I’ll be taking my driving test here soon. But would I ever consider driving in Brazil? NEVER. Here, it’s the traffic circles that intimidate. But in general, people are polite and understand and obey the lines on the road. In Brazil, they don’t seem to be able to see lines. ‘3 lanes? No, I see 7.’ And motorcycles and food delivery services whip and weave between cars. I had to close my eyes in every taxi or Uber we took. Looking meant an upset stomach. Jeff just stopped saying ‘Did you see that?!’. Cause he never would have said anything else.

People on the Street

In Valencia – and in Europe in general, a lot of people smoke. But you don’t see it or get a sense of it in Brazil. In that way, it’s more like the US, but even more striking. You don’t smell it walking or get a whiff of it sitting in a cafe, anywhere. Not sure why but we both commented on it.

I did witness something disturbing that I’ll only briefly comment on. There was a bunch of people looking up at a building near a cafe where we were sitting. I told Jeff I wanted to go see what was going on so I walked the block and then looked up to what they were starting at. A woman was on a girder on an abandoned building. She was threatening to jump and the rescue workers were in full repelling gear trying to talk her down.

An older lady in a housekeeping uniform stood near me. I looked over at her when I realized what was going on. We both had tears in our eyes. Mothers recognize each other. It transcends culture, religion, language. She came over and hugged me. She spoke to me in Portuguese but I said I didn’t speak Portuguese – in my Spanglugues. So we just stood there for a bit. The police came over and told me in English what was going on – I guess I am an easily identifiable Gringa. I couldn’t stay there and watch what might not be a good outcome, but I sent up a silent prayer that she’d take the help they were offering. I could only imagine the despair she was feeling to get to that point, but she was someone’s daughter or mother or friend, and it broke my heart. I was happy to have the hug from the lady who offered it.

The final evening, before coming home, we were hungry for snacks. In Valencia, and in the US, grocery stores are open late. So out Jeff went at dusk to get us some water and something to munch on. He came back with nothing but a perspective on street life at 7pm.

First, the people at the front of the hotel, bellmen and concierge, asked him where he was going when he left. Jeff told them he was going to take a walk – and they didn’t look happy about it. If he had said that he was going to the store they would have told him it would be closed – as he was about to find out. But he didn’t.

He walked around the block to the store we knew was there but the woman was closing it and told him ‘no’ waving her hands. So much for snacks. But what really struck him is how the street had changed from day to almost night.

‘The trolls crawled out of their holes.’ He told me. ‘It’s scary out there right now.’ He said when he got back to the room.

All the residents were gone behind gates and there was a voo doo guy on the sidewalk who had set up his stuff complete with a skull with a fire burning in it. He was chanting something or other and Jeff didn’t stick around to find out what it was or to give him a chance to direct it his way.

He was freaked out at the guys who were coming over the wall from the green space that bordered the street. He quickly made his way back to the confines of the hotel. 7pm was the edge between safety and the things we were warned about – and it was just a block from the hotel.

Going home

When we left to come home, we both said we knew we’d be back. We haven’t scratched the surface of either the city or the country. I still feel like it eluded us while we were there, but not entirely. So much to explore and understand. Ate a proxima, Brasil.

Sometimes, getting there is Half the Battle

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OK – I couldn’t resist. We took separate flights to Sao Paolo – for reasons I won’t go in to, the consequences of which I’m still paying for. But we did get here. I knew it was going to be interesting when I saw a Franciscan monk get on the plane in full robes and a 3 foot cross embroidered on his chest. When he passed by my seat praying, I didn’t take it as a good sign. Then as they were closing the doors a woman ran on waving a lamp shade. Not a small one either – a VERY large lamp shade. And it’s not like she didn’t have two pieces of hand luggage and a roller bag with her. I just shook my head.

After take off, the English guy in the seat across from mine got into a serious argument, and almost fisticuffs, with the Spanish guy sitting in front of him over some perceived slight. I just thought ‘This is what that monk was praying about’ and just a little bit of ‘Where’s the lady with the serious lamp shade when you need her? Cause I’d like to hit this British guy over the head to shut him up so they don’t turn this flight around’. But she was in the back somewhere. Finally, his co-travelers settled him down. With the help of the flight attendant, they explained that just like your Dad told you and your siblings fighting in the back seat of the car ‘Sir, we will turn around and head for home if you two can’t get along.’ No one wanted that.

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We both landed in our respective planes in Sao Paolo – different terminals, of course. My flight went straight south from the Iberian Peninsula. Jeff’s flight went over Africa most of the way and crossed over the Atlantic at the narrowest possible point between Africa and South America. But we met up and got into an Uber. I mean, how long can it take to get from the airport to our hotel? Well, in a city of 12 million people (and 32 million in the greater Sao Paolo area) it can take 2 hours. No kidding – TWO HOURS.

But we were lucky and got Denis, the most amazing Uber driver ever, who drove us in his red Chevy Celta (Never heard of that model before? Me either). Denis regaled us of tales of Sao Paolo and Brazil in general, it’s history, it’s politics, the best places to go. He told us where we might ‘or most probably would’ get killed if we walked at night, and how to hold our wallet, purse and cell phones so as not to be victims of muggings or the like. He informed us how not to get ripped off by taxis, shops or restaurants. We loved Denis –  we actually formed a bond with him. But you can’t argue with the price $27 for a two hour Uber ride for two people. Unbelievable.

Then we pulled into our hotel, with a guard at the gate of the long driveway, into one of the most beautiful hotel drives I’ve ever been to. The grounds are amazing and I would pit the service and ‘that special something’ the staff has – it’s a spark of magic – against any 5+ start hotel in the world. Truly exceptional. Sure, you see pictures on a website when you book a place, but you don’t really know what it will be like. This place lives up to the photos. Check it out if you’re ever staying in Sao Paolo. Jeff’s hotel snobbery has been fully assuaged and tomorrow should be nice so we can have breakfast on our terrace. I’m almost forgiven for his air travel experience (or lack thereof) and the class he flew today as a very tall person.

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And then my ‘Only you’ moment came as I knew it would. But it’s good I got it out of the way early. Whew! Jeff sent me to get him a Coke – I still owed him for the flight. We were jet lagged and I had already drunk all the still water in the mini bar. So down I went to the lobby. But then I got stuck in the elevator after the doors made a terrible metal grinding noise, not quite closing. I started pressing buttons.

‘Surely, it’s been hours I’ve been stuck in here’ I thought, sweat pouring from my brow as I looked at my cell phone for validation on my rising stress level. It had been less than a minute but it seemed like more than an hour. I looked at the bell on the panel, but thought I’d give the frantic-random-button-pressing one more try before pushing the actual panic button. It worked after a few minutes. The elevator made a horrific sound and then dropped a foot. I wanted to scream but it was only me in there.

Then it started going down and finally, the doors screeched open on the bottom basement a few floors down – the hotel laundry. I got off the elevator and I wasn’t getting back on. Pushing the buttons for the other elevators didn’t work because this broken devil one was just sitting on that floor, like a goalie. I crept down the hall, looking for an exit or stairs, when I heard voices. ‘Hola?’ I called out tentatively – luckily it’s the same in Spanish – cause I looked it up on Google translate on the plane.

I could see myself from the outside. This is the point in a horror movie where the guy in the hockey mask with the ax comes out of a cloud of steam. The one where the audience is thinking ‘What’s she doing? Don’t go down there!’ Finally, I saw a door and heard voices. When I walked in they looked at me like I was an animal at the zoo. A gazelle who wandered into the lion’s cage – I didn’t belong there.

‘Ingles?’ I asked. They pointed to one guy. I explained that I had a problem with the elevator and asked if he could help me get back up stairs. He took me through the parking garage, the spa and finally to another elevator. My blood pressure had finally dropped. I got to the room and Jeff had taken his shower and was looking refreshed. Clearly, I seemed out of sorts and had no beverages in my hands. I told him my tale. He shook his head.

‘So I guess I’m not getting a COKE.’ was all he said,

‘Don’t you get it? I could have been killed.’ I was aghast at his lack of empathy – no matter what seat I put him in on that flight.

But he was unmoved. ‘You’ve been gone less than 15 minutes.’

So I decided a nap was in order. Being awake for 28 hours and learning that not only could I be killed outside these gates, but by the elevator in the hotel, was just too much for me. Where’s a fully robed Franciscan monk, muttering under his breath, when you need one?

 

 

 

 

The Boob Tube

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I’m not sure the genesis of the American expression ‘Boob Tube’ but my Dad used to call the TV that, mockingly when we were kids. Television in our house growing up, wasn’t something that was on most of the time, unless it was the news. And then it was usually news about the Vietnam war or Watergate. I spent most of my childhood up in a tree or building a fort. And I read A LOT of books.

But I grew up knowing who Walter Kronkite was. Or Frank Reynolds or Mike Wallace. If we watched sitcoms it was upstairs, when we got a second TV, with the sound low so my Dad couldn’t hear it. And music? Music wasn’t played in our house because my Dad was hard of hearing. I remember my best friend, Karen Taylor, next door talking about The Scorpions and I had no idea who they were – but I never told her that. She went to concerts I wouldn’t have been allowed to go to and she played actual records and had cassette tapes. Something I never owned.

It wasn’t until I could drive that I listened to the radio and got caught up. But my 1967 Dodge Dart – a hand-me-down car from my much older sister – had only AM radio. So I wasn’t listening to anything that could have been considered cutting edge. And cable TV? We didn’t have that. My parent’s didn’t get cable until we had all left the house, and when they did I am sure it was to watch more news and documentaries. Probably why I was one of the only kids in school who enjoyed the film strips and listened in history class.

As a result, I learned to love all things pop culture after 1984. As a freshman in college I dove into MTV, WHAM!!, Boy George, and anything and everything having to do with alternative music and film. I went to live shows and saw some of the greats! And TV and movies? Well, I became an aficionado. Finally, after a childhood of never knowing what my friends were talking about, I was right in the mix.

So moving to Spain has been interesting. Getting cable TV here isn’t really worth it because most of it’s in Spanish and, let’s face it, my Spanish is just crap. We do get digital TV over the air and when we change the SAP on some channels we can get content in original language. The good news is that we have no pharmaceutical commercials here. So I don’t have to wonder if I need Advantix or Wonderdrugulous. And if something else might be right for me that I’ll have to discuss with my Dr after learning that it will cause me permanent liver damage or turn me temporarily orange or result in ‘permanent death’. Whatever that is.

Our TV in Valencia comes almost exclusively from YouTube, Netflix or Amazon Prime. And we watch the news on the internet and use Chromecast – I guess my parent’s infused me with a love of information. We have HBO and Showtime and a lot of other Amazon channels that allow me to still see all my favorite shows, while enjoying additional content. I can’t miss Billions or Game of Thrones. But sometimes we watch shows we would never have back home, just because they’re available. CBS Sunday Morning is one of these.

It’s kind of like a sedative. Jane Pauley’s voice is melodious and comforting. The stories are like pablum and the content is mostly ‘old news’ in the age of my Google news feed and other apps on my phone. We laugh because they do a weekly calendar which so clearly gives their target audience away. This week they talked about Monday being the start of annual open enrollment for Medicare. And Friday being ‘National Osteoporosis Day’. So we’re the youngsters in the audience. But we can’t look away from it.

Today, I was watching the one from last Sunday. Again, mostly stuff I had seen before on Twitter, like 2 weeks ago. Mindless entertainment. But suddenly I heard the name of a town I haven’t heard on the news in 35 years. The town where I went to HS. There was the coffee shop where I have coffee with my Mom and my niece when I visit them. And it made me smile and tear up a bit.

I’ve always believed that kindness is the most noble of aspirations. In this time of upheaval, a little more kindness is sorely needed and most welcome. So today I thought I would share a little kindness with you all, by way of this heartwarming story from the place I called home while growing up. A place that is not the coolest town in the world (bet The Scorpions still don’t know where it is), and where life runs a whole lot slower. But where, for the right reasons, they’ll scare up a Batmobile and the high school band will still march down the street to celebrate one of their own. Enjoy!

Interactive Tapas

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Last evening was all about Tapas! I”m not an expert on Spanish food and since we’re surrounded by tapas everywhere, it was time to get educated. Our friends, Nick and Tatiana, organized the evening for us all.  The chef at Ahuevos, Jose’ Simon, and his lovely wife hosted a night of ‘Interactive Tapas’. It was basically like a Tapas Nursery School for those that are Spanishly challenged and yet love yummy food.

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My friend, Pete and Ryan joined the group. They just moved here from Seattle a month ago, and they are also in the infancy stages of learning about everything Valencia has to offer and widening their circle of friends. This was a great opportunity to do both and we had alot of fun.

We started out learning to make Sangria. It’s a pretty simple recipe and was actually the signature drink at our wedding all those years ago. We made it in buckets for all our guests (but we served it in lovely glass wine jars). And I screwed up and instead of putting sugar in them, I grabbed a salt container and our first batches were so bad they’re legendary amongst our friends. My friend Curt laughs every time he tells that story.

Well, if I had used the recipe I learned last evening, I wouldn’t have had that problem because you make a simple syrup in advance and pour that into the mixture. It dissolves faster and helps to masurate the fruit quicker. And we were very pleased with our results. Ryan did all the chopping, Pete did all the selecting of ingredients. And Me? Well, I supervised from afar – or not at all and took some notes.

We also learned how to make seasoned olives of our own creation, and the different types of olives for eating. Jose’ is from Leon and likes a different type of spice than his wife, who is from Valencia. At our table, we liked a lot of the pink pepper, juniper berries, garlic, red pepper, bay leaf and cloves. Jose’ thoroughly approved of our choices. They were so good and like any good cooking class, we got to take some home so in two weeks I’ll let you know how they turned out.

Then it was on to the Aioli. I’ve made it before with just garlic, salt and olive oil. But I learned some new things last night. Jose’ uses an egg yoke in his (I couldn’t eat it) and he doesn’t use olive oil, but sunflower oil. He says that the olive oil in Aioli causes it to break. I did the mixing and the pounding of the garlic and then the egg separation. Even though I can’t eat them, I still know how to separate egg yokes and work a mortar and pestle, for goodness stake.

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Finally, we finished off the night with some horchata ice cream. I’ve been clear on my thoughts about horchata in the past, but this was different. It was wonderful! and with a little dark chocolate sauce it was heavenly. Everyone else got a slice of bread under theirs. It was made from day old bread that they soaked in booze and did some other stuff to, but I didn’t pay that much attention because I can’t eat the bread and I was took enamored of my new found love of horchata ice cream.

It was a fun night and we ended it with drinking from a ‘botijo’. It’s a jug that usually contains wine or water. Last night, the one they offered contained water. Pete braved drinking from it and was rewarded, like me, with water down the front. Ryan drank from it like a Spanish fisherman who has never drank from another vessel other than a botijo, in his entire life. He spilled not a drop.

After our tapas night we are looking forward to learning more Spanish cooking. Jose’ is organizing something out on the farm in Alboraya where they grow the food for their restaurant. I’m really looking forward to cooking food in the field where it’s grown. And Tati is looking to organize a trip back out to Manisis – think Fiesta de la Ceramica – where we can learn how to make a Botijo of our own and perhaps I can sign up for a ceramics course.

A great evening with good friend, old and new, good food and the promise of more to come. It doesn’t get better than that!

 

 

 

El Jefe y Keli

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I couldn’t love our neighborhood more. Seriously. It reminds me of living in San Francisco in the early 90’s and in Seattle’s Belltown in the mid 90’s. In San Francisco in the Haight or in the Aves, you could catch Robin Williams working out new material in one club or another. In Seattle, you could catch Nirvana or Pearl Jam at the Crocodile for nothing when they were working on new songs.

Benimachlet has that same vibe, sans the famous people but I love it nonetheless. I sent Jeff to make hair appointments for us at our local hair salon. I figured his Spanish is good enough to work through it.  He sent me a photo of this post it. He is now officially El Jefe (‘The Boss’ in Spanish) and I am just ‘Keli’ since ‘Kelli’ would mean my double ‘L’s’ would be pronounced totally incomprehensibly. So it’s The Boss and Keli.

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Tonight, Sunday night, El Jefe and I went out in our neighborhood to have a drink and some tapas. Even on a Sunday evening there is alot going on in the square around our local church. A wedding had just finished and the revelers were in front of the church with their families.

We stopped for some wine at our favorite watering hole. We were there the day they first opened so we try to give them our custom whenever possible. But we got hungry and they don’t have a menu that was commiserate with our level of hunger. we went through the square on our way to another of our favorite tapas bars. On the way, we found a group spontaneously dancing. Not an organized thing, since when we walked home behind the folks with the speaker and the music, it was clear it was just a ‘lets turn on some music and see what happens’ type of deal. The crowd was loving it and readily joined in. Seeing dancers on the street in Valencias isn’t that unusual.

I love our tapas place. The owner is an old hippie and the food is top notch. The price of the cerveca and vino blanco are to our liking, as well. The place is cool and he totally digs us, so it’s fun to go there. The service isn’t typically hands off and it’s easy to get another drink and we feel at home.

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On the way home, we went around our summer outdoor theatre in front of the church. ‘Cinema a la Fresca’ enjoyed by all in the neighborhood on a Sunday night. We love the home grown eclectic vibe and the spectrum of folks who gather to enjoy a good film on a warm summer night. Back home, we used to go to Chateau St. Michelle and the Red Hook Brewery in Woodinville, WA with our kids in the summer to enjoy family movies outdoors. These are more arthouse films, but it’s no less enjoyable.

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Afterwards, walking back we passed by a shop front with an open door. A group of neighborhood gentlemen were beginning a game of dominos. We see this everywhere in the evenings around our apartment. Groups of older guys playing dominoes for money in cafes or parks. It serious business here. But this group was a fun and friendly bunch who was happy to share a ‘Guapa!’ as I took their photo.

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Before we moved to Valencia, I would never have believed we would live in a neighborhood like this. But every day, every time I turn a corner, I’m glad we chose to land here.

When I went to my hair appointment on Friday morning, I had a conversation with my neighborhood hairdresser, Pili, in Spanish. It wasn’t pretty, but she was so surprised at the progress I made, her enthusiasm for my particular brand of Spanish was infectious and made me feel proud of how far I’ve come. And then she threw me a curveball. Benimaclet is a very traditional Valencian neighborhood. People here DO NOT speak English so it’s easy to practice Spanish. But they also speak ‘Valenciano’ – which is another language entirely. Much like Catalan. And Pili is determined that I learn that too, so she’s coaching me. But the biggest compliment she gave me is that my pronunciation is ‘like a Valencian’, which I have been told before, so I’m on the right track.  I think we’ve found out home in Benimaclet. And, as everyone knows,  there’s no place like home.

Family Matters

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Not to get too melancholy, and perhaps it’s because June 5th would have been my grandmother’s 100th birthday (she lived to 97), but every day walking down the street I see old people helping each other totter to the store or cafe, or just a bench. They have canes and lean on each other. But I also see a lot of people helping their parents and grandparents. Here you see grandparents caring for small children. And not just grandmothers. Grandfathers seem to be very involved with their grand children, interacting with them and actively engaged.

All of this is a little foreign to us. Neither of us were raised in multi-generational households. Sure, our grandparents might have lived in a nearby city, but they didn’t live in the same building on the same floor – or at the furthest, a few floors away. In speaking to our lawyer about it he said this was the normal way of living,  he couldn’t imagine moving so far away from family like we were doing. It isn’t in any part of their comprehension of what life should be like.

In viewing the fiestas and different mini-celebrations, all of them include people from kindergarten to very, very old. The culture here doesn’t seem to worship youth like we do in the US. Irrelevancy when the age of 40 is reached. Everyone seems to have a role that is equally important until they die. It’s not flashy but its quietly dependable.

The other day, I was heading somewhere and a young man, maybe in his late teens or early 20’s, was walking with his grandmother on his arm.  She looked like an apple doll. He was very handsome and she was clearly proud of the admiring looks he brought their way. I smiled, thinking how wonderful it was that he seemed so happy to walk at her snails pace. He didn’t get frustrated or try to rush her. She set the meters-per-hour in which they would process.

I wonder what our lives would be like in the US if this were the norm. What would happen if we lived like they do here and saw our families more as partners than burdens? I’m not pointing fingers here. I’ve lived very far away from my family, in other states, since I was 23 – much longer than I ever lived near them. But that is what everyone I knew did. Aspiring to go out into the world and make my fortune – looking for career fulfillment.

But now, I’m on the other side of all that. My kids are pretty independent and it’s normal in the US, not to live in the same state as your kids. I never expected my children would want to live within 100 miles of me. But sometimes I look at my neighbors here in Valencia, sitting on the benches with their grandchildren outside our building, and I think now nice it is that they’re all together, supporting each other. And teenagers actually seem to spend time with their parents and grandparents.

Perhaps the Old World has something on the New World. Maybe, while we were busy inventing the concept of individualism, the people here decided that they had it figured out – Thank You very much. I do know that the grandma seemed very happy with the set-up, as her handsome, patient grandson escorted her down the sidewalk. If I could bottle the way they looked at each other and send it back home, I would make millions. On second thought, it was priceless.

Random Crap

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Everyday I learn new things. Most of them are small but this one was sort of large so I thought I would pass this and some of the other stuff we’ve gleaned lately. Because when things are different, it helps to know about them in advance so as to avoid confusion and delay.

I went for my follow up with the surgeon last night, after having the tests in the morning. In the US, the test results are automatically sent to the Dr. who is authorizing and requesting the tests. In Spain, that is not the case. You are sent the results – just like in the US – but you are expected to print the results out and take them to the Dr. He doesn’t have access to your test results for privacy reasons, unless you give him the hard copy.

So Emilie and I went to the appointment and waited – they squeezed us in – and found that I had no way to access the information and that the Dr. was expecting me to bring a hard copy. I was his last appointment of the day so going home to get my ID and password wasn’t an option. So I’ll have to go back for another appointment.

Of course, they apologized to me for my own mistake. The nurse and Dr. felt terrible about it all and I learned something new that I’ll never forget. So there was goodness all around. I told them not to worry.

Today, Jeff and I tried a new grocery store. I have never lived in city with so many different grocery stores so close to our house. In NYC, Chicago, or SF you’d have one choice of grocery store, and it would be very small and very expensive. In Seattle, living in the city was a desert of grocery stores. Although I know that’s changed a bit now with City Target moving in, and some others.

But here is the SuperCor, Carrefour, Super Carrefour, Mercadona, Super Mercat, and now we discovered the Consum. We started noticing Consum’s around the area and they looked like small stores. But while the entrance may look small, there is a HUGE store lurking behind. So we did a big shop there today.

We walked the aisles and it’s now become our favorite store. Why, when there is so much choice in grocery shopping would we choose Consum upon which to bestow our custom? Well, there are a couple of considerations here. Consum wins the award for best layout most resembling a Safeway or QFC (Kroger store) in the US. Things are just where you would expect them to be. That’s a novelty in every other store we’ve shopped in. You might remember my near ‘bleach v. laundry detergent debacle’ of mid-March.

Jeff likes that they have shelves and shelve of different kinds of tostadas. Those little toast things that you use as a tapas delivery system, or in his case, to dip into olive oil grown from ancient trees, for a mid-day snack. He’s become an olive oil and tostada snob, apparently, and shaking up his tostada selection is a top priority. He was in heaven.

They also win the award for most brands I recognize (Kikomon low salt soy sauce) and an ethnic food section that contains stuff I really, really like. Mexican foods, Indian foods, Japanese foods. They’re all there and some new things I’ve never tried. They had us at ‘Ethnic Food’ section. And they have paper towels that resemble the ones I could get back home. Yes, it’s the very, very small little stupid things that matter.

Finally, they win the award for nicest checkers, and since they have an in-store Coffee bar – with really nice staff, too – it’s doubly wonderful.

We came home and Emilie is thrilled that I found Golden Grahams cereal that is one she recognizes too. So we’re all happy. I’ll be adding this to my ‘Lessons Learned’ section under ‘Looking for a little bit of comfort’. Cause right now, familiarity is a high priority on my comfort scale.

Everything has a Silver Lining

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Today I had to wake up earlier than usual and head out to the IMED hospital in Burjasott. It’s more on the outer ring of Valencia. Not far before you aren’t in Valencia City at all. The Metro goes out that way and even further. We had underestimated the time we needed to take the subway because the trains out there don’t run as regularly as they do here in the city proper. When we discovered it would take 15 minutes until the next train at our transfer point of A. Gimenez off Gran Via, we went up top and grabbed a taxi.

We had left Emilie at home to sleep. I was nervous about these tests (really about the outcome) and also navigating to an unfamiliar place, an unfamiliar hospital and then there’s the language barrier. I didn’t sleep well last night. But pulling up to the hospital, it looked more W Hotel than hospital. In fact, it was the nicest hospital I’ve ever been in. It looked like the lobby of a very nice hotel in a large city in the US and there was a check in desk and concierge – seriously. Whoever designed that place either hired someone from or spent some time themselves in an extensive Hotel Management or Hospitality course.

So we went to get checked in and I realized that I had left the orders and the papers the Dr. had given me last week, on the table at home. (I really had not slept) I told the person checking me in and she said they would need them and asked if I could pop back home to get them. The concierge ordered me a taxi and we went back to our apartment, I went up stairs while Jeff waited with the driver, got the papers and were back at the hospital in 20 minutes. And here’s the thing. THEY HELD MY APPOINTMENT.  Yes, you heard that right. They treated me like a human being. My head was spinning. I didn’t lose my place and have to reschedule. I just went back and stood in line and they did the paperwork and I was given a card with a number on it and told to sit in the rather chic waiting area with sculptures and things.

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It seems they take patient privacy very seriously here. In the US, the nurse usually comes out and calls your name. Like a fish wife telling you your flounder order is ready. This after you’ve signed extensive privacy policies that say they won’t reveal anything about you – including your name.  At the IMED they would never stoop to that. The card they give you has a number and you look up at this screen when you hear the bell and they flash the number of the person who is being served. No PII data exposed. Then you get up and they direct you back to the room where you’re having one of your tests.

So we sat down and waited about 3 minutes, my number came up (sounds ominous but it wasn’t) and they took me back. I had my tests and then I came out and was told that I would have the results in 48 hours. Except I didn’t, because I got the results in about an hour. Before we got off the Metro I had an email inviting me to log in and get the results. Sure, Google translate isn’t great for medical terms that aren’t exactly translatable. Measurements seemed understandable. This was X cm or X mm. But more than that, my confidence that these people are going to figure everything out and come up with the right treatment plan is getting higher with every interaction.

So tonight – after 5 pm – I’ll go see the surgeon again and learn what our next steps are. But the upside of the entire thing is that we got to see a new area of the city. Across the street (well, really on the other side of the freeway via tunnel) was a store that sold athletic shoes. So we decided before heading home on the Metro, we would check it out. I mean Jeff is still having to wear that one pair of shoes, since our stuff was supposed to be here yesterday and there’s been no word.

We walked over and found a place called ‘InterSport’ to be chock full of everything you might find in a US sporting goods store – minus the hunting/fishing section. We asked a nice guy if they carried US size 13 or 48/49 EU for Men. He said they did and that we should just sit down and he would bring out everything they had in those sizes. Jeff was elated.

The guy had about 10 pairs of shoes in that size and Jeff selected 3 pair that fit well. He was walking on air as we made our way back to the Metro. So happy to find a store with something that would fit, he started looking up how much real estate goes for in the area. That might be taking it too far – choosing a home based on the availability of shoes – but I kind of understand it. We all have our comfort zones and, lately, mine has been tested on a daily basis. But every time I have to tackle something that make me lose sleep or gives me butterflies I know I’m just getting stronger.

It Really is That Special

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Every day  it seems we love living in Valencia more. The weather, the people, the scenery. And, lets face it, the cost of living doesn’t hurt. But the biggest things we love is the people. Everyone is so nice. I’m not sure how that is possible, but people help us with everything, every day. They volunteer to show us where to go and give us advise on how to navigate. Today was just another example.

So I went to my Dr. appointment with the specialist this evening. A night time clinic that had a lot of people in the waiting room for our particular office. The building was clean, lined with marble and laid out efficiently. We got there a bit early and I went right through the door, only to find out that you don’t do that. I sheepishly tip-toed back out red faced. The people in the chairs in the hall giggled, but we were laughing together.  Even though the Doctor’s name is on the door in the hallway, you wait in the hallway and they call you. I learned this from a couple of women who took pity on me.

After about 20 minutes, a guy in jeans came out and took a patient back. Then he came out and took me back. He’s a specialist but he was dressed casually and he swiftly determined that I needed a surgeon in his specialty, not him. OK, here goes – I thought. More delays and I’ll have to wait forever to get into see that guy. It will be another month.

Nope. He took me out of his office – Jeff was looking at us as we whizzed by and quickly followed – and marched me down the hall. The Dr had made a phone call when I was sitting at his desk and he was taking us to the surgeon. Right then. At 7 pm. The nurse for the surgeon apologized that I would need to wait for him to finish with another patient. Jeff and I looked at each other like ‘She’s kidding, right?’ She was apologizing to us – a medical professional was saying that she was sorry we had to wait. This was my first experience with this in my entire life.

She called me back into the office and I explained my situation – the other specialist had given her some of the run down – and I gave her all the things I had printed out and the questions I had. She was patient and talked through everything. She asked why I hadn’t gone to the other hospital that my original Dr. had recommended and written on the referral, and I explained that I had called the insurance company and they had sent me to this location.

‘No. They are wrong. I will help you deal with them. But you will have surgery and tests at the other hospital.’

I was confused why she was so insistent and said so.

‘It’s new and the rooms are like a hotel. You will like it there much better.’ She advised.

Well, I decided on the spot I will be doing whatever she says going forward. Finally, the Dr. was ready to see me. He was efficient and assuaged my fears. He had a certificate on the wall from NYU and is certified by the NY board of surgeons. This shouldn’t really matter to me, but it did. And the certificate next to it said he was head of surgery in his specialty at the hospital we were in.

When I left, they had all the paperwork I needed ready for me and she gave me the Dr’s card and she wrote her info on the back.

‘If you need anything, you call me. I can make phone calls for you and help answer questions. Even if it’s not about medical things.’ She smiled.

She was so nice, I had been so stressed about this appointment I teared up. She patted my shoulder and led me out. Jeff met me and I explained what had gone on as we walked home on the river.

‘You look a lot better. Happier.’ he said, after I told him everything. ‘I knew this morning you were stressed when we were at El Corte Ingles and you had no interest in shopping. You never have no interest in shopping. It made me worried.’

‘I was scared but, I don’t know how much better that all could have gone tonight. I’ve heard horror stories, when we were in the US, about health care in other countries. I mean our experience in Italy wasn’t that good. But this was first rate. They were actually kind. I wasn’t just a number. They each talked to me – like I was a person and they didn’t just try to throw prescriptions at me or see how quickly they could get me out of there. No one looked at their watch, like my 15 min appointment was up.  That surgeon saw me with no notice and I got right in.’

We were both so amazed we were in shock. Our last few years in the US regarding health care and insurance were terrible. Jeff’s motorcycle accident came with so many bills and co-pays and deductibles. I had to fight the insurance company to pay the helicopter bill. Once he was out of the trauma unit and into a regular room, they gave him Tylenol (like the kind you buy in the grocery store) and they charged $250 for two tablets. Insurance wouldn’t pay the $1800 bill to take him in an ambulance from the roof of the hospital, where the helicopter landed, to the entrance of the Emergency room. Maybe 200 meters.  And once they released him from the hospital, it took weeks to get follow up appointments with specialists and the like, and he had nearly died. Shameful.

Today, it took me minutes to see specialists. And no one blinked an eye. Medical systems can work. Who knew? I think I’m now in good hands and my blood pressure is about half of what it was this morning. I know we have moved to the right place for us and I think we will call this place home for a long time to come.

Never Give Up

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Sometimes things just take time. Language barriers can be a big issue. Especially when health issues are involved. Yeah, I’ve had that little issue with a kidney stone a few weeks ago. After that, I decided I was well enough to go all the way to Germany with Jeff to get his motorcycle. Maybe not the best idea, but I did it.

On the way back, I started having some issues but I took some pain meds and we made it home. We need to prepare for Emilie’s imminent arrival this Saturday and we have train tickets to got collect her on Saturday morning. We needed to get ready for that. But I have still had some pain and acquiesced to going to the Dr for a follow up.

I like my Dr. here. She doesn’t take our insurance but an office visit costs almost nothing and she has an ultrasound machine and a EKG and a bunch of other stuff – right in the office. She does it all and it’s all part of the office visit. Unheard of in the US. The tests they’ve run in my Dr.’s office would have involved nurses, radiologists, phlebotomists. Not here. My Dr draws her own blood, does her own ultrasounds and reads the results. She’s from Venezuela, spent nearly and hour talking to me on Monday and she’s great. And she’s referred me to a specialist for some complications.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her I had ridden more than 1700 km on the back of a motorcycle last week. I could hear her silent head shaking without asking me what the hell I was thinking. I felt I could avoid it. So she gave me a referral and I came home and reached out to my insurance company. I don’t know how authorizations work here for insurance and visiting a specialist so I needed to make sure I was doing the right thing. That was the first challenge.

Using Google Chrome, it translates their website automatically. But the drop down menus are still in Spanish. I did the best I could, but couldn’t find the name of the specialist she was referring me to. The phone menus are not in English calling the phone number on the back of my card. I started pushing buttons, got a guy on the phone, he couldn’t understand me and hung up on me. I took a deep breath, got a glass of wine (yeah – I know I’m sick but needs must), and dialed again. I started understanding some of the words on the menu and pushed a button. Someone came on the phone and I asked in Spanish if they had any English. They didn’t but they got someone who did.

This new person was determined to help me. Hold, checked back with me, hold – he finally took my phone number promising the ‘person in authorizations who knows English will call you back, OK?’. Well, of course I said OK. I waited 24 hours. No call back.

Today, I called again and pushed the same number I pushed yesterday. They got me an English speaker – told me I don’t need an authorization for a specialist, however, the Dr. my Dr. referred me to is not one of their Docs. So I would need to go out to the website of another local hospital and find someone who specializes in the same area.

So I did that and found a doctor that takes my insurance and is that kind of specialist, but I couldn’t make an appointment online. So I called. More menus in Spanish. I heard a couple more words I have started to recognize (and understand) and pushed that number. Bingo! I got a receptionist who listened to my Spanglish, explaining what I needed, and she was sympathetic.

‘Please call back at 4. Doctor here at 4’

I thanked her and then I called back at 4. They talked to the nurse of the Dr and they couldn’t see me but they got me in for tomorrow at 6pm to see another similar specialist. Here, Dr’s keep hours in the evening. So civilized. It means you can have a job and go to the Dr. after work. America – are you listening?

So, it just required me NOT to give up, get too frustrated, and being willing to sound like an idiot on the phone to get what I needed. And it required some very patient people at the insurance company and the local hospital to try to help me. Between all of us, we got it done.

I felt embolden enough to tackle getting some prescriptions filled at the pharmacy, knowing I have and appointment tomorrow with the Dr. The pharmacist was so helpful and explained everything. She asked a lot about my condition and wanted to help me understand what I was taking and why. Such great service and care.

Am I nervous about going to see a Dr. I will struggle to communicate with? Yes. But I’m doing everything I can to mitigate it. I’ve printed out allergy information. I’ve writing up my history in both English and Spanish (yes, using Google translate, but its the best I can do).

It’s funny – Jeff hated going to the Dr. in the US. Even for very serious conditions, he never wanted to go. But here, we’ve both been so impressed with our experience so far, we’re willing to take more of a leap of faith. Well, and I’ve researched the specialist and read the papers he’s written in medical journals and education and residency history – so yeah, I feel OK with his qualifications.

Like most things in life, persistence pays off. Lets hope tomorrow I get good news and my baby steps into the medical/insurance world in Spain can be short lived. I have too much planned for this summer. And being sick in any way isn’t part of them.

 

Its Official

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Today, we got our Spanish National Identity cards. It’s a big moment that took place in a humble building on the other side of the city, and they’re resting in our wallets now. So we’re good to go until we need to renew our visas in 11 months.

Everything here is a process of doing something, learning you did it wrong, correcting your mistake, then going back and completing it. Hopefully, this requires only one additional round trip. The only thing I’ve done right the first time is getting us our permanent Metro passes. I looked it up, actually had all the documents it said were required on the website, took them all to the Metro station offices and we got our cards then and there. I know the agent was surprised by my baffled look when he handed us our cards. Nothing is ever supposed to be that easy here – and yet it was.

I think it emboldened Jeff. He went online and signed us up for Valencsibi – the bike ride sharing service that is a whole 36 euros a year. In three weeks time, when our cards come, we’ll be able to ride bikes all over the city, like the locals. Valencia is the most bike friendly city I’ve ever encountered. Bank paths are down every major thoroughfare and soon we’ll be taking advantage of them. Riding to the river and down to the beach.

These small wins are starting to add up and it’s helping my peace of mind. Slowing down and cutting myself some slack has happened organically.  And has come just in time. Moving to another country is stressful. We aren’t surrounded by a big family that might insulate us from every single thing that is different or new starting right outside our front door.

Expectations I had before coming here are all gone. Now it’s just a matter of getting up and just experiencing things. We can’t anticipate or control. And letting go of the need for either of these things is starting to make for a happier life. For both of us.

Standing at the immigration building today, I realized it’s only been a month since we were in that line the last time. ONE MONTH.  In so many ways, it feels like a year. We’ve accomplished a lot since then. Things aren’t so foreign as they were before and going back to a place I had been before on that first day, helped me realize that we’re OK. It’s all going to be OK.

The lists are done. Now it’s time to live – just like we did back home. Real life starts today.

 

 

Fuel for the Fire

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We have COFFEE at home!!  Yes, I found a grinder – which promptly stopped working so I’ll be returning it to The Worten for a working version – but not before it ground me enough coffee for 4 days worth of the addicting brew. My new El Chino coffee cups and little stainless steel pot are working as designed.

In the US, I made my coffee in a Turkish coffee pot, but I left it out of my luggage on the last day because we were already at the brink of going over weight. I had no idea how to use the stove top coffee pots here, but the one I bought seems to work fine, and the Torrafacto coffee I used to spend $20 a pound for in the US, is less than 2 euros here and it’s yummy!

Fortified with two cups of coffee, Jeff and I set out to get his hair cut. He already needed one before we left the US, but time ran short. And now we’re at critical mass – or a mass of mangy hair. He has ‘Teddy Bear Head’ and it’s driving him crazy. He’d gone to a couple of barber shops around our apartment but had no success in actually getting a cut. Both barbers spoke English but they kept sending him to the back of the line behind other walk in customers. He even asked if he could make an appointment but was told ‘No, we don’t have appointments’. Just wait.’ Well ‘Just wait’ meant ‘You’ll wait forever.’

He’d come home defeated and confused. So today I took him back to where I get my haircut. They have a women’s side and a men’s side that is filled with darker furniture and more manly style chairs. Seriously, it’s like a cigar bar but without the dark paneling. At first, when I suggested he go to the salon I go to, he was resistant. But looking in the mirror told him it was past time.

We rang the bell and they let us in. I’m always surprised by this ‘door bell’ business model. They look you over and determine if you are worthy of entering their establishment. We made the grade and went in. I explained in my broken Spanish that he needed a haircut – I’m sure they could see for themselves – and they took him to the men’s side and allowed me to go with him to explain what he wanted. Honestly, my Spanish is getting better. And my ‘Yoga Spanish’ is starting to ROCK!!

So they cut his hair and then they took him back and washed it so he doesn’t have all those little hairs that usually mean he comes right home and takes a shower. They trimmed his eyebrows and shaved him with a straight razor. Then the woman took him back to the chair and did a little style with some product. It was the best haircut he’s ever had and he looked amazing.

‘Wow! You look great!’

He smiled and I turned to the stylist.

‘Muey Bien. Muchas Gracias’

She smiled.

‘You need to come here from now on. Maybe don’t wait so long between haircuts and keep it up a little more often.’

Jeff isn’t one for the personal services but he agreed.

‘You have an appointment in a few weeks. Maybe I’ll come back with you then and have her touch it up.’

I smiled but I didn’t say what I was thinking ‘Seeee. I told you so’ didn’t come out of my mouth. One point for me. And his whole experience cost 19 euros. Practically nothing.

Slowly but surely, we are settling in and learning how to get things done. I’ve joined a writers group and made a few friends. I went to the Fallas fireworks with them on Friday night. On Saturday, we’ll meet more people at our Valencian ‘March for our Lives’ rally that a bunch of expats organized. And yesterday I met a newcomer from Northern Ireland for coffee and we had a great time laughing and chatting like old friends. 3 hours went by in a flash and we’re meeting again next week.

Next week, I’m taking a tour of a castle two hours south via bus. It’s my first foray into experiencing the history of the area outside Valencia proper. I’m so excited! So between these activities and my yoga class, I’m doing pretty well on meeting people and making friends. I won’t say it’s not difficult at times but then I remember, it’s only been three weeks.

I tend to be hard on myself. Setting expectations that I do something in a certain time frame, or in a certain way, isn’t a recipe for personal happiness. But I’m working on it. It’s funny, because I rarely have these types of expectations for others so I’m not sure why I’m so strict with myself. But it’s all good. Moving here is a growth experience. And opportunity to do things differently, both internally and externally. If I remember that over my morning coffee each day I do just fine.

 

 

Celebrating Fallas

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We’re embracing the festival of Fallas and we’ve made some new friends who offered to show us what Fallas is all about. We met in the Plaza de Ayuntament, where the mascleta is blown off every day at 2pm and at midnight on weekends.  The large fallas in the plaza is the falla for everyone who visits the city. It’s so they can feel a part of the celebration, even though they don’t have a fallas of their own from their home neighborhood.

There are over 700 fallas (monuments or effigies) erected at intersections around the city. Each area has a group of Fallero or Fallera who plan, coordinate, raise money for and build the fallas for their area. It’s some people’s full time job. And in the photos below you can see why.

They are truly works of art and the tradition goes back a thousand years. It’s evolved over time and morphed during Franco’s time. He loved Fallas and had a balcony built just so he could overlook the mascleta and enjoy the parade from the town hall.

Each Fallas group selects a Fallara who will represent their fallas. Each fallas must have one of these girls to represent them in parades, etc. Each girl selected must have 4 dresses and all the combs, etc. which are very expensive. A dress is about 7-10 thousand euros – EACH! So you can not be poor and be a Fallera. Some families take out loans to pay for it – it’s an honor.

The fallas are both whimsical and play to local politics, the politics of Spain (think Catalonya) and international politics. In our pictures you will see ALOT of mocking of Donald Trump. I took some photos of those. My favorite is the one titled ‘Air Force Juan’ because I love puns. One Especial Fallas was titled ‘Egos’ and outlined all the events of the year where BIG Egos were front and center. You’ll see a photo I called ‘The Three Amigos’ from that Fallas.

Each of these fallas below, will be burned on the 19th between 10pm and 1am. It’s symbolizes the coming of Spring. Burning the old and welcoming the new. A very Buddhist concept in a very Catholic country.

After our 6 mile walk today, we sat down with our new friends and had breakfast and learned all about the area. Tomorrow, we’ll go to the lighting on Cuba street and I’ll post photos of those. It looks like it will be spectacular!

 

Nature
Rusafa – Fallas 2018
Rusafa 3
Rusafa – Fallas 2018
Rusafa 4
Rusafa – Fallas 2018
Train station
Nord train station – Fallas 2018
Colon
Colon – Fallas 2018
DT and PUTIN and UN
The Three Amigos – Fallas 2018
DT and UN missles
DT and RocketMan Fallas 2018
DT on Air Force Juan
Riding AirForce Juan – DT Fallas 2018
DT puppet
DT – Fallas 2018
Especiale 2
Fallas 2018
Especiale
Fallas Especiale
Fallayeria
Fallayera – Fallas 2018
girls on parade
Fallayera – Fallas 2018
Nature
Fallas 2018
New Friends
New Friends
Plaza de Ayundamente
Plaza de Ayuntament – Valencia Fallas 2018

It’s a Process

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The pace of our life is starting to settle in. All but one of the appliances, furniture and computer parts has arrived from the various stores we purchased them from. Yesterday was a monumental day. Our Washer/Dryer showed up unannounced – glad we were home. Yes, we smell fresh and clean!

Spanish washer

The guys brought it late in the afternoon and installed it. In the US, usually they’ll bring it but they don’t install it for you, unless you pay and ask in advance. But these two wonder men brought it in, unwrapped it, installed it and explained how it worked via mime, Google translate and my growing understanding (not actually speaking well yet), and they made sure it ran. Genius.

After they left, I ran a load of laundry. It takes about two hours, but that includes drying. You just set it and it does it’s thing. We can not really understand the controls. But I just leave it on the one setting and it seems to work. I’ll never touch it again.

After I got the washer going, I headed out to my yoga class. I have been reaching out to other yoga studios to make sure I have found the right program, but I went back to the one I had gone to last week. They’re nice and the practice is so different from back in the US, that I’m feeling muscles I didn’t know I had. That’s a good thing.

Again, the sort of scary guy was at the lobby door and told me I was early so I had to wait on the bench out front. Another yoga person showed up and was instructed to wait on the bench too. We smiled and she started talking to me in Spanish. I explained that my Spanish ‘es muy pequino’ so we started speaking into Google translate using my phone, laughing until our Yogi showed up and took us in.

Somehow, it escaped me last week that I am about 20 years younger than everyone in the class, including the Yogi. But it didn’t escape my fellow enthusiast. I believe I can officially say I’m the new Mascot of the 6:30 Tuesday/Thursday class at Estudio Yoga.

Why? You might ask. Well, it’s because all those little old ladies are determined to have me learn Spanish. And they each come over and say a few words in English to me, while patting me on the back. Then they translate them into Spanish and encourage me to say it back. And when I get it right, they pet me on the head. Seriously, they pet me like a puppy. And then they smile at me, to encourage me like I’m a toddler. I’m 51. If they put cookies in my mouth I would know it was actually dog training. Truly, they are incredibly kind and I appreciate all their efforts. It’s hard to be the odd man out.

I’ve learned the words for ‘inhale’ and ‘exhale’. And the words for ‘difficult’ and ‘easy’. I have learned that when I say ‘Hard’ it doesn’t mean ‘difficult’ and I have to be very explicit – avoiding slang. I also have to count my pace of breathing so I’m learning numbers now too, because everyone counts from one to twenty together.

Jeff and I were discussing it on our morning walk today to see the Fallas monuments around the city. He agrees we need to get some children’s books, like kindergarten level, and start simple. I’ll go out later to El Chino and pick some up.

Our morning coffee spot has become friendly. The ladies there were not that nice last week. But now they see us every day. We’ve become good customers, so when we enter one of them shouts our our ‘usual order’, I say ‘Si, por favor’ and it arrives at the table within 5 minutes – No Problema. At the end, I clear our cups to the counter and pay. Then wave a hearty ‘Hasta Manana’.  We seem to have struck a social contract that works for all of us.

Tomorrow night we will have been here two weeks, but it feels longer. Like most people, routines are comforting and we’re finding a rhythm. The wife of my Yogi handed me some literature for the European Yoga Conference in Switzerland in August. She wanted to give me more ‘take and give to you friends’ she encouraged. Before I knew it, I told her ‘I have no friends here to give them to.’ She smiled ‘Soon you will’ and she patted me on the back.

‘Si’ I told her. ‘Very soon.’ And I think its true. I’m out there meeting people, trying to interact and learn what to do. Soon, we’ll have good friends. I know it.

 

Beware the Wolverine

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We were both up at many points last night. Both Jeff and I have begun having nightmares. I asked if he thought its because we’re subconsciously nervous about the big move. He just looked at me like I was an idiot.

‘Uh, Yeah. There’s no ‘subconscious’ about it.’

I dreamed that I was being chased by a serial killer who tried to frame me for his crimes and stole my laptop (and thus my finished book). He then published it and became wildly famous but the cops, for whatever reason, could never find him. I suggested calling his agent or ambushing him at his appearance on the ‘Today Show’, but they didn’t act on the clue.

That woke me up and after I went back to sleep, I dreamed that when we got to the airport in Spain, they had outlawed real food and everyone had tablets that they ate. But they only handed the tablets out one time to the entire country and we missed the hand out, so I had to beg people in the airport for tablets for chicken and rice.  OK. It’s weird.

Jeff’s, on the other hand, run more to the animal kingdom. His dreams have involved trying to keep my Mom from letting beavers into our basement at our old house near Seattle. He kept getting one out and she would let 4 more in. She would feed them – not a stretch from her penchant for making friends with squirrels in her back yard – and they would follow her in the house.

Last night, he dreamed he was being followed by a wolverine and he kept trying to get away from it. Finally, he opened the gate into our neighbor’s yard and there were two polar bear cubs in their back yard so the wolverine happily ran off to play with them.

OK – If you’re a psychologist, you’re having a field day with all this. But it is disconcerting and the volume of dreams we’re each having is going up the closer we get. I’m just glad that I know there will be no wolverines or polar bears or beavers in Spain. And they still food there – I feel sure. But my laptop and that book stealing serial killer? Well, I’m going to have to be especially vigilant with that one.