Lourdes, France - Mary was here, too

On February 11, 1858, Bernardette Soubirous, a poor young girl in Lourdes, France had a vision of Mary. She was meant to be collecting firewood, but as she was scrounging around in a grotto near the river, a vision of Mary appeared before her. This was the first of 18 visits Mary made to Bernardette over the next few weeks. The impact these visits, or visions, had on Bernardette personally and on Lourdes the community would be difficult to overstate.

Mary wanted a chapel built on that very spot. And what a chapel it has grown to be. She also told Bernardette to dig around and find a spring, which she did. And still today people flock to the spring for the healing waters.

So when the snow wouldn't fall, and our ski trip to the Haute Pyrenees was all but bust, we decided that we, too, should make our way to Lourdes to see what all the fuss was about.
Jack had been suffering from an upset stomach, so he decided to give the waters a try. And I had a few nice little bottles I bought in town to take some holy water back home. I was feeling a little selfish. You know, it wasn't a life threating illness that Jack was seeking a cure for, just a minor irritation. And I had brought three little bottles, not just one. What was I thinking? I looked around and saw people carrying huge jugs. Families were walking away with gallons and gallons of the stuff. It looked like they had all the water they could drink for a week.

Over by the grotto, yes, the grotto, there is a statue of Mary. I'm going to operate on the assumption that it is in the exact spot where Mary appeared and that it looks exactly like Mary did to Bernardette. It's more fun to imagine it this way. That little cynical voice is whispering in the back of my head, but I'm shushing it. There is also a little piece of plexiglass on the ground, presumably in the exact spot where Bernardette dug in the mud to find the holy spring, which is now piped over to the faucets where the throngs are filling their jugs.


It's a lovely grotto. And it's fun to stand there, imaging that I am Bernardette, and Mary appears. What would I do? In fact, what would anybody do? I found myself wondering about apparations, about who Bernardette was, what was she like, wondering if she really believed it was Mary talking to her, how she convinced a bunch of priests to believe it was Mary talking to her. Let's say for a second that JC himself appeared, who would believe it? But I digress. As I often do when I'm wondering about this kind of thing (remember the pilar in Zaragosa?).

When we find ourselves in Catholic holy places we always light a candle for Jack's parents. So Anna and I went off for some prayer candles. Big prayer candles. Even the smallest candle option was pretty impressive, making it infinitely more fun to light than those faux electronic candles many churches use to avoid the mess of real candles.


We put the candles in a spot well protected from the wind. Then we went around and relit dozens of other candles that had been blown out. I felt bad for those prayers and wanted to rekindle them. I hoped that someone would do the same for John and Ann's candles if the wind blew them out before they exhausted their prayer power.


After visiting the lovey church built over the grotto we headed toward the sanctuary's exit only to stumble into the underground Basilica of St. Pius X. You could easily mistake it for a parking lot.



Once inside, I wondered how such an atrocity could be the manifestation of any spiritually inspired idea. I'm thinking it must boil down to simple crowd control measures. Standing in that church didn't feel any different than standing in an underground parking garage. It's a mystery why the church would build such a souless church. Like many mysteries here in Lourdes.

Carcassonne, France

It wasn’t nearly as dangerous as Jumanji, but still we had images of one of our favorite board games, Carcassonne, coming to life as we made our way to the fortified city in southern France. It was the stop between our Christmas visit with Charlie and Ann and our ski trip to the Haute Pyrenees. We have played the game for years and wanted to see the real thing.

Carcassonne, an old city on the northern front of the Pyrenees, played a part in the long running border disputes between France and Spain, before they even were France and Spain as we know them today. Its strategic location meant that for hundreds of years it was repeatedly a target for whoever wanted control of the region. It was also a stronghold for a group of Cathars, who were on the wrong side of the power curve with the Inquisition, bless their souls. It is fortified with not just one, but two walls, enclosing it. Or at least enclosing those who were inside. The unlucky ones who lived in the village below provided food and raw materials to those inside. When an invader showed up, you were bumming if you were left high and dry outside the fort, not privileged to enjoy the benefits of all that defensive engineering.

Not unlike the Alhambra, this fabulous historical and architectural wonder was neglected for centuries and was overrun by countless squatters. Eventually the authorities said enough is enough, we need to tear that eyesore down. But the locals rallied and a long renovation process resulted in a fabulous restoration as well as a great economic resource for the area. Millions come here every year to visit.

These old places are filled with layers and layers of history, which confuse me. That seems to be my refrain, confusion and wonder. How do you tease out the different periods, the different struggles, the separate histories, economies, etc. from a castle and its community? It’s a melting pot of time. And each of these places that we visit is tied to the others, with common characters, plot lines, themes.


Sometimes a mundane detail, a sundial for example, sets me thinking. There is a very interesting sundial on the wall at Carcassonne. When was it built? How does it work? How were other people telling time at that same time in history? (Why didn’t I take the tour so I could get the answers to these questions?)

Standing there I am reminded of the sundial in the castle in Segovia, and the meridian embedded in the floor at El Escorial, and even Thomas Jefferson’s clock at Monticello, and John Harrison’s ambition to develop a chronometer that would fundamentally alter sea navigation. Time. Measuring time. Telling time. Telling the community what time it is. How do we do it? How did they do it? Why is it important?


There are thousands and thousands of these details, questions, distractions. How do we ever make it out of any of these places? The kids get hungry. And then it’s time to leave.

Never Lost with Nancy the Navigator

I thought I had the GPS all sorted out. I had deciphered how to use it before packing for France. Actually, getting to France wasn't going to be the hard part. Getting out of Madrid was. I was sure I had it worked out. I programmed in Charlie and Ann's address the night before departure, and we were ready to go. In the morning, we loaded the car, I turned Nancy the Navigator on, and confidently sat back to let Nancy tell Jack where to go.

The first time we rented a car in Madrid we discovered the city’s spectacular network of underground highways. Who knew? We’d been here for months but had only been on foot and on the Metro. There we were, in an underground maze, in a city with outrageously poor signage. It was a little stressful in the car that day, so for our trip to France we rented a GPS with the car. No sweat. It’s Hertz’s Never Lost system. We’d be golden. For added assurance I bought several new Madrid maps in a variety of scales, to meet our every need.

We needed to enter the tunnels less than a mile from home which didn’t leave much time to get oriented to Nancy’s style. Jack wanted to know why Nancy was telling us how far it was to Dr. Alvarez. “That’s the name of a street we’re headed toward,” I assured him. I was determined to follow Nancy’s directions to prove my prowess with this technology. And with that, we dropped down into the tunnel. It turns out that Nancys don’t receive signals underground. Good thing I had all those maps ready to consult. Suffice to say that when we finally saw sunlight again we didn’t know where the hell we were. Apparently we were somewhere southwest of Madrid, and we wanted to be northeast.

Luckily we had Nancy to set us straight. She did a lot of recalculating. “Just follow her directions, she knows where to go.” Now that I had all those maps out I could see generally what we were aiming for. But it was going to be a little tricky getting from where we were to where we wanted to be. It seemed that between Nancy and me we could work it out. But every time I told Jack to turn, Nancy objected and began recalculating. An hour later we had toured a great deal of the wrong side of town and were still utterly lost. Still recalculating.

“Why does that thing keep telling us how far away we are from Dr. Alvarez?” Jack demanded. “Turn that thing off and figure out where we are!” Right. Nancy had been determined to get us to Dr. Alvarez’s office and didn’t realize we wanted to see Charlie and Ann in France after all.

You’d think that at this point you could just ditch the electronics and rely on good old fashioned map reading. But Spanish maps can’t keep pace with road construction. So between the outdated maps, the outrageously poor signage, and the general complexity of metropolitan driving we needed more experience and more luck to begin our escape from Madrid. Or maybe just a little more experience programming Nancy.

About a third of the way to France I timidly turned Nancy back on and started reading the instructions.

Belenes

Courtesy of mdiocuh galeals

There are nativity scenes, or Belenes (Bethlehems), popping up everywhere. At Anna’s school each class is responsible for part of the scene. Anna is working on a sheep to add to the flock. Each store, restaurant, home, public office building, has at minimum the nacimiento, the manger scene with Mary, Joseph, baby Jesus usually an angel and a couple animals. But for the vast majority, this is just the nucleus. Most Belenes include the whole village, and sometimes the whole countryside. It takes a village, you know, to raise a baby. The Spanish nativity scene gives you all of it.

One friend told us that when her children were young they set up their Belén early in the month, and the kids moved the figures around to act out the Christmas story during the holiday season. King’s Day is traditionally more important than Christmas Day here, and the day when gifts are exchanged. During the 12 days of Christmas (the days between Christ’s birth and the arrival of the magi), the kids moved the figures of the magi from far away in the fields, through the village, and finally had them arriving at the manager scene on January 6.

We went over to Plaza Mayor to check out the Christmas market where you go to get everything for your Belén. I’ve never been particularly drawn to the nativity scene. But I’m tempted; this looks like a lot of fun. I can imagine getting into an elaborate scene with back stories and developing plot lines. The market is chock full of stalls, each specializing in a particular type of figure or prop. Some carry only the nacimiento, but in every size and price you can image. Some carry only animals. Some of the priciest stalls offer elaborate mechanical moving items: moving windmills, a baker pulling bread of the oven, a man chopping wood. The prices are incredible. Some pieces go for over a couple hundred euros. Other stalls sell minutia: pottery pieces, bundles of firewood, loaves of bread.





The serious connoisseurs don’t randomly buy pieces and throw them together. There is a real art to this process, and families spend years building their villages. The manger scene is the where you start and has to be larger than everything else. Figures at distance from the main action are proportionately smaller to create perspective. This makes me wonder if you move your Wise Men closer and closer to Jesus each day, do you have to get different sized figures to keep things in proper scale throughout the story?

There is another element of the Spanish Belén that Jack wishes I wouldn’t mention. The caganer. Literally, the shitter. The caganer is a Catalonian tradition; a Belén villager caught in the act of squatting with his pants down, yes, taking a dump. Some claim the caganer represents fertilization of the crops, prosperity for the new year. I think mostly it’s Spaniards having a good laugh. He's usually out of the way being discrete. There are traditional caganers, a Catalonian with a little red cap, and more contemporary caganers in the image of just about any public figure you can think of.


In the end, the caganer is the only Belén figure that I bought, but Jack keeps hiding from view when I put it out on the shelf, our only Christmas decoration beyond out little Christmas tree.

This is the US Embassy in Madrid calling...

The counter clerk at the US Embassy dispenses with the case at hand and picks up another pink folder from his stack. I'm watching from across the crowded waiting room, eager for our pink folder to reach the top of the pile.

He pulls out a badly damaged US passport and flips through the warped, delaminated pages. I lean into Jack and giggle, "It looks like it went through the washing machine." The clerk shows it to his colleague. An object of intrigue. Then he calls a young man to his window, a US college student here for a year abroad. "Yeah," he says, "I forgot to take it out of my pocket and it went through the wash." He stuffs his new passport application under the window. The clerk asks why he hasn't completed the form. "I can't remember my parents' birthdates, so I left them blank." He cannot apply for a new passport without a completed form, but the Embassy clerk is very agreeable and asks the student, "Would you like to call them right now?" How utterly refreshing, such a simple solution to a problem. "Sure." The student tells the clerk his mother's phone number, the clerk dials, and lets the younger man around the counter to talk to his mom. My heart aches for her.

2 a.m. in Salt Lake City. The phone wakes her, heart pounding. "Hello, this is the US Embassy in Madrid." She is nearly in cardiac arrest now. "I have your son here." She thanks God that he is alive though the panic hasn't subsided. She will feel the weight that moment for the next several days. The clerk hands the phone to our young college friend who was careless with his laundry last Saturday morning after a long night out in the bars of Madrid. "Hey, mom. I need your birthdate...."

I squeeze Jack's hand as we share a glimpse into the grand journey ahead.

Damn theives

It's been a bad week on the pickpocket scene for Jack. Last week his Blackberry was pinched from his backpack despite vigilant measures.

And here's an irony - this week we finally had our appointment to extend our visas for the remainder of the year. It's been a long and unpleasant haul trying to get these visas. Most people we talked to said to forget the visas and just roll the dice. But we have followed every painful step to get our visas above board. After the appointment we went out for lunch to celebrate with Ysabel, who was there as our Spanish speaking advocate. It all seemed realively easy.

Until Jack's passport was stolen on the way home.

Now we begin the passport replacement, damage control, etc.

Another day. Another adventure.

We are reminding ourselves that your happiness in life depends entirely on how you choose to respond to what life throws at you.

Police report filed. Appointment at embassy already made. Photocopies of everything on file.

We just have to get that replacement passport before December 1 when we airline tickets to escape for a couple of days. I've been bribing the kids with the days out of school for a couple weeks now. Can't miss that. I think we'll be good to go.

I've got apples baking in the oven, the apartment smells wonderful, and everyone is healthy. Amen.

PS - NEVER have anything in your pockets on the Metro.

Something's happening here

Friday the 13th is nothing special in Spain. It's Tuesday the 13th that is bad luck here. It must have been one of those opposite day kind of things. Remember those from when you were a kid? Because Friday the 13th was a magic day for me.

I got up, turned the TV on, and sat down on the worn out couch in my stripey pajamas with my coffee to watch the news. Up until now, that's what I did, just pretty much watched and heard noise. But on Friday, I heard words. I sat transfixed. I heard words coming out of the mouth of the weather woman. I heard rain and sun, and I laughed realizing that she was speaking absolute drivel. Why was I assuming that just because I couldn't understand her that she was witty? The sports guy came on and I heard more words. I hollered to the rest of the family. "Something’s happening in here! I CAN HEAR WORDS!"

This must have happened to everyone else earlier, and maybe they aren't as excitable as I am. (Claro.) Apparently they have been hearing words, sentences, ideas for some time now. But for me, it's just starting to happen. (Other than, of course, the predictable or ridiculously simple, repetitious, boring conversations we've been having since we got here.)

I don't hear complete sentences. But just hearing separate words spoken at breakneck Madrileño speed is a joy.

Tia keeps telling me I'm on a predictable path. It's just that I haven't been seeing many of the landmarks. But perhaps they are out there after all. When I look at myself, it's like watching the kids learn to walk. But painfully slowly.

The kids are having noticeable breakthroughs too. Anna is in a watch-and-absorb mode, still not sure how to push all the jumble in her head out of her mouth. But you can see it simmering. You can see the light flickering in her eyes as she develops confidence. She delights in joking with school mates and being the one to interpret for me when scheduling an appointment with the plumber.

And Alex. Well it's difficult to shut that kid up. He pretty much assumes the lead all the time, whether we want him to or not. The conversations are simple, but fluid. He rattles off conversations with bartenders, Jack's compañerios de trabajo, the Chinese students in his class, the regulars down in the Dia Zone. Heck, if you know that boy, you know he talks to everyone. And a limited vocabulary is not going to slow him down; he just works around it.

Jack's been our fearless leader since we arrived. Out in front solving problems. Lacking self consciousness and able to get things done in a way that constantly surprises me. I simply don’t know how he does it.

I've been the one in the rear on this linguistic journey. But, I'm starting to enjoy the ride. Not always. I still have daily Spanish flashes (embarrassment-induced hot flashes). But, I have a smile on my face a little more often.

Today Anna's teachers told me how great she was doing. I walked home with that feeling you get after it rains in Nevada. The air is filled with the smell of desert sage that you breathe deeply. It gives you the sense that everything will be alright.

Está bien. Si, todo está bien.

¿Tiene mas preguntas?

I try to take the perspective that everything here is an adventure even when it is, in fact, a royal pain in the back side. Being here is an exercise in developing coping mechanisms. So, I decided I needed to develop a good attitude and a coping strategy for dealing with the almost daily sales calls from the internet service provider with whom we do not have a contract, Jazztel. My guess is that they figure if they call often enough, you will pay any penalty charges applicable to break your current contract and switch to Jazztel just to stop them from calling so often.

Here is how the phone calls go at our house. The phone rings. We all groan. We know that it’s likely the person on the other end of the phone is going to speak - what else - Spanish. Dread. (Okay, mostly it’s me that completely dreads this.) We all try to dodge answering. But it could be someone we love, so we have to answer, right?

When it’s Jazztel, the sales person always asks for (imagine this in your best Spanish accent) Yan Patreek Eyes. In the beginning this was a blessing for me because I could always hand the phone off legitimately. But Yan Patreek isn’t always home.

At first, my strategy was to always say, “No hablo español. No entiendo.” I felt that I needed to at least explain why I was hanging up on the sales person.

But then I decided that it was bad for my self confidence to say that I don’t speak Spanish. So I started saying (in Spanish), “I don’t speak Spanish well; please speak more slowly.” But I still couldn’t understand the callers so the calls still ended abruptly. And still they persisted in their frequent calls. By this time, Anna was developing her own Jazztel coping mechanisms as well.

Eventually, I developed Approach Number Three: I decided to view the calls as opportunities to practice Spanish. Rather than dreading the calls, I tried to convince myself that I was looking forward to the calls. I figured that would teach them a lesson. I practiced explaining every single time they called that we have internet service. We don’t need new internet service. Please don’t call us again. Yes, I can say all those things in halting Spanish.

But the phone calls didn’t end. Last week I had a new idea. In Spanish class, we’ve been working on three different forms of past tense. I decided to practice all the forms of past tense that I know on the next Jazztel victim. So I wrote out my script and taped it to the wall over the phone. And waited.

Tonight I got my chance. I was thrilled at the ring of the phone. Heart racing, I launched into my counter attack.

¿Es Jazztel? (Sí.)
Nuestro respusta es no.
Ahora la respusta es no.
Esta mañana, la respusta ha sido no.
Ayer, la respusta fue no.
La semana pasada, la respusta fue no.
El mes pasado, la respusta fue no.
El primer diez veces nos llamó, la respusta era no.
¿Tiene mas preguntas?
______________________

Is this Jazztel? (Yes.)
Our answer is no.
The answer now is no.
This morning, the answer was no.
Yesterday, the answer was no.
Last week, the answer was no.
Last month, the answer was no.
The fist 10 times you called us, the answer was no.
Do you have any more questions?
______________________

I didn’t allow myself to pause for a moment until I finished – proud to get four different verb tenses in and realizing that I should have stuck future in as well.

The Jazztelian was laughing on the other end. “¡Vale, Vale! Okay. Okay. I get it.” We laughed together, and I had the distinct feeling I had finally gotten the message across, and with a good attitude. When I hung up I expected that to be the last Jazztel call.

Not a minute later the phone rang again. I snatched it up. A different young man was on the phone, again asking for Yan Patreek. I launched into my response one more time, to great peals of laughter, once again. A good natured call from the first caller’s compañero de trabajo. And THAT, I believe was the last time we’ll hear from our friends at Jazztel.

One more tiny victory for the feeble Spanish speaker.

Mary was here

Eventually our party made its way into Zaragoza. Our visit there leaves me with many questions and one disagreement with Jack. And this is the overall impression I still have of the city.

Zaragoza is most famous for its basilica which is a massive temple that houses a statue of Mary – about 15 inches tall - and the jasper pillar on which she stands. The pillar is pretty big – though you can’t see much of it, it’s hidden under a skirt. The statue and pillar are part of an altar. On the back side of the altar, there is a small area of the pillar exposed for the faithful, or just the curious, to look at, touch, kiss, whatever. The church is named after it: Basilica of Our Lady of the Pillar.



The legend is that the apostle James was touring Spain, pretty much like we were. But he was on mission to spread the Word. (We were just cruising around.) It wasn’t going well, he was feeling disheartened about his job, and so he sat down by the river in Zaragoza to pray. Mary appeared to him in a dream, told him to get back to work, and somehow delivered the little wood statue and the heavy marble pillar as proof that everything was going to work out. And she told him to build a church right there. That massive church that stands there now is not exactly the one he built, but he probably woke up feeling like he had a big job ahead of him.

Being who I am, I have a lot of questions about this story. Let’s take the physical presence of the pillar. Yes, I have my questions about the little statue, too, but for the moment let’s just image the problem with the pillar. The thing is pretty big – a few yards high and about a foot in diameter. That’s a heavy item to 1) just show up next to you when you wake up from your dream and 2) to move out of the way without a crane while you build your church. So, I question the whole part about the pillar being part of the dream, etc. But the pillar is part of the legend and the miracle and the thing that everyone goes and kisses. It just doesn’t add up for me. Too many logistical issues.

Of course, that’s just the beginning of my questions about the legend, but the list is just too long to include in whole here. There are many more things about Zaragoza that intrigue me.


There is another huge church, the Seo Cathedral, on the main plaza. Another absolutely massive building. The interior is chock full of everything you’d expect from a Catholic cathedral. I’m not distracted with my questions there. It’s the outside that troubles me. It’s quite beautiful on the exterior – very heavily influenced by the Moors. Here’s what I don’t get: if you are sworn enemies with another group with whom you repeatly engage in bloodbaths, doesn’t it seem funny that you would build your most venerated buildings with the distinctive mark of that enemy on it?



Okay, one more building on the plaza that you have to take a look at – the leaning tower. The obvious questions: it is a mistake or a kind of cool trick to show off? Wait, is it really leaning, or it is just me? Why would you do that? Is it in peril?

Besides all the questions, my impression of Zaragoza is that it is a city far more comfortable with being part of the modern world than Madrid is. This is where Jack and I disagree. He thinks Madrid is modern, but that I just don’t see it because we live in the old part of the city. I think Zaragoza isn’t afraid to mix contemporary art and life right in the heart of its historic district, and this is evidence that Zaragoza is much more comfortable with the present and the future. I don’t see anything nearly as modern as these grand sculptures in Madrid, particularly in the heart of Madrid.



In the same plaza with the Basilica and the cathedral, there are some fun contemporary structures that remind you that you live in the 21 century. It makes me feel good, reminders that it’s a modern world. There are some Roman ruins in the area that have been mixed with contemporary design – a statement that Zaragoza is willing to embrace it’s past while still moving forward.


I like this mixing of ancient and contemporary most about this city. It’s hip and cool and old and rich with history.

Pedro was here

Spain is bigger than you think it is. I was planning a little 2-3 day trip to get out of town and decided to visit a couple of places Charlie and Ann stayed on their way back home to Southern France. I pulled out our guide book and decided we’d spend a day in Segovia and then drive north to Zaragoza and then loop back around to Madrid. We had a nice time in Segovia, enjoyed a long visit at Alcázar, the local castle, and got in the car to zip off to our next destination, Zaragoza. That’s when I pulled the map out for the first time. I mean, that’s the first time that I pulled out the road map. In the guide book my plan looked good, but the reality of Spain is a lot like Nevada - a lot of wide open desert. There are no direct roads from Segovia to Zaragoza; you either have to essentially back track to Madrid then take the highway back north to Zaragoza, or take small windy roads. We did a quick survey and decided that we should see some of Spain that we hadn’t seen yet – and take the back roads. What I had thought was going to be an easy two hour drive was quickly becoming four or five hours in the car with two slightly cranky kids and poor Cynthia in the backseat with them.

Central Spain looks so much like Nevada that you could be forgiven for asking yourself why you chose the long route just to see landscape that looks just like home. So when Jack spotted a sign for a quick diversion, again the votes tallied in favor of a checking out Pedro’s hermitage. Why not? We were looking for something of interest.


We wound our way off mapped roads following signs to Pedro. Many giggles emanated from backseat where the Napoleon Dynamite fans were hoping to catch a glimpse of a more contemporary Pedro.

When we finally rolled into the little pueblo of Pedro, we found a dump on the way in and a little church with a swing set.


Our car attracted the attention of the locals who came out to see who was passing by, and we wondered if anyone else had ever followed those highway signs to Pedro’s place before. Cynthia and Anna gave the swings a try and just as we were getting back in the car, a man yelled at us and pointed down a dirt road. Our read, “Dudes, the hermitage is down this way.” So we had a lovely walk in the autumn air and eventually found the hermitage.


That’s it. The hermitage we drove half an hour out of our way to find.

No info about who Pedro was, why his little place is still there, or why there’s a sign on the highway miles away pointing pilgrims to the site. When I got home, I did my best to uncover Pedro’s secret on-line. Alas, his story remains a secret. And our pilgrimage to his humble shed a pleasant diversion from our road trip to Zaragoza. Next stop Zaragoza – Mary was there.

Segovia's unexpected treasure trove

It’s not the big sites or events that really make a trip for me. It’s the details. Segovia is famous for its beautiful Roman aquaduct. It is fabulous. Breathtaking. An engineering marvel. I loved seeing it. But, it wasn’t what captured my attention in Segovia.

Segovia is one the many cities in Spain where the Moorish influence is very strong. You see it in the design of all important buildings. And as I wandered around, I started to see potential in these designs.

It started as a small idea. I saw a design on the side of a building that I thought would be perfect for a garden stepping stone. Before we left Reno, I planned to buy a concrete mold to make stepping stones for a path through the lavender and yarrow in our front yard. The molds I could find were about 18 inches round or square. You pour concrete in them, let them cure, and voila, you have a lovely step for your garden path. Last summer I didn’t have the time to execute the plan. But it’s still percolating in the back of my mind. So when I saw the perfect Moorish design for my front yard path, I started wondering how to turn that design into a mold.

Before I knew it, the walls of Segovia were covered in stepping stones designs. I took pictures of each one; I was obsessed. Lucky for me, our friend Cynthia was with us, and she was right there with me. She moved from concrete to fabric and paper. Notecards, home decorating, rubber stamps. The applications are endless. I kept snapping away and developing business plans. Whew. What a whorlwind that trip to Segovia was!

The Dia Zone Daily

All the regulars were working The Dia Zone door this evening: Jack’s friend Christian from Sudan (who speaks much better English than we do Spanish), Nipple Shaver Man, and the woman who has been seen on occasion picking things out of Nipple Man’s hair. When we approached, Nipple Man and the woman (as yet nameless) had quite a crowd stopped at the entrance. She appeared to be offering a service that looked suspiciously like she was checking people’s ears for something. Alex declined my offer to support an ear check for him. We walked in with a chuckling old woman. Sure, she could understand what was really going on.

Inside: Bienvenido a la Zona del Dia!/Welcome to The Dia Zone! As ever, there was the post-purchase line waiting for change. But today, I came prepared with small bills so I could walk right by those guys who bought a six pack with a €50 note. Today, I had no intention of having an embarrassment-induced hot flash in this store!

On the way out, Alex asked if I had the requisite small change ready for our friend Christian. Jack’s away, so I’m on duty doling out Christian’s allotment. I had change ready for both Christian and the woman. For some reason I was prepared for two beggars but not three. So on the way out I handed change to both Christian and the woman. And as I walked away Nipple Man complained bitterly to the others: “She gave me nada! Nada!” Alex was a little embarrassed at my oversight. So I got some more change out that Alex could go back and give to Nipple Man. Alas, Alex refused. But emboldened by a language victory at the previous store, I decide to go back and even it up for Nipple Man. Really, it was unfair of me.

His eyes opened wide as I walked right up to him. He had no idea what was coming. I dropped the change into his hand. “Para tí. Lo siento./For you. I’m sorry.” He gave me bows of gratitude. “Muchas gracias. Muchas gracias, senora!” And I walked away with the smug satisfaction that I answered his complaint because I actually understood what he said. We both scored.

On the rails

She was the last person off the train, left behind the others as they left the Metro station. She was probably 25, dressed in jeans. We watched her alone on the platform from across the tracks while we waited for our train. She moved slowly, wavering toward the edge of the platform. Everything was happening very slowly, even when her leg gave way and her whole body folded up and rolled off the platform, skidded down the wall and onto the tracks. She lay between the rails, semiconscious and barely moving. It was so unthinkable to see her body lying on the tracks that a stillness and silence took control of everyone on our platform.

The third rail is on the ceiling in the Madrid Metro, making jumping onto the tracks slightly less terrifying than one might imagine. The threat comes solely from being crushed by a train, not from being electrocuted as well. Nonetheless, I was shocked and horrified and relieved to see Jack down on the tracks running to help the limp body. There were fewer than four minutes until the next westbound train would pass where her body lay, and fewer still until the next eastbound train sliced by inches away. No one other than Jack was acting to help this woman, but everyone must have had an image the train running her over in their minds.

The strange quiet continued until Jack looked up and started yelling “Medico! Medico!” Someone on the platform took the charge and began yelling for a doctor, and someone ran up the stairway in search of more help. A crowd grew on our platform, watching Jack bend down to talk to the woman. One other man jumped down to help for a moment, but was quickly gone. In the moment, Jack could not remember any Spanish so was useless in communicating with the woman. She was barely alert and not aware of her situation.

Then the proximity of the approaching trains weighed down on the entire station. A light from the eastbound train charged toward the station. Frantic, I began to wave my arms and scream, “Stop! Stop! Para! Para!” At last the crowd began to act, joining in the effort to stop the train, to catch the engineer’s attention.

The eastbound train slowed and stopped before entering the station. But Jack and the woman remained close to the westbound train’s entrance, and a bend in the tunnel meant that little time was available to wave the engineer to a halt. Jack’s mind raced through the possibilities. The woman was too heavy to lift out of the tracks. If the train did not stop, she could lie perfectly still and the train would pass over her. Jack would jump to the safety of the eastbound tracks. She might be untouched. Or, if anything went wrong, we would all witness her horrendous death.

Perhaps in my panic I couldn’t see or hear anything other than Jack and the woman together on the tracks. My memory is focused on Jack desperate to help the woman and stop the trains, while in my peripheral vision, I see the crowd mostly quiet or murmuring, but not helping. I handed my cell phone to a man standing next to me. “No hablo español! Call for help. Call for help.” Another woman looked at me and asked me something that I couldn’t understand. I told her that Jack couldn’t speak Spanish and someone else needed to help Jack talk to the woman lying on the tracks. Still no one else was helping. Two men in Metro uniforms appeared. I couldn’t see that they were making any effort to communicate with the approaching train, and they certainly weren’t helping to move the woman off the tracks.

By the time the westbound train appeared, the crowd was yelling again “Para! Para!” Who knows if there was a system in place to stop the train. When the light appeared around the bend, arms were waving, people were screaming, and I can only hope that someone somewhere had already communicated to the engineer to stop. He brought the train far closer to the scene than you might imagine a good system would have allowed. The approaching train stopped just outside the station.

With both trains stopped, and crowds growing on both platforms, the engineer of one of the trains got onto the tracks and went to help the woman. Jack jumped back up onto the platform. The woman was groggy and dazed as the engineer spoke with her and then helped her stagger over to a ladder where she climbed to safety.

It was very dangerous of Jack to jump down onto the tracks. But the lack of action of the others lead him to believe that if someone did not, the woman would have no chance. I thought in the moment that a handful of strong men would take immediate action and lift her from the tracks and back onto the platform. Reflecting back on it, it would, of course, have been more dangerous to have a half dozen people on the tracks. But none meant that she was more likely to been unseen and without any help.

Later that day on our way home, we stopped at the station’s service window to ask how the lady was. The station manager said that she was fine, but wagged his finger at Jack saying to never go down on the tracks again. And then, he looked him in the eye and said, “Gracias.”

Our friend Ysabel has told us stories of moments when a person was in need, and a crowd stood around and stared. One time a woman was in labor at the post office. Ysabel calmed her down and then drove her to the hospital while the others stood by and watched. Another time Ysabel was hit by a truck and had to take command of the situation herself, yelling orders at passersby.

The woman on the platform was the second person I’ve seen pass out in Madrid. The other time a teenage girl at a bookstore collapsed in front of a long line of people waiting to buy text books. I thought then of Ysabel’s stories. The girl’s mother was there and it was clearly most appropriate for her to take charge of the situation. And certainly I was in no position to help, being deaf and dumb in Spanish while dozens of others had the ability to call for help or assist. But in the end, I felt inadequate and insensitive for merely standing by and watching with the rest of the crowd. As at the Metro station, I was dumbfounded by the passivity and insensitivity of the crowd.

Jack and I each have a picture in our minds of that woman lying alone on the tracks needing help. Jack said it took him two seconds to decide what to do, that he once vowed to himself to never allow another person to be hurt when he could give aid.

Notas para me

España es engorde.
Corrección: Viviendo en España es engorde.
Corrección: Viviendo en nuestro piso es engorde.
Corrección: Heather esta engordando.

Muy triste.

El mes pasado, yo engordé.
No me gusta engordar.
Este mes, estoy patinando y no estoy usando el acensor.
Entonces, no engordaré mas.

Es verdad.

Para practicar

Preterito
engordé
engordáste
engordó
engordamos
engordastáis
engordaron

Preterito perfecto
he engordado
has engordado
ha engordado
hemos engordado
habéis engordado
han engordado

Presente
no engordo
no engordas
no engorda
no engordamos
no engordáis
no engordan

Futuro
no engordaré
no engordarás
no engordará
no engordaremos
no engordaréis
no engordarán

Imperativo
no engordes

Rollercoaster ride

In the end it was a good week, though tough. Every day either started or ended with some sort of mini-crisis. But every day also held some sort of victory or accomplishment or moment of delight. I think most days also had a least one moment of hysteria - as in uncontrollable laughter - not as in freaking out. Jack thinks it's the same thing for me, and maybe it is, but if it's a fit of uncontrollable laughter it's better than a fit of uncontrollable tears. And just a point, I've only had one fit of uncontrollable tears since we've been here.

Each kid had their own personal meltdown when they (almost) refused to go to school. Alex ended up skipping the first hour one day, and Anna came home a couple hours early the next day. (One learned from the other?)

On the other hand, they both made progress on starting friendships. Poco a poco, as the Spaniards always tell us.

Jack and I met with one of Alex's teachers. Mark this up as a hysterically funny event. Imagine Professor Umbridge talking to deaf and dumb (in a manner of speaking) foreign student's parents. I was able to control myself enough to get out of the building and down the street before I laughed out loud. We weren't able to get Alex out of the dreadful class - yet - but we're working on it.

Some moms at Anna's school stopped and talked to me at drop off time. As all moms know, this is HUGE. I'm incredibly greatful to the mom who generously stopped to talk to me. Mark this one up as big potential for socialization for both Anna and me.

My internal soundtrack is the single line: People are strange when you're a stranger on endless loop. I'm trying to be Buddhist about it and accept the discomfort.

We stretched ourselves farther from The Dia Zone. We had many delightful interactions with shop keepers in small market stalls and bakeries, etc. We visited a market where you can buy every single part of an animal - ears, stomach, brains, balls, hairy goat snouts. I opted for the pimientos de Padron instead. I'm still pretty confused about when you're allowed to pick out your own produce and when you have to let the market keeper select and bag it for you. But no one actually yelled at me.

I realized that if I stay calm I can speak (sort of) Spanish. At various times during the week I was able to enjoy putting together the roughest of language to converse. Even simply thanking Benito for helping us get rid of the itchy old mattress was rewarding.

Anna, Alex and I made the long Metro trek to the sports equipment store and bought ourselves rollerblades. We had to find some way to get out and exercise. Don't worry, Dad, we got pads and helmets, too. No injuries to report from our maiden voyage. Today we're heading over to Retiro, where everyone goes to rollerskate.

And the most wonderful part of the week was having Ysabel, our Spanish guardian angel, over for dinner last night. We could show off our growing language skills (she always wants to hear how our Spanish is coming along), and I could present her with the socks I'd knit for her. I was so happy to have a friend in Spain that I wanted to knit for.

Sigh. So, it was a pretty good week after all.

Thanks, everyone, for the loving up.

Besos a todos.

The Dia Zone / La Zona del Dia

The Dia is the cheapo grocery store a half a block away. We go there almost every day to get milk or butter or toilet paper. Our kitchen is probably about standard by Spanish or European standards, but by American standards, it is very small. We call it our Barbie Doll kitchen. So, we have to shop often since there is no storage space. Therefore, we have to make frequent visits to The Dia Zone.

One of the first things we noticed when we got here was that the cashiers are really, really grumpy. Always. Generally, I am insecure about offending people. So I assume when someone is grumpy it is because I have offended them. In the early days here, I assumed that I offended the Dia Grumps by not speaking fast enough, by touching the fruit (I couldn’t read the sign that said not to), because I couldn’t understand how much they said I owed, because I couldn’t get my money counted fast enough, by simply being American. I don’t know. I just assumed that it was my fault.

I would spend every minute that I had to wait in line reciting over and over in my head what I needed to say to the Dia Grump. But eventually, I noticed that those ladies were grumpy with everyone else, too. This helped me relax. And once I started to relax, I could look around and see what was going on around me. And that’s when we started to call it The Dia Zone.

First, they don’t have enough change. Dia is a very large chain of grocery stores. It is not a mom and pop operation. You might expect that they would be well equipped and well stocked. But you would be wrong. The most surprising shortage they have is their lack of change. They simply don’t have enough small bills or coins to give their customers change.

At first I assumed it was my problem. The bank machine doles out 50 Euro notes. Eventually you have to use the darn things. The cashier would look at me in disgust and ask if I had anything smaller. “No. Lo siento. I’m so sorry, no, I don’t have anything smaller.” She would grumble and slap the change in my hand.

Later though, Jack came home from the Dia reporting that they simply didn’t have change. He had run out for one small item and was gone for almost an hour. He had stood in line forever waiting for each person in front of him to go through the same routine with the Grumps. No change. People in line were pulling lint out of their pockets looking for exact change. People went through the checkout only to learn that they couldn’t buy their groceries because the cashier had no change. Abandoned groceries littered the narrow aisle. What to do? And still the Grump stood at her cash register: “Next?”

And so it goes. Now I only go to the Dia when I have small bills and lots of coins. Interesting approach to commerce in a cash based society. But, I’m learning and trying to adapt. They also run out of other standard items such as tissues, yogurt, soap, etc. Everyone is paranoid about el Gripe (the flu), so I can see the run on tissues, but it’s darn inconvenient.

The Dia Zone has other treats as well. There is always a homeless person stationed at the door begging. There are three regulars, one of whom Jack has befriended. Once a week Jack gives him a Euro, and Jack is rewarded with no hassles for the rest of the week. Now that he’s seen Jack and me together, I think he has extended this courtesy to me as well. This man is simply delightful now, always ready with an eager smile and “Buenas! ¿Que tal?”

I caught one of the regular homeless chaps outside the Dia last Saturday afternoon engaged in his ablutions. I kid you not, the man was shaving his breast. One side of his chest was hairy as could be while he worked away at the other with a disposable razor. When I came out of the Dia he was dry shaving his face.

Mind you, this is not a bad neighborhood by any stretch of the imagination. It’s a great neighborhood. I feel absolutely safe here, and love that we had the good fortune to land here. I think this is just living in the big city.

Or rather, I think it is living in La Zona del Dia. Always interesting. Always an adventure. Just like the rest of Madrid.

Why are we here?

On the hard days, I wonder why we are doing this. Why are we here? Why are we putting the kids through this?

In some respects, it doesn’t matter why we came, though it does matter why we stay. When we decided to come we had lofty goals – we would all learn Spanish, we would make Spanish friends, we’d learn to love another country and culture. I’m not sure that I still hold any of those ambitions as goals any more. Yes, it will be nice if we learn some Spanish. Yes, we are meeting a few people, some Spanish, many foreign. And yes, we can get a glimpse of Spain. But we cannot know Spain like I’d hoped we could. A year is not long enough.

So, what do we get out of being here? At this point, I don’t think it’s about knowing a place, a people or a language well. I think, ultimately, for us, this year will be -- and is -- about us. We will know for certain what it is like to be foreigners. We will learn more about how we handle stress, humility, confusion, adversity, etc. It’s less about this place than it is about being dropped into deep water and seeing how we manage to keep our heads above it. To keep breathing until we’re on dry land again.

And maybe that’s enough. In fact, that’s a lot. And it takes a lot of pressure off trying to accomplish something that was impractical from the beginning.

I have agonized a fair amount about not doing this well. About not being good at taking full advantage of everything here. Of every second. Every opportunity. Of being a good exchange student, as it were. News flash for me: There is no good way or bad way to be here, any more than there is a good way or bad way of living all the rest of life. There’s just our family here, or wherever, and loving each other. That’s what is either good or bad. Have I loved Jack and Alex and Anna today in a way that they feel loved and secure?

So I missed the Matisse exhibit. So I haven’t found the fabulous food Madrid is supposed to offer. So I haven’t taken any Spanish culture or cooking classes.

The better question is, did I wrap my arms around my crying child and provide a tiny bit of comfort so that she will be better able to deal with the situation tomorrow? Am I giving the kids the support they need so that they will discover their own ability to cope with being here? Hard question when what they really, really want is to have friends, have some autonomy and normalcy, and kind of, just want to go home.

We knew in advance that this would be hard. But we thought that since we knew that that would be the case, that it wouldn’t really be so bad. Nope. It’s just as hard.

Olympic sized pins and needles

Earlier today, waiting for an Olympic party to happen. Madrileños paint the Madrid 2016 symbol with Rubiks Cubes (weird)

All of Madrid has been on pins and needles all day waiting to hear if they get to host the 2016 Summer Olympics.

All over town there are parties in the street waiting to happen. Across from the Palacio Real people have been hanging around waiting for the party.

We decided to watch the live voting action from home where we have more translation tools at hand.

AND NOW THEY HAVE A FINAL VOTE -- BUT THEY AREN'T TELLING FOR A WHOLE HOUR. Why is it that the Olympics can declare a winner by a millionth of a second - but it takes an hour to announce the results of this vote? Crazy.

We've been a little cynical about this Madrid bid for the Olympics. But we are all now rooting for our (now) home team. GO, MADRID! GO!

Bummer about the Obama coat tails not working out for Chicago.

I'm still skeptical. But, if Madrid gets it, we're going down to that party!!

What made us giggle today

What we thought we said vs. what we really said

Alex made a self-deprecating comment about something that was driving me crazy.
What I thought I was saying: I agree!/ Estoy de acuerda!
What I really said: Me acuesto!/ I'm going to bed!

Anna needed to use the facilities before we left the restaurant.
What Jack thought he was saying: Esperamos afuera. / We'll wait outside.
What Jack really said: Esperamos afuego. / We'll wait in the fire.

We headed off to Retiro to collect more conkers.
What Anna thought she was saying: Let's go collect more chestnuts.
What Anna really said: Let's go collect more coconuts.
She was speaking in English, so it wasn't a translation problem.
___________________

Aside: Which reminds me of last week when Jack and I were late for Spanish class so we jumped in a cab instead of walking. I started talking to Jack about something or other when Jack wispered to me, "We should be practicing our Spanish with the driver!" Jack, the master of small talk with strangers, says to the cabby, "Donde estas?" Which means, Where are you? I chuckled knowing that what he was really trying to say was, Where are you from? (De donde eres?) The cabby was a little perplexed. So I jumped in and made the correction for Jack. Once the driver understood what had happened he started kidding Jack. "I'm in the taxi. Where are you?"
______________________

How many times does the man have to say no?

We tried three times to ask the docent at the train museum if he had an explanation of how a steam engine worked to accompany the most excellent cut away engine on display. It was such a fantastic and elaborate exhibit that it was hard to believe they hadn't provided documentation.


I think the guy was about to kill us by the time Jack wandered over and used his bad Spanish. He must have been thinking: "It was no the first time when the woman asked. It was no the second time when the kid asked. And it's still no! And it's really painful to listen to you guys asking. Go away!" Maybe he even said that. We probably couldn't have understood him.
_______________________

What's that guy having?


Between the train museum and the Retiro, we had a great Ecuadorean dinner. Everything on the tables around us looked great, so we just asked "what is that guy having, and how about that woman over there, and how about him?" When it all arrived, I was the one with tripe this time. Two bites. That's all I could do. And only because I was egged on by Jack who knows I can't stand looking like a wimp.

_______________________


To celebrate finding the humor in it all, we decided to visit our favorite gelato shop. It's hard to beat that gelato.

Really, we're trying with the Spanish! It's just coming along slowly.

Conkers

At first I had a little bit of a bad attitude about going to Parque del Retiro. It’s a big old park in Madrid which is kind of nice, but, I think overrated. However, it’s a good location for PW (see La Piscina), so when Ann said she wanted to go, I was only slightly discouraging. We did, in fact, have a lovely time at Retiro enjoying drinks near the pseudo-lake (see The Boating Situation in Madrid), watching a great street performer, and checking out a number of living statues.
But the real gem in Retiro is the debris from the chestnut trees. Charlie and Ann are Brits, and they had something to teach us about conkers. We collected dozens of fallen chestnuts from the ground in preparation for playing conkers. Charlie and Ann tell us that back where they come from, every kid plays conkers, so we better learn how.

Basic conker preparation involves threading a string through a hole in a chestnut. More advanced preparations can involve oven-drying your conker, or even soaking your conker in vinegar and then oven-drying it. There are probably lots of other tightly-held secret methods of conker prep. The point here is to make your conker as hard and indestructible as possible. Because you want your conker to destroy as many opponent conkers as possible.


Charlie found some sort of tool in the ancient tool box in our apartment to make holes in our chestnuts. Then we trekked out to the ferretaria to buy some string. We made up a whole slew of conkers for a conker tournament, and we set out on the terraza to learn how to play conkers.


From the look on Ann’s face when she plays conkers, I’d say she must have been the playground champion at her school. She looks vicious as she winds up to take a crack at your conker. It seems like a boy’s game, but there is no doubt that Ann has lots of experience.

To play conkers, one player dangles his conker at the end of its string, holding it for a shot from the other player’s conker. The other player gets to whack away until he misses or until the opponent’s conker breaks off the string. The players change rolls, back and forth until one conker destroys the other.


The victor, on its first win, is labeled a oner. If it is able to destroy another, it earns the title of twoer. And so on. Charlie says that it is not uncommon for a young lad who has done a great deal of prep work on his conker to wrack up enough victories to be a twentier or thirtier, though I’m dubious. I don’t see how they could possibly hold up that long.

Charlie and Ann are so good at aiming and smacking your conker, that you simply can’t believe they haven’t been at it daily for the last 60-something years. But they swear they haven’t been serious since childhood. Though Ann admits to playing at her last job occasionally.

Jack and the kids are pretty good off the bat, hitting the opponent often enough to be decent contestants. At first not only can I not hit another conker, but I keep hitting myself and getting hurt. Not good form. And a little embarrassing. We play on the terraza until it is too dark to see then come in for dinner. But I think we are all hooked. It’s pretty fun. We have a couple twoers, but most of our Retiro-born conkers are weak and cannot withstand more than one or two battles. We have started a round robin tournament that must wait until later to complete.


The tournament continues the next day after school. We head over to the park in the plaza across from the Palacio Real (The Royal Palace) where there are lots of street performers. So we pack a picnic lunch along with our bag of conkers and head out.

We put our picnic blanket down and pull out our bocadillos to stoke up on before the competition. Next to us, a living angel statue who we have seen before is unpacking her dirty white gown, disheveled white wig, and torn, bent angel wings. As we finish our lunch and begin tournament play, the angel’s devilish boyfriend bawls her out in some Slavic language.


Meanwhile, I am finally getting the hang of this conking with conkers. And I have started to win. Repeatedly. I have myself a oner, twoer, on and on until I have beaten someone else’s threer and have a sixer, a sevener. There is an occasional conker from the bag that survives to enjoy being a twoer or threer for a few rounds, until eventually my conker beats them all and I have the victorious tener of the tournament before the rain starts, and we decide to call it a day on the conker field.


I was rooting for the poor angel, wishing she would come and grab a conker from our bag and whack her bad boyfriend in the head. But she didn’t. When we left, Ann dropped some coins in her box, and we wished that she could be as lucky as we were to enjoy a day out in the park, playing conkers with dear friends, rather than working hard, standing as still as can be for spare change and a boyfriend who should have stayed in Romania.