Yo Mama en Espana

La ultima corrida

2010-08-03T23:25:00.000-07:00

1 de agosto. Novillada con picadores.

Seis novillos de Javier Molina.
Luis Martín Núñez: Saludos, Saludos con un aviso
Juan Carlos Rey: Silencio con un aviso,Vuelta al ruedo
Damian Castaño: Saludos, Silencio
Con Alex. Silla a la barrera.

Otta no funciona hoy

2010-06-16T09:28:00.001-07:00

Spain's crushing defeat in today's World Cup game is probably Otto's fault. He was guaranteed to provide a victorious resolution to any game, and more than any other, any Spanish World Cup game. We decided to pull Otto out in the second half when Spain was desperately trying to recover from Switzerland's 1-0 lead.

Otto wasn't working today. Probably not many other Spaniards were either.

Corrida

2010-06-14T10:02:00.000-07:00

12 de junio de 2010.
Corrida de toros.
Manolo Sánchez: Pitos, Silencio.
"El Juli": Saludos, Silencio.
Alejandro Talavante: Vuelta al ruedo con un aviso (pollo), Silencio.
Seis toros de El Ventorrillo.
Lluvia.
Con Alex.

Orgiva, España

2010-06-09T01:33:00.000-07:00

Amuleto Vudú: Otto

2010-06-07T22:00:00.000-07:00

How to insure that Spain wins the Euro Cup, or World Cup, or whatever international soccer tournament you want: Otto, the secret weapon. During the 2008 Euro Cup, Spain met Otto, a voodoo doll looking like a soccer player who is already barely able to limp off the field. We only found Otto this week, but we’re ready to put him to use for the World Cup. Since he comes with 24 different national flags, we’re able to help either Spain or the US defeat all challengers.

Alex translates Otto’s packaging:

Guarantee the victory of your favorite team
In your hands lay Otto, a magical figure, an authentic amulet known for changing the destiny of soccer matches. With Otto, getting goals is as easy as scoring goals when there isn't a goalie.

With the help of this prodigious talisman the triumph of your favorite soccer team is a piece of cake; the success rate is monstrous. Finish with unfair judgments from the umpire like fouls and penalty kicks, and leave behind the suffering that comes in the last couple minutes of a game. This year, with Otto, your team will win.

How to use Otto
All that you have to do is hold Otto in your left hand and place the flag of the opposing team on his shirt. Close your eyes and concentrate and hope and wish with all your strength that your team will score a goal.

Next, pick up a pin and hold it firmly with your index finger and insert the pin into whichever part of Otto that you would like to see reflected in your opponent. Finish by inserting the remaining 3 needles, but measure your euphoria, so that later it hits you even harder.

Immediately afterward you should see the effects. The game should rapidly change face and your team will kick some butt.

Be careful with the voodoo doll, it is not a toy, but rather an important tool.
Recommended age: older than sixteen, but even this with adult supervision.

Corrida

2010-05-31T22:00:00.000-07:00

"Que asco de granadería" "Hoy Toros Light"

Anodino comienzo del Aniversario
31 de mayo de 2010.
Corrida de toros.
Diego Urdiales: Silencio, Silencio con un aviso
Rubén Pinar: Silencio, Silencio
Miguel Tendero: Pitos con un aviso, Silencio
Seis toros de Valdefresno.
Con Brad, Lori, Ian, Allie, Brynna, y Alex.

Ángel Caído

2010-05-28T14:34:00.000-07:00

There is a statue in the Retiro Park of the Ángel Caído, the Fallen Angel. We made of special trip to find it on a sunny weekend morning. And it has me thinking. Not about Lucifer, or redemption, or the hopelessness thereof for fallen angels or people guilty of deadly sins. It has me thinking about art and how we respond to it.

This beautiful sculpture stands on top of a tall pillar, making it very difficult to really experience. I’d read about how spectacular the Ángel Caído was, but I was a little disappointed. I was much more engaged by the gargoyle-like fountains around its base. If there was a story told, I heard it through these scary creatures at eye level. I walked around and around examining the details: who was eating what and why?

Art surrounds us, both religious and secular. Images of Mary and Jesus and the saints. Kings and queens. Conquerors. Explorers. Events both real and mythological. Art is important so we don’t forget our stories, our history.

I'm wondering about how we respond to art. And the fact that how it is displayed impacts our experience of it greatly. Lucifer at the top of the pillar does not move me. Later I saw a replica of the same statue, its pedestal raised it only inches, meaning that this Lucifer was at eye level. I circled him, enchanted by the figure’s beauty, the anguish on his face, the serpent pulling him to the pits of hell.
In Catholic Spain, when you visit a church, you are more likely than not to see people kneeling, praying, crying, at an image of Mary. Is it the art that moves them, or simply that it is Mary? Or that the person moved to tears is in a holy place that has set the stage?

In the Prado, I get to thinking about all those altarpiece paintings of Mary with bared breast. I can’t help but think that they were a distraction to the altar boys. There is one painting in particular that baffles me. Murillo’s The Virgin Appears to St. Bernard. In it, Mary squirts milk from her bare, engorged breast straight at St. Bernard’s lips. Maybe I’m just a non-religious cynic, but I’m having a hard time believing that all the altar boys and celibate monks were thinking about St. Bernard’s holiness when they saw this painting hanging over the altar when their attention wandered during mass. But who knows, maybe when it's up behind the altar, it's different.

But in the Prado, I'm somewhat irritated about seeing Mary’s breasts everywhere. I’m not offended by her breasts, or images of her nursing her baby. I’m irritated that the church flaunts Mary’s holy breasts everywhere, while, apparently every other female breast throughout history has been sinful. What would St. Bernard have said to a young nursing mother with equally bared chest in the town square? And thus my mind wanders.

In the museum, it's too much. Too many images in one place, out of place. It's too easy to take them out of context and end up in a feminist rant. They weren't really meant to be seen this way. They were meant to be displayed in a holy place, where people go to worship. It's too easy to end up back at the base of the pillar laughing at the coarse creatures, entirely missing the story going on above.

Laguna de los Párjaros

2010-05-25T03:16:00.001-07:00

On Sunday, we went to the Sierra. The Sierra de Guadarrama. With all the differentness of living in Madrid, I'm struck by how much I feel at home when we are in the Sierra, even if they are not our Sierra. We have longed for the mountains this year. I feel a little sad that we didn't make an effort to spend more time in the hills earlier. But at the end of the day, being in the mountains here is very much like being in the mountains anywhere. Maybe it was okay to stay out of that comfort zone for the year. We'll have plenty of mountain time back in our home range.

Corrida

2010-05-25T01:31:00.000-07:00

24 de mayo de 2010. Novillada con picadores.
Arturo Saldívar: Silencio, Palmas
Luis Miguel Casares: Silencio, Silencio
Cristian Escribano: Palmas con un aviso,Silencio
Seis novillos de Guadaira.
Con Alex.

Grilled

2010-05-21T04:10:00.000-07:00

Fresh whole fish on the grill. It was too much to resist. We were at a friend’s house last weekend, enjoying grilled fish and veggies, and the countryside, the fresh air. I was in heaven. And feeling a bit homesick for the grill. I love our grill. It’s Jack’s grill, a 50th birthday present. But to tell the truth, he doesn’t use it as much as I do, though he reaps its rewards. I'm daydream about cooking back home…but back to grilling in Spain.

After the barbeque at Migel and Sonya’s house, I was aching for a grill. We have a lovely tiled terrace on the top floor of our building -- perfect to house a new grill. I remembered by aunt saying that grills had been banned from their apartment building in DC because they were a fire hazard. So I checked with Benito, the porter, who knows a lot about the rules. To my surprise, he didn’t think it was a problem.

So, I procured a portable grill and some coals, and headed to the market. I bought fresh fish, zucchini and pineapple to cook over the fire. They were tasty. Everyone enjoyed them. And the mom was happy.

The next day I bought BBQ sauce and chicken.

It was a little tricky starting the fire without adequate supplies. So much so that it started chipping away at the little thrill I was getting out of having a grill on the teraza. And I kept thinking about my aunt’s comment. And the fact that there is no fire escape in the building. Can you believe it? Apartment buildings here do not have fire escapes. If you can’t make it down the interior stairwell you are done in. I was having a hard time cooking my chicken with my pathetic little fire. And the joy was dwindling by the minute.

The next day Jack was telling his officemate about the new grill. “Are you crazy?! You can’t light a grill in an apartment building! Of course they aren’t allowed!”

I’m back to fantasizing about the beautiful, big grill on the deck at home. We’re close enough to our return date that I’m allowing myself these little indulgences.

Backtracking

2010-05-18T10:09:00.000-07:00

Spring has sprung. The warmth and sunshine have brought optimism. And I'm backtracking, catching up on notes to myself, as it were.

It was a long, hard winter. And I couldn't find the gumption to write notes about what we were up to, when it seemed that all we were up to was holding everyone together.

The sun is out, the light at the end of the tunnel is in sight for those who needed it the most during the cold, scary winter.

I'm back dating entries so the stories fall into the right places. And I'm having a delightful time processing the memories now while they are still fresh. Now that it feels safe to be happy and laugh again.

Daily torture

2010-05-18T03:29:00.001-07:00

The sign says "Your euros = our daily torture by music"

Plaza Santa Ana is famous for being one of Hemmingway's favorite place to hang out in Madrid. Tourist flock there to enjoy the sunny terazas. And therefore, so flock the street musicians and various other entrepreneurs trying to make a buck, or rather, a Euro, off the tourists. But the neighbors have had enough. That same old accordion song from dawn until dusk is setting them off. One woman went on TV to plead to the authorities to make them stop. Her baby can't sleep. They can't hear their own TV or radio. So, please, they beg, take your damn music someplace else.

Corrida

2010-05-17T22:00:00.000-07:00

17 de mayo de 2010. Novillada con picadores
Paco Chaves: Pios con tres avisos, Bronca
Miguel Hidalgo: Silencio, Pitos tras tres avisos
Antonio Rosales: Silencio, Saludos
Seis novillos de José Joaquín Moreno Silva
Con Alex.

Happy Birthday Gran Via

2010-05-15T01:10:00.000-07:00

Gran Via is Madrid’s Broadway. It runs through the heart of old Madrid. On a normal Friday night, people are packed shoulder to shoulder on the sidewalks once the sun goes down. But this week was special. Gran Via turned 100 years old. So, it was time for a party. The city wrapped the big birthday bash into May 15th San Isidro celebrations, the festival day for the city’s patron saint. And what a party it was.

The street was carpeted from end to end for the evening of the big party, which was supposed to start at 6:00 pm. The bright blue carpet was cordoned off from all traffic or pedestrians. At about 5:00 pm it started to become too difficult to resist and Madrileños started sneaking out into the Gran Via vast blue sea for a quick photo op. Then around the edges, people started dipping their feet in, and leaving them there. By 5:30, a serious leak had occurred in one section of the street, where people were openly wading in and enjoying the waters. Eventually, all pretense of waiting for the official opening was lost, and the crowd delighted in taking Gran Via in completely.

The best part was watching everyone posing to capture their moment on the carpet. Until at last, the crowd was so dense that you simply had to be pulled along by the current, from one music stage to next.

Rite of passage

2010-05-14T21:00:00.000-07:00

Big day for Anna. With friend Ida in tow, she traversed the fear of the ear piercing gun and arrived adorned on the other side.

Corrida de Rejones

2010-05-12T22:00:00.000-07:00

If you are upset about bullfighting, stop here. It seems impossible to tell about going to see the bulls and not end up in a confrontation with some people. In fact, this is how our evening began. Alex and I were rushing to catch the Metro to Las Ventas - Madrid's bullfighting arena. On the way, we ran into my Spanish teacher. After a quick conversation, I explained that we were pressed for time and had to run. “We’re going to Las Ventas!” Alex told her. She pushed me away and yelled, “I hate you people!” Wow. Okay. Last time we make that mistake. We did embrace before saying goodbye, but her sentiment was clear. We pressed on nevertheless.

We were going to see a corrida de rejones. Instead of matadors working on foot, the toreros are mounted on horses. We made it to our seats just in time for the paseillo – the parade of all the participants into the ring.

The two Spanish rejoneadores were dressed much more subduedly than their matador counterparts, in dark jackets rather than the brightly colored, sparkling trajes de luz (suits of light). However, the Portuguese of the trio was in his country’s traditional attire for the event – looking like a prince from the 18th century. His horse was equally adorned. Lovely. This chap, Rui Fernandes, had a long flowing mane of his own, and inspired shouts of “Guapo!”(Hottie!) from a woman near us each time he approached our side of the arena.

The paseillo ended by unnerving everyone when Guapo’s horse reared and threw him. What did this foretell of the evening? we worried. As the newspaper reported the next morning, the crowd didn’t know if it should gasp or laugh.

The first two bulls were lethargic and a great disappointment to all. Alex, who has learned much colorful language from his compañeros at school, giggled and squirmed and translated for me the curses being hurled at the lame toros. Though we had been concerned about Guapo, he proved quite capable, and though he got a dud of a bull to fight, we enjoyed watching his horsemanship nonetheless. The second rejoneador, Andy Cortagena, as equally unlucky.

But with the third bull, the energy increased and Leonardo Hernández had a worthy antagonist. He displayed awe inspiring equestrian skills and for the first time I had a flash of comprehension of what dressage was really all about. I never understood before why one would dance with a horse, but watching the horse and rider interact with the bull gave the art of dressage new meaning to me.

For his fine performance he was awarded one of the bull's ears. While taking his victory lap around the ring, he was honored with many tokens of appreciation thrown at his feet, including a live chicken.

From here on out, the evening became more and more electrifying. The Portuguese entered the ring for his second bull. His number one fan in our section continued shouting “Guapo! Guapo!”at each opportunity. Soon a man to our right heralded the call to the princely rejonador. Then more and more men and women were yelling "Guapo", until we were all in. His performance was brilliant, and he also was awarded an ear.

The quality of the bulls and the enthusiasm of the crowd inspired even greater performance by Andy Cartagena with his second bull. He performed an intimate dance with the horse and the bull, as if the universe were just the three of them. With his horse he made gestures both grand and subtle. Gestures as grand as humbling himself and his horse on their knees to honor the bull, as well as gestures as subtle as a feint to left to prompt the bull to charge, then redirecting the mass of the man and the horse at once to the right to outwit the bull.

A blood chilling moment came when one of the auxiliadores (the rejonedor’s assistants on foot) was working passes with the bull while Cartagena was out of the ring changing horses. The crowd yelled at the man on the ground that he was a fool, that he was too close. At once his body was riding the bull’s horns and flying through the air. The bull charged again before the other auxiliadores could coax him away with their capes. Three times the bull made contact with the man, and for the last the man clung to the horns with his bare hands. At last the bull released him to chase other swinging capes. A veritable miracle occurred when the charged man jumped to his feet unscathed, and continued his roll as auxiliador for the remainder of the corrida. The beauty of the dance was rewarded with an ear from the official, and another chicken from the crowd, in addition to the various other objects that were thrown to the victor as he paraded around the ring.

The coup de grace was Hernández’s second performance of the evening, for which he earned two ears and was carried out of the arena on his mens’ shoulders. Again, man and horse and bull seemed locked in their own world for those brief moments in the ring. Ultimately, the magnificence of the horses reign in my mind.

The evening was spectacular. Five ears, two chickens, one man thrown from his horse, another man thrown repeated by a bull. A guapo prince, and three dozen noble horses, as well as a puerta grande.

And likewise a spectacle. It is impossible to not think of the Colleseum and gladiators. I have chosen not to examine too closely the uncomfortable feelings I have about the bullfights. I have suspended my natural inclination to analyze. Quite frankly, I’d decided not to tell others about the experience of going to the bullfights. But the experience of this night was one not to forget. So, I write about it now for myself and for Alex, as part of our record of our year.

Video hightlights of 12 May 2010 Las Ventas web site

Leonardo Hernández con tres orejas por la Puerta Grande
12 de mayo de 2010. Corrida de rejoneo
Rui Fernandes: Saludos, Oreja
Andy Cartagena: Silencio, Oreja
Leonardo Hernández: Oreja, Dos orejas - Puerta grande
Seis toros de Luis Terrón
Con Alex.

Corrida

2010-04-25T22:00:00.000-07:00

25 de abril de 2010. Corrida de toros.
José Calvo: Silencio con un aviso, Saludos con un aviso
Fernando Cruz: Silencio con un aviso, Silencio con dos aviso
Álvaro Ortega(confirmó la alternativa): Palmas, Silencio con un aviso
Seis toros de Partido de Resina
Con mis padres.
Toro jumped the barrera.

Anna's 11th Birthday celebration

2010-04-17T22:00:00.000-07:00

Anna celebrated her 11th birthday with Ida, Alba, Domenique and Elana. First they were off to Madrid's best gelato, Giuseppe Ricci's, then onto Alicia en el Pais de las Maravillas (Alice in Wonderland). Then we walked home through Madrid's Saturday afternoon antics. In Plaza Mayor, giant bubbles. Near Placio Real. And everywhere there were puppies to play with.

In Plaza Oriente, we ran into the Catalan Circle of Madrid, building human towers, until the rain arrived in earnest and chased everyone away.

Happy Birthday, Anna!

Choca!

2010-04-08T02:03:00.000-07:00

Alex’s favorite form of displacement behavior of late is walking up to you, sticking his hand up in the air, and shouting “High five!” Recently he’s even doing this Spanish style which is the same except he now shouts “Choca!” Sometimes this drives me crazy, but I try to be good natured about it. The kid has had a lousy year so the least I can do is indulge his choca habit.

This morning I went for a run by myself for the first time. Usually I require the moral support of either Jack or Alex to get me going. But today I made it out there solo and even ran longer than I have before (I won’t embarrass myself by telling you how short of a run that actually is). It was a great run. No pain, no inner conflict about if I should keep going. I actually felt good. Almost as good as I do on a bike ride. And on the cool down walk home I must have had a satisfied smile on my face. As I was heading uphill toward Plaza de España a middle aged man was walking down the same sidewalk. And as he approached a huge smile appeared on his face, he stuck out his hand, and greeted me with “Choca!” Lucky me, I knew what he was saying (thanks Alex!). I gave him a high-five and floated the rest of the way home.

You simply don’t see many people exercising in Madrid. Sure you see the odd runner or biker, but not a lot. When I had my choca encounter it was as if that man knew I was thinking to myself, “wow, I feel really good, I need to make sure I do this more often.”

Make someone’s day, give a choca.

Corrida

2010-04-04T22:00:00.000-07:00

4 de abril de 2010. Corrida de toros
Daniel Luque: Silencio, Silencio, Silencio, Silencio con un aviso, Pitos, Silencio
Tres toros de Núñez del Cuvillo y tres toros de Juan Pedro Domecq
Con Tom, Sharon, Shannon, Christopher, Jack, y Alex.

Guest blogger Alex on El Escorial

2010-03-09T10:37:00.000-08:00

Last Friday Mom and I went to El Escorial. El Escorial is where King I'mImportantForSomeReason (and descents) lived in the 17th century. At the time, the building was the biggest in the world. It has over 10 miles of corridors, a massive basilica (special church, see more farther down) and lots of big towers and rooms and other cool stuff. It was also the first building in Hispanic Baroque building style, also known as Herreran (after the builder, or really, the guy who took over after he died). El Escorial took 21 years to build. Being its size, it gets really cold. So cold that I got a candle in the basilica and warmed my hands up over it.

There's no point in boring with all the normal stuff: the servants lived here, the king here, this is the dungeon. Really, after being to several castles (see previous posts on the Rhine valley, Germany), it's all the same. I don't mean to say that it isn't interesting, just that it's like a Christmas joke, and only funny the first few times around.

So, to the point, there were 3 main things that I found worthwhile. If you want to know more about castles, ask your resident 12/13 year old boy. I'm sure he knows way more about them than you really want to hear.

The first thing is a strip on dark stone laid in the floor. It is laid out at exactly the angle the sun comes up. There is a tiny slit in the wall above the window near it. One day every month at high noon the window got closed, and the slit opened. The stone has the markings of the zodiac on it. Each month, when the light that came through the slit, and hit exactly the right zodiac mark, they would know it was high noon. It was with this information that the old and not very accurate clocks were set.

The second thing is a semi-fancy, modern crypt in which the 12 most recent kings and queens are buried. There are two caskets with no names on them, waiting for the current kings parents. One thing that both my Mom (proper noun) and I liked was that all of them were treated in exactly the same way: a pretty nice casket with a metal plate on the side with there name. Apparently there is also a room somewhere else in which the bodies are put while they decay. (huh?). It was pretty cool.

The third thing is a massive basilica. I don't really know what makes a basilica different than a normal church, but both that I have been to, the other was in Zaragoza, were really big. And something about them being especially important religiously too. I really liked this basilica because of how it wasn't the uber-ornate, sensory overload, agghIwanttopullmyeyesout old church. I know that not all churchs are like this, actually only a few, but, when you are a tourist, you kind of forget that. Anyway, I liked the church because of its relative simplicity and size. Looking up at the top dome of this thing was like insane. Just seeing the sheer amount of cold, grey stone looking down at your as you stared up into what looked like the capital building's dome (I hope you get a chance to do that something to do that too. I had the luck of living in DC for a year and half when my dad got a temporary job offer there with NSF, when I was 5-6 years old. I don't remember that much, but I still remember enough.) Massive amounts of stone are cool. Probably more so when your wondering if they're all about to coming fall down on you. Not much more was interesting about the basilica to me, although I'm sure there were priceless paintings, masterpiece wood carvings, etc. ( You can be sure about these things because the king used to live there. I mean, what do you think rich people do with they're money, stuff beds with it?)

Not much more was cool, but I did manage to break my audio guide (dropped it).

It’s just life

2010-03-05T11:10:00.000-08:00

Eventually you figure out that whatever you are in the middle of, really, it’s just life. The living in some other city, trying to learn something new, the kids’ new phase (it is just a phase, right?). All of it is just life. We still have to eat every day, go to school or work, and clean the toilets. Who cares if the city is Madrid, the new thing this year is speaking Spanish, and the new phase is adolescence. While I get wrapped up in our details, others face deaths, illnesses, births, earthquakes, foreclosures, new loves, old loves, troubled children and the dismantling of institutions. And that’s just this week’s news from home.

I feel honored to be able to talk to a new Madrileño friend, Esperaza, about her concerns. She has a lovely book shop that she is struggling to keep open. She lies awake at night worrying about having to talk to the bank. She is going to church to ask God for help because she doesn’t know where else to turn. It’s a notable point in our stay that I can hear the stories of people I care about here and be reminded of how small my own challenges are.

In the beginning of our year here, every hour of every day was an adventure. Every day was filled with goals and obstacles. Everything was novel. It was overwhelming and exciting.

Today Alex and I went on an outing, and I realized that it was fairly interesting, but not quite an adventure. We bought bus tickets, we arrived at the palace, we toured it, we had lunch and return home, all without a stressful or embarrassing moment. It was a pleasant excursion. A nice day in our fairly mundane life – regardless of where we are.

It’s like returning home, this realization. Sigh. It's just life. But a beautiful life at that.

El Entierro de la Sardina

2010-02-23T18:00:00.000-08:00

Not understanding what's going on is part of being a foreigner. We're accustomed to this sensation, if not entirely comfortable with it. But some experiences are more extreme than others. El Entierro de la Sardina (The Burial of the Sardine) is one of these. On Ash Wednesday, as Carnival is winding down, there is one last absurd celebration. It's a Spanish tradition recorded in a Goya painting circa 1812 and enjoyed throughout Spain.

In Madrid, the mourners gather and parade down the street for hours carrying a miniature coffin complete with a well dressed sardine. The band plays. The pall bearers dance in circles bouncing the deceased up and down at the ends of ropes. The women cry beneath their veils. Family and friends dressed for grieving throw confetti and candy.

After an hour and a half Alex and I decided to throw in the towel. There were miles to go before the final burial, and it was getting repetitive for us. But not for the mourners who enjoyed each bar along the funeral parade. No one seems to remember what this party was really about when it began a few hundred years ago. But it's not important. It's another chance to have an absurdly good time with friends.

Veterans display annual pins

A few words about the deceased

The endless noise and frivolity

Telecambio

2010-02-03T12:28:00.000-08:00

Remember back in November when I decided to practice my verb tense conjugations on the telemarketer from Jazztel - the main opposition phone/internet service provider in Spain? At the time, I was trying to get them to stop calling.

They have recently started calling again. And I've been working on a new idea: keep them on the line for as long as possible.

I thought that I would approach the telemarketer as an intercambio opportunity: the telemarketer would get to practice his sales pitch, and I would get to practice my Spanish. Most people in language class are eager to set up intercambios. I find it difficult to get over the awkwardness. But this anonymity would be my perfect cover. No need to feel embarrassed since I wouldn't know who I was talking to. And no need to feel guilty about subjecting someone to such a boring conversation since I didn't initiate the call. Jazztel has been wasting our time for months. Turnabout is fair play, right? I just needed to wait for the phone to ring again.

So tonight we had a little dinner entertainment. Jazztel called and asked for Juan Patreek and gave me my first telecambio.

I explained that Juan was unable to come to the phone because he was eating dinner, but I had a number of questions. Okay, I didn't understand a lot of what she said. But it was fun. I kept asking questions, doing my best to keep the conversation going, using new grammar. Unlike a conversation with someone in person, this time I just kept correcting myself until I finally got each sentence right. The woman must have been absolutely desperate for a commission to stay on the line.

It was great.

Until she said something that sounded suspiciously like she was sending a contract that I could cancel within the next 15 days if I changed my mind. That's when I realized I could be in trouble, and I started to panic a little. Finally she asked if someone else in the house spoke better Spanish. Little did she know that Alex was waiting in the wings chomping at the bit to take over.

He began (in quick Spanish with a decent accent that made us proud), "My mother is just talking to you to practice her Spanish. We do not want your internet service." And on he went for another several minutes while the rest of us listened and laughed. He did make sure that we weren't roped into a contract. Thank goodness.

It worked out so well that I have a new idea. Tomorrow I'm going to get the newspaper and seek out new telecambio opportunities to sign up for. It's a gold mine for language students.

How to get your way through cleverness

2010-01-30T10:30:00.000-08:00

It was a pretty bad dinner. But I didn't want to admit it, and I didn't want to waste the food.

Anna! Finish your dinner! Right now!

Jack grabbed a Post It, wrote NOW, and stuck it to the table in front of her.

Anna grabbed the pen and added an -AY to the end of Jack's command.

We didn't even try to suppress the laughter. Resigned to her victory, we picked up the plates and ended dinner.

Name that body part - i.e. Fun at the butcher stall

2010-01-29T09:04:00.000-08:00

I admire the value that other cultures place on using every part of an animal, not wasting a single part. But I am squeamish, and I cannot force myself to eat organ meat. I realize this is a cultural weakness, but I am not willing to work through it and make myself conquer this fear of less-than-large muscles. To hell with "while in Rome." You should see the kids at the butcher stalls, pointing, groaning, laughing, gagging. I'm kind of embarrassed to be taking photos. Who but an Americano would think the meat stall is worth pictures? What do they do with this stuff?

Alex: "That's not offal. That's terrible."

Lengua de ternera – veal tongue

Cow snout on a bed of tripe

Sangre - blood

Sesos - brains (each kind of animal gets its own special sized brain box

Cabeza de cordero – head of lamb

Riñón es de ternera – veal kidney (left)
Criadilla de ternera – veal testicle (right)

My favorite alternate definitions:

criadilla - noun
1. Testicle of an animal. (f)
2. A small loaf. (f)
3. (dim.) A little worthless servant-maid. (m)
4. Truffle, a kind of mushroom. (Botany) (m)

Overheard:
"What do they call cow testicles again?"
"Big."

Here, There, Anywhere

2010-01-27T09:34:00.000-08:00

Anna has the bug. She knits here. She knits there. She knits anywhere. Here she is on the Metro.

There she is in a bar in Burgos.

Grammar escapism

2010-01-27T05:33:00.001-08:00

I love grammar. It is the logistics of language. The process of delivering meaning. You can have words in storage, but you need a system to deliver ideas, and an orderly system is best. The more I understand Spanish grammar, the more comfortable I feel pulling words out and trying them on the street. Even in grade school, I loved diagramming sentences. Analyzing a process is much more comfortable to me than trying to speak to strangers. I was beginning to think that my obsession with direct and indirect object pronouns was simply displacement behavior. Perhaps I was just distracting myself from really trying to communicate, a guise for my shyness. Maybe my insistence on knowing exactly which past tense verb form to use was really an excuse for not actually speaking. Understanding the system is very comforting to me. But now the hours of hand copying my giant spreadsheet of verb conjugations is paying off. I am starting to understand how Spanish grammar works, and I am elated.

I find the sound of language difficult to grasp. In my learning process, the sounds often don’t make sense to me. They confuse me. Other people love the sound of language – its rhythms, melodies, syncopation. Anna must be one of these people. I can see that Anna hears the music. She learns the language by hearing it as song. When she corrects my Spanish she corrects the sound of it, both the pronunciation and the rhythm. She tells me, “I think it would sound better if you said it this way….” Then she offers me a more graceful way to express the idea. Often her construction shocks me. It does sound much better her way. It delights me that her Spanish sounds beautiful, beautiful in her accent and her phraseology.

Alex focuses on efficiency. From the very beginning he has been able to sort through a very limited vocabulary and use the fewest words possible to transmit a message. With a small vocabulary you often have to talk around your subject. Alex is a master of this. While I am still wondering how to simplify an idea down to its core, he has already shuffled through his deck, pulled out a few effective cards, and placed them on the table. He has no difficulty getting words out of his mouth. Even a few months ago when I had a much larger vocabulary than he did, he always outmaneuvered me. He arranges the words masterfully to get to the point. Perhaps it is like playing chess or solving a puzzle for him. He listens to me struggling until he simply can’t stand it for one more second. Then he swoops in and completes the language transaction for me so that we can move on to more important matters.

Sigh. I love my verb lists. Probably because they provide a place for me to hide inside my head. But, happily, they are paying off. Me gustan mucho mis listas.

It's still looking a bit like Christmas

2010-01-22T04:47:00.000-08:00

Normally I look forward to New Year's Day so that I can take down the Christmas tree, reclaim its space, and return to a bit of normalcy after the holidays. But this year, I still have the tree up. I still turn the lights on in the evenings (when the one outlet has a free plug).

One day a couple of weeks before Christmas, Anna disappeared for awhile. She had promised she would stay close by, but she had something important to do. She had decided that we needed a tree even if we weren't going to be here for Christmas. So she went out to the China store and told them she wanted the least expensive tree they had. When she returned home, she had this little Christmas tree under her arm.

This year, I just might keep that tree up until summer. I think it's the most beautiful little Christmas tree I've ever seen.

How to cook in a Barbie Doll Kitchen

2010-01-21T14:23:00.000-08:00

When we arrived in our apartment in July the biggest shock was the kitchen. Jack was even more troubled by it than I was. I’m not sure why since he doesn’t cook. Maybe he thought I was likely to develop serious depression or withdrawal from our beautiful new kitchen back home. Maybe he thought the food coming out of the kitchen was going to be as bad as the kitchen itself looked. I don’t know. I looked at it and thought, “I can deal with this.” I’m not sure why I was so upbeat. I was trying hard to develop a can-do attitude and be a more flexible person than I normally am. Moving abroad is a full immersion experience in being flexible and adapting. I was trying hard to get used to living in a somewhat dumpy apartment. I prefer to think of living in this place as very elaborate camping. That way I feel really spoiled. And after seeing some kitchens that others tolerate, I realize that I actually should feel spoiled at having a kitchen as large and as well equipped as we do. It’s all matter of perspective. And creativity. Maybe it doesn’t deserve the moniker Barbie Doll Kitchen after all.

Here’s what we’ve got in the kitchen: a small stove with four gas rings and a small oven. (What luck! Our friends Ann and Charlie have two burners, no oven.) One small fridge. A dishwasher and a washing machine. Two frying pans, two pots, a couple of knives, two metal pans to roast or bake in and a couple of casserole dishes. Actually, that’s incredible now that I think about it. Here’s what I bought: an electric kettle, two replacement frying pans when the handles broke off the ones we started with, a box grater, a hand held blender (I can see now that I probably shouldn’t have bought this, but I was thinking I needed it to make gazpacho), a silicon spatula, and a paella pan from the Rastro.

For a rolling pin I use a vermouth bottle. I don’t really like the vermouth here, so the one bottle I bought never runs dry and is always on hand. There is virtually no prep area, mostly the top of the dishwasher. And there’s not much storage to keep a decent stock of staples.

I cook more without recipes than I ever have before. This is necessary because the markets are always closed when I need to buy ingredients at the last minute, so I’m forced to make due with what’s in the fridge. I have recently purchased 1080 Recipes which is supposedly Spain’s Joy of Cooking (mine is the English translation). I still find most of the recipes a little scary (they don’t look very good to me), but I am looking for ways to use all that stuff in the markets that I don’t understand. (Adapt. Adapt. Adapt.)

Innovative cooking techniques

During a low moment when I was looking for excuses for my grumpiness, I googled cooking in small kitchens to see what would come up. Mark Bittman makes a compelling argument to quit whining about a small kitchen and get back to it, in my case, get back to feeding my family something that makes them feel good – hopefully physically and spiritually. Sometimes they just have to grin and bear the misery of the food explorations and frustrations. But mostly they are remarkable good natured about what is presented.

This is what I’ve discovered. A few good ingredients go a long way, and being forced to be creative with the equipment at hand is good for me, good for my cooking confidence, and entertaining to watch if nothing else.

Besides my make-it-up as you go meals, I can make a mean Spanish tortilla, can whip out my favorite pimientos Padron in minutes, and I’m working on putting that paella pan to good use. And here’s how I know I’m doing okay in my Barbie Doll Kitchen. One day at lunch Alex shared a bite of his tortilla with a kid at school who said, “This is really good. Is your mom Spanish?”

Name that Fruit

2010-01-19T04:37:00.001-08:00

Mercat San Josep in Barcelona

Like many travelers, I enjoy visiting local markets. But I also admit that it is mostly a feast only for my eyes. I am usually baffled not only by what I find but also by how to buy it and what to do with it. Am I alone in this? I don't ususally think of myself as passive and insecure, but, honestly, shopping does me in. I gladly hand the reigns over to someone else. Sigh.

In Mercat San Josep in Barcelona, I decided to play the Name that Fruit game to distract me from my discomfort. I haven't seen any of these fruits in Madrid except for Chirimoya which is in every market here. I don't know where they all come from. They look too exotic to grow in Spain.

Pitahaya – Dragon Fruit

Longan

Madrono

Chirimoya

I didn't get names for these two. Do you know what they are?

Coming up: Name that body part

Mamma Mia en Ikea

2010-01-18T08:46:00.000-08:00

Photo courtesy of keyzaro

Ikea stores are exactly the same everywhere – the products, the store layout, the food in the restaurant. But we saw something in the Madrid Ikea that was a surprise. After a long Metro ride to South-of-Nowhere Madrid and a long shopping ordeal through the Ikea maze, we found ourselves at last near the checkout lines.

That’s when the music started. Mamma Mia. The music caught our attention, but it was the clapping that drew us over to see what was happening. There were dozens of Ikea employees doing the Mamma Mia dance. Customers started joining in, even a security guard or two – all joining in the Mamma Mia line dance as the music blared with everyone around watching and clapping along until the song ended, a security guard threw his hat in the air, and everyone went back to work or their cash register line. Everyone a little happier than they had been just a few minutes before.

Cabalgata de Reyes (Wise Men Parade)

2010-01-06T09:00:00.000-08:00

Today is Dia de los tres Reyes (Day of the Three Kings) the 12th night, when Christmas presents are given. Last night there was a spectacular parade that it seems every Madrileño was at.

Persistence pays off

2010-01-06T00:44:00.000-08:00

Some said it couldn't be done.

Visa application process started: Friday May 8, 2009
Official one-year visas in hand: January 4, 2010

Twisted Bilbao

2010-01-06T00:09:00.000-08:00

The Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao is a twisted and mind bending experience; it had me dizzy for most of our visit. Literally. I was dizzy during the time we were in the building. I don't know if there is a single right angle in the whole place. It is an amusement park ride for arty adults. Anna summed it up well, "The building is the art." The rest of the family generally does not enjoy art museums, especially modern art museums. But we spent hours here, and going to the galleries was almost an afterthought.

"That was my favorite modern art exhibit I've ever been to." - Jack after walking through Richard Serra's, The Matter of Time, above. Just more food for orientational confusion.

An aside: The architect, Frank Gehry, has also designed the Lou Ruvo Center for Brain Health, dedicated to the fight against Alzheimer’s Disease. It will be a treatment center for people who suffer from confusion. You're kidding, right?

What do you do when it's raining in San Sebastian?

2010-01-02T14:20:00.000-08:00

You know how when you’re married to someone and they want to do something weird you just say, “okay, sure, whatever”? Well, here we are in the part of Spain known as the Basque Country. We Nevadans know about the Basques because there are a lot of Basques in Nevada; there is even a Basque Studies program at UNR, but most people wouldn’t have a clue who the Basques are. Anyway, here we are in the Basque Country, having had insufficient snow to ski our brains out as desired. We’re on our way home from the Pyrenees, and we find ourselves in San Sebastian, a lovely town in northern Spain that has changed my formerly bad attitude about the Basques.

It’s January, we’re on the Atlantic Coast, and it is raining. Really raining. Walk around town and get soaked to the bones kind of rain. But, what can you do? This is where the part comes in about your husband suggesting something that is really unusual and you say, “Sure, Honey, that sounds great!” Last night when we were making plans for today, Jack suggested going to the Concrete Museum. Yes, there is a museum dedicated to concrete here. And you know what? Every single one of us said, “Cool, let’s go.”

Okay, a little history here. Jack’s dad was the go-to guy in the New York City area for getting your concrete rebar reinforcing put in correctly. You had a trick concrete job to do – the TWA terminal at JFK, a fancy bridge or museum job with fancy concrete work – John Hayes was the man to call. So it comes by Jack genetically to be interested in building technology. And the rest of us have been happily pulled along for years. So when Jack suggested going to the Museo Concreto in this lovely town in Northern Spain, well, we were in.

When we got there we were afraid that it was closed because there weren’t any cars in the parking lot. Happily though, it was open, and we had the place to ourselves. The place was pretty cool. We learned something about how concrete is made. Cement is part of concrete (we knew that), but there was more to learn. Here’s where my confusion was: I remember going to Greece on a family vacation when I was a kid and my brother and dad had a conversation about how Western Civilization had lost the recipe for concrete during the Dark Ages. I had an image in my mind of a recipe card that was misplaced. I don’t actually know what they were talking about, but please, Dad and Brad, weigh in on this. (Alex actual lectured me on how it was totally inappropriate to use the term “Dark Ages”. I admit that I wasn’t paying sufficient attention to his protests, but I’ll check back in with him on that later.)

It turns out that concrete (as opposed to cement) was developed in the mid 1800’s as a product that could be used to form rock-like molded structures. That’s different from cement that had been used for centuries as a kind of building glue. (No mention in the museum of losing the recipe card for an era.)

Did you know that to make concrete you have to bake the first two (of many) ingredients at the incredible temperature of greater than 1400 degrees C? Holy cow. That’s hot. And it makes you really wonder how one works out the resource economics of this process. That takes a lot of fuel to heat the ingredients to that temp.

Anyhow, that’s how we spent the morning, the only vistors to the Concrete Museum in beautiful but wet and cold San Sebastian, Spain. We all enjoyed it, and would have even more if we’d been able to understand more of the exhibit’s explanatory documentation which was in Castilian and Basque. Our Spanish is getting better, but, we couldn’t get all of it. The bottom line is, if you find yourself in San Sebastian in January and need to escape the rain, check out the Concrete Museum. You could do worse.

Lourdes, France - Mary was here, too

2009-12-30T22:00:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-27T22:00:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-23T22:00:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-15T22:00:00.000-08:00

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...

2009-11-20T14:06:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-19T09:03:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-16T10:53:00.001-08:00

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?

2009-11-11T14:08:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-01T01:23:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-31T11:16:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-30T07:49:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-23T11:04:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-20T05:03:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-10T05:21:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-10T02:26:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-07T04:52:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-10-07T02:56:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-02T08:38:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-27T10:26:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-21T15:42:00.000-07:00

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.

Picked

2009-09-21T14:04:00.000-07:00

Last week we were on the Metro with our friends Charlie and Ann who were visiting. We were wrapped up in a conversation when some sort of scuffle broke out next to Charlie, and he let out a, “Hey!”when he felt someone pushing into him. The train doors opened, out went the two young men next to us, and along with them all the cash in Charlie’s pocket. The whole thing was so quick and smooth that he wasn’t even sure he’d been pickpocketed until we were at the next stop when he’d completed a thorough inventory. Luckily he didn’t lose his phone, keys or documents, “just” €30. Bummer.

We’ve been going over and over it in an effort to learn what to do to prevent another thieving event. Don’t stand right near the train door, if possible. Thieves seem to choose targets close to the doors, time a little scuffle so that you are distracted for the moments right before the doors open, they nab your stuff and make their escape while you are on your way to the next station. Don’t carry valuables in your back pocket. Make sure purse zippers are closed. This sort of thing. Mainly: Beware.

We have been making plans for what to do in case we are targets again. Alex and I are talking about using a Jujitsu move, or maybe just a backhand whack. We’ll scream, “Thief!!” (We still need to look that up in Spanish.) We’ll chase those bad guys down the platform until they are forced to exit and pass the security guys who will catch them and throw them into jail. In our plans, we always win, the bad guys always get caught, and our posessions are never stolen.

So it was that we found ourselves a mere five days after Charlie got ripped off, on the train coming home from a lovely evening out. We had positioned ourselves defensively, as we now do, protecting our pockets, purses, etc.

And it turns out, Jack was positioned perfectly to catch a rat sticking his hands in someone else’s pocket. Same old routine, a couple of guys got on the train together, the first one faked a stall, blocking the victim, the pickpocketer bumped into the target and slipped his hand into the pocket and was about to grab his wallet when Jack yelled, “Hey!” Which, it turns out, worked this time (even though it isn’t Spanish).

The crook was stopped in the act. The target didn’t even know anything had happened. Jack followed him down the train to tell him to check his pocket. The wallet was still there, and he was grateful for the save (after a little confusion and quick translating by a bystander). Meanwhile, I was watching from across the train where the rat was still trapped in the moving train. I stared him down and was glad that I could at least make him nervous enough to keep his hands shaking until the little band of thieves escaped at the next station.

The other passengers were thoroughly confused by the whole event, as it was so quick and Jack’s eyewitness account was in unintelligible Spanish and was never public. In fact, I’d guess the would-be victim assumed Jack was part of the scheme when Jack approached him. Who knows what the train load full of people thought about us weird Americanos.

Of course, we’ve done hours of debriefing on this event, too. What should we have done? Chased them down and accused them? At least Jack saved one guy from a big headache. And we’re still on the lookout -- defending ourselves, our pockets, and maybe even someone else’s.

As our neighbor Angela in Virginia always told us, “Be safe. And be concerned.” (But I’m not going to do a Jujitsu move after all.)

Quick rating update

2009-09-16T04:41:00.000-07:00

Anna rates today a 9 on a scale of 0-10 - for all those who are following her happiness in school progress.

Alex, on the other hand, seems to have been enrolled in the level C class for non-academic subjects. As a classmate summed it up: "A is for the smart kids. B is for the normal kids. C is for the dummies." It appears the misfits as well, which is problematic for Alex, who doesn't like rule breakers. We'll keep you updated as the situation evolves.

A new day, a new adventure....

Every day an adventure

2009-09-15T09:14:00.000-07:00

Anna and Alex debriefing each other on their walk home

Anna update
The morning started out rough, and I wondered if we'd be able to get Anna to school at all today. But she forged ahead. On the 0-10 scale, yesterday was a .1 she reported (she only gave me the .1 because I told her she had to have a black eye to have a 0 day). Today she reported a rating of 3. I think it was actually better than that.

Alex's first day at school
Alex reported that the one hour assembly for new students, which comprised the entire first day of school, went pretty much like this:

Blah, blah, blah, blah es prohibido, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah,blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah es prohibido,blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, es prohibito. Blah es prohibido, blah es prohibido. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah es prohibido.

Now, it's could be because he doesn't understand much Spanish that it sounded that way, but he is probably pretty accurate in his report. Same as any first day in middle school anywhere.

He has a strategy for dealing with committing any of those prohibidos that he didn't quite catch: smile and say, "No entiendo. Lo siento." (I don't understand, sorry."

All in all, he had an acceptable first day.

Meanwhile...
In the mean time, I thought I'd go have a coffee while waiting for Alex. I strategically picked a cafe that looked like I could manage it by myself without embarrassment. I ordered a delightful cafe con leche (for some reason we can't pull off a decent cup of coffee at home and I've been despirate for a good cup of joe) and Anna's favorite breakfast food tostada con tomate. Delightful. Delicious. And then it was time to flag the waiter down, get the check and dash out to meet Alex. That's when I realized that my wallet was in my other purse. I had visions of omnipresent security guys chasing me down the street as I insisted that I must go get my son who is being released in minutes from his first day in Spanish school. I am sweating profusely, mortified that I have to tell the waiter I have no money. I try to remember enough Spanish to explain that mi dinero es en mi otro bolso. I rummage through the bag I have and try to select an item to leave as collateral that is valuable enough that they will believe me but not too risky to lose. I decide on my reading glasses. Yeah, right. The guy thought I was insane trying to force my glasses on him. I was in luck. No es problema. I told him I'd be back in an hour, and I was. No es problema. But I didn't get out of the situation meeting my primary mission - which was a simple cup of coffee by myself without any moments of embarrassment. Oh well.

Anna first day of Spanish school

2009-09-14T12:35:00.001-07:00

Today was Anna's first day of school. When Anna walked in just after I took these pictures, we saw that one of her teachers was holding her hand. There are nine students in her class with two teachers. All the students are foreign students who are learning Spanish. It was a little hard today. She doesn't really want to go back tomorrow.

Matriculation - at last!

2009-09-08T05:57:00.000-07:00

Alex's school

Anna's school

We have finally crossed an enormous threshold – Alex and Anna are both enrolled in school. School starts next week, and both kids are expected in their respective classrooms. This was an enormous accomplishment and required the assistance of countless friends, acquaintances, and strangers. This was the purpose of most of our interactions with government bureaucracy. We delivered the final documents today. At both schools, teachers and administrators were exceptionally kind and welcoming. This was evident even when we could not understand all of what was said. Though both kids are experiencing some trepidation about arriving in a classroom with limited Spanish, we are confident that they will be fine. I feel a huge relief.

Across the street from Alex's school, we find the following sign posted as a cautionary tale to rebellious students.

In this building were located the supreme council and tribunal of the Inquisition from the 1780s until its extinction in 1820.

Jack’s first little bird

2009-09-05T13:56:00.000-07:00

"I'm not on Survivor Man, so I'm not going to eat it." - Jack

Years ago, in 1990 to be exact, Jack and I went on a rock climbing trip to the south of France with our friends Charlie and Ann. I had had two miserable years of French in high school and two even more miserable years of it in college. But they were of almost no use. Every time I thought I knew what I was ordering for dinner, I was wrong. I was usually unpleasantly surprised by what showed up on my plate. For a string of several days I ended up with little birds every night. On the last night of this streak, I was desperate to have a filling meal and was certain that I was ordering a hunk of lamb. Alas, a tiny little bird arrived once again, and I almost broke down in tears.

One day last month Alex ordered French fries for seconds after lunch when he was still hungry. Potatas fritas. Seems simple enough. When the order arrived it was potato chips, and we all laughed at the shocked look on his face. “You got a little bird!” I told him. Since then, we’ve been keeping track of all the little birds that arrive at our tables as we travel and dine out. We’ve even started leaving behind a little origami crane folded from a napkin to mark each occasion.

Today, Jack got his first little bird. He thought he was getting veal and potato casserole. Instead, a dish of something strange in tomato sauce arrived. He poked, he prodded, he tasted. Finally he announced, “I think this is tripe.” “Your first little bird!” He was due. The rest of us have had several.

The waiter confirmed the pronouncement and told Jack that “hombres comen todos!” Men eat everything, whether it is ears, or snout, or stomach or hooves. I can’t give you the whole thing in Spanish, because the parts were acted out in sign language – and the meaning was absolutely clear.

He did a pretty good job with that plate of food which he said tasted like tripe in Chef Boy-ar-dee sauce. When he offered me some, I had to answer, “No puedo.” Same as the locksmith who ruined our key back in week one of our adventure. Sorry, Jack. No puedo. I can’t help you with this one.

Bolsa Caca

2009-09-04T09:05:00.001-07:00

When I was a kid there was one Spanish word I knew from the playground - caca - it always provoked a giggle. So imagine my surprise to see the Bolsa Caca campaign cropping up all over Madrid.

bolsa (feminine noun)
1. bag

caca (feminine noun)
1. poo (informal) (excremento) poop (United States)
2. nasty or dirty thing (cosa sucia)
3. garbage (United States)

It's all part of an effort to reduce the number of plastic bags used in Spain.

Artzheim, Germany

2009-09-04T08:43:00.000-07:00

We rolled into Artzheim with an hour to spare on the way to the Frankfurt airport in a quest for some photographs to share with Ann of her father’s home village. And a small village at that. The current population is roughly 1200, and we can see that the historic core is a very small portion of the community. Again we find a historic village which clearly has been rebuilt.

Jack’s grandfather Stefan left here 103 years ago on a journey to New York. He was one of 10 siblings. We head for the village church and then to the local cemetery in hopes that we’ll find some evidence of the family name Kranz. As I dash among headstones searching for possible relatives, Jack strikes up a conversation with the groundskeeper. There is one tombstone with the Kranz name, and as I take a photo of it, the groundskeeper tells Jack that he knows this man’s wife, and he can take us to meet her. He’s so enthusiastic that we can’t refuse him. We jump into the car and follow him.

We drive right back near the church we just left where our guide pops out of the car and knocks on a door. There is no answer, but our new friend is not discouraged, he knows where the son lives as well. Back in the car, we wind through the tiny streets of the old village and pass into a newer neighborhood. Before we know it, the groundskeeper is once again knocking on a door, and this time meets success. As we sheepishly get out of our rental car, our friend is telling the man in the doorway that someone named Kranz is here from America looking for his family. Jack starts to explain in his halting German that his grandfather lived here in Arzheim. The surprised man in the doorway knows exactly who Jack is talking about, “Stefan,” he confirms. Stefan was this man’s great uncle. It appears that Jack and this man, Claus Kranz, are some degree of cousins.

Claus and his surprised but gracious wife invite us in for a cool drink. Claus excuses himself, only to reappear with a yellowing family document listing his great grandfather and all his children – including Jack’s grandfather Stefan and Claus’ grandfather Robert. Claus has already made a copy of the document for Jack.

And then, we are on our way.

Stefan left this tiny village at the beginning of the last century and over a hundred years later his grandson returns. A long wait for news of the lost son.

Würzburg, Germany

2009-09-04T07:54:00.000-07:00

In 1906, Jack’s grandfather, Stefan Kranz, left Artzheim, Germany. He left behind 9 siblings. Stefan, like his father and all of his brothers, was an iron worker. He arrived on the ship Amerika and passed through Ellis Island on his way to New York.

In the 1920s Jack’s grandmother, Carolina “Lina” Schebendach, left Würzburg, Germany headed for the United States. She, too, left behind many brothers and sisters on her way to New York.

Stefan and Lina met each other in New York and married.

Then there was the terrible war.

On March 16, 1945, just before the end of the war, the British troops fire bombed Würzburg. In 25 minutes the centuries-old city was destroyed and fire consumed the rubble, as well as thousands of its citizens. Lina’s family survived the initial attack. However, her brother Conrad died of smoke inhalation a month later. While the city was burning and most of its citizens sought refuge from the flames in the river Main, Conrad went to the cathedral to help rescue the bishop and important church artifacts.

During the years that followed the end of the war Lina’s family, like most of Germany, was in dire need of food and basic living supplies. For years Lina sent monthly care packages from New York to her family in Würzburg, while at home, she and Stefan raised their twin daughters, Ann and Mary. Those packages were a godsend to the family in Germany.

Lina’s daughter Ann is Jack’s mother. And by the time Jack came along in the 50s, the family in Germany was doing fine. But the memory of those packages in the years of need stayed fresh in their minds. For years, even after Lina’s death, her siblings and their children sent a special Christmas package to Jack’s house every Christmas filled with German Christmas treats. Jack has always remembered these boxes filled with Germany delights as a special part of his family’s holidays. The story of the packages to family back in the Old Country and later the Christmas packages of gratitude are an important part of the family lore.

In 1975, when Jack was a teenager, one of the Ann’s cousins – Lina’s brother Beno’s son Bernard – came to visit Jack’s family in New York. Bernard (Bernd) and his wife Elizabeth (Li) were newlyweds and on a grand adventure. Bernd had grown up in Würzburg hearing tales of the boxes of supplies from America, and he came across the ocean to meet these long lost relatives. Bernd and Li met Lina’s twin daughters, Ann and Mary, as well as all of their children – seven in all.

Ann and Jack have had sporadic communication with Bernd and Li over the years, but certainly not a sustained correspondence.

Then came our escape from the heat of Spain last month. On a moment’s notice, we purchased tickets to Frankfurt and planned a couple days in the Rhine River Valley with the thought that we’d make up the rest of the trip as we went. In the back of Jack’s mind was his mother’s cousin and his wife – the affable couple who visited his family over 30 years ago.

With some hesitation, Jack decided to phone Bernd and Li in Würzburg and see if they would be available for lunch. To our delight, they invited us to their home for dinner and even to stay for the night. I must admit that those of us who had not been a part of this long family story were a little shy about the impending visit.

That’s the easy part of the story to tell. Because the next day and a half were amazing. Filled with fun and laughter and stories of Jack’s family and the history of Würzburg. There’s so much to tell and remember from our visit, that it’s difficult to summarize.

Li is a Montessori teacher who among her many, many talents has a strong background in her community’s history. Her guided tour of Würzburg included fascinating and poignant tales of the city – from Medieval times up through today, with many stories about the war. Most of the city has been rebuilt on the foundations that remained after the bombing. So though it is an ancient town, many buildings are reconstructed replicas.

In an exhibit at the Rathaus (town hall) Bernd showed us a pre-war photo of where his father and Lina and their family lived along the river Main. Then we walked along those streets imaging Lina as a young girl here before the bombing.

We walked through the Cathedral, pondering the difficult choices the community made when integrating the ruins with contemporary art and architecture as they rebuilt this important edifice. At the main entrance a menorah stands to remind all who visit that Judaism is the root of Christianity. Its presence is both powerful and chilling. The nave hosts sculpture from as long ago as he 1400s, as well as a strikingly contemporary tabernacle that feels strangely out of place. According to Li, many of the most important items in rebuilt churches are built in a contemporary style.

We saw this and much much, more of Würzberg: the best bratworst in town, the Rocco church, the castle with its tower and many tales, the Residence of the Prince Bishop, the historic crane on the river powered by a interior human sized hamster wheel, etc. But the real treat was just being with Li and Bernd, seeing their love of each other, their children, and their community. Their home is a treasury of their own art and their passion for life. Several walls are filled with Li’s etchings of the same buildings and landmarks we walked around earlier in the day. Windows and doors and light fixtures are stained glass works by Bernd. Their rooms are decorated with fascinating collections demonstrating the family’s interests and sense of fun. Everywhere there are clever, interesting solutions for living efficiently and compactly. Bernd fed us fabulous home cooked meals and shared his home made raspberry wine with us.

And when we left, we were happy to have found not just long lost family, but we hope more importantly long time friends. When we left, Li invited us all back and told Anna and Alex that they were always welcome in Bernd and Li’s home in Germany – even if the next time they come is when they are all grown up.

Next: Arzheim

There's such a thing as too many castles

2009-08-31T08:12:00.000-07:00

In fact, there's such a thing as too much or too many of anything. Even things that are really cool. We visited the Rhine River where there are so many castles in such a compact area that pretty soon, we were completely saturated. The sad thing is that if you encountered any one of them, one at a time, it would be a great adventure. When we planned our days along the Rhine, I thought we could spend days exploring the dozens of beautiful castles in the area near St. Goar where we stayed. From our pension, we could see three castles. Along a ten mile stretch of the river, there were well over a dozen castles in various conditions - from ruins to restored to period conditions to renovated hotels. In the end, though, there was really just one that we'll remember for a long time.

Rheinfels Castle was an enormous compound that supported a huge community of people. There are lots of foundations and walls left, lots interesting history to learn. But, ultimately, it's about your personal experience. The absolutely best part of our visit was crawling through tunnels built outside the castle walls that historically were packed with explosives and then ignited at just the right time to blow up the attacking enemy. They were Medieval booby traps, and we were going down there!

We descended into the 3 foot tall tunnel (even Anna had to duck) with our single candle and the LED flashlight included on our cheap Spanish cell phone. Our information wasn't entirely clear about the correct path to follow, so some of us got the jitters and we backed out. Then we gathered courage - okay, so there might have been some subtle coercion - and back down we went. This time the scary tunnel was a little less scary. We peeked down the side tunnels where the castle guards packed gunpowder; we wondered if we were going the right way; we made scary noises for each other; we crouched even lower to get through narrower sections. We giggled with nervousness and delight. Eventually the tunnel surfaced once again, and we could relive the tunnel moments over and over throughout the day.

Sure seeing how the knights lived was cool. Seeing where they poured hot tar on the approaching enemies was cool. Seeing the apothecary, and the spinning wheels and looms and armor was great. Seeing a concrete example of all that stuff you read about in children's books about castle life in the Middle Ages - yes - that's pretty cool. But none of it will match the experience that we four shared down in the tunnel.

Escape to Germany

2009-08-27T07:37:00.000-07:00

Links to selected photos now. Stories to come later.
Mainz photo album
St. Goar photo album
The Rhine, Bacharach, more castles photo album
Wurzburg, Bernd and Li photo album
Rothenberg photo album
Arzheim photo album

Novillada

2009-08-19T05:34:00.000-07:00

I didn’t think we’d go to a bullfight while we were here. But it was kids' choice, and Alex chose bullfighting. I’m not sure if he really knew what that meant. Nonetheless, we honored his request. I think Jack and I were both curious too. And Anna thought it was actually a competition in which the bull had a choice. She kept asking, “What if the bull gives up? What happens to him then?” “Honey, the bull always dies. Even if he gores the bull fighter and kind of wins, the bull still dies.” I found this difficult to talk about. I found it difficult to admit that we were even there. I wondered if I would be able to tell friends at home.

The first bull was difficult to watch. You do absolutely witness the death of a great animal. Gruesome. We were sitting in the nosebleed section (so we could afford to sit in the shade), but the primo high-altitude seats are right on the railing. The seats were fabulous, actually. But since we were leaning over the railing with folks below us, Anna warned us that someone down there might get puked on. We both volunteered to take her out. But she refused. She thought she’d stick it out for another bull and see how she was feeling.

Then the second novillada came out. Novilladas are young bulls – less than four years old - “fought” by young matadors. Again, money saving strategy, it’s like going to a minor league game. We were all strangely transfixed. The second matador was much more skilled and far more artistic than the first. It’s a dance – a very formalized, testosterone driven dance. And the second man we watched was a much finer dancer. Even we could tell.

There are six bulls in the evening. Each follows the same ritual. Each meets the same end, eventually. But each episode was very different. And oddly, I enjoyed it.

We were all pretty quiet on the Metro ride home. Jack mentioned something about maybe we’d go again before the end of the year – maybe in another six months or so. I was struck at that moment by the fact that I really didn’t want to wait six months to go again, and I thought I’d like to see the big leagues next time. I was embarrassed to admit it, but I did, also the fact that I was feeling guilty about this. Alex admitted to the same feeling.

16 de agosto de 2009. Novillada con picadores.
Diego Lleonart: Palmas, Silencio
Paco Chaves: Vuelta al ruedo, Saludos tras un aviso
Antonio Rosales: Saludos con un aviso, Vuelta al ruedo
Seis novillos de Torrehandilla
Con mi familia.

The Crypt

2009-08-18T03:31:00.001-07:00

Under Madrid’s Cathedral (Catedral de la Almudena), we find the Crypt. It is an outing that 1) has no line, 2) is not expensive, and 3) is close to the other outings that we bailed on because they were expensive with long lines. It turns out that even better than the above, it is also blissfully cool. Therefore, we have landed under the Cathedral. It’s another fancy church where they bury people: impressive vaulted ceilings, lots of side chapels, big nave. I love exploring churches, so I’m glad we are here.

I have started collecting photos of the tops of things. The tops of train stations, the tops of monuments, the tops of lamp posts, the tops of fountains. The tops of things, all kinds of things, are pretty spectacularly ornate. So when we almost accidentally arrive in the crypt, it is a windfall for my Tops of Things collection. The claim to fame here is the crypt’s 500 columns, each with a unique capital. I am reminded of the gargoyles at the National Cathedral in Washington DC who warrant their own guided tours. Some are simply ornate. But soon the adventure begins. Who is this guy? What story does that one tell? What did that nun do? Is that the court jester? Flying horses and dragons?

We cross the world to learn about home

2009-08-13T14:46:00.000-07:00

We were enjoying lunch in a bar chosen for its beer selection; they had Chimay on tap. Jack was in heaven. We were sitting at a table next to a window when we start noticing that there was a veritable parade of people outside posing for photos in front of our window. After awhile we determined that the draw was a tower of Duff beer on display in our window. Not knowing what Duff beer was, we were bewildered. Most of the folks who were showing such delight in the photo op appeared to be young men. So we presumed that this Duff beer must be frat boy swill. We had to come home and Google it to understand.

Brush your teeth

2009-08-12T14:03:00.000-07:00

The napkins at restaurants and bars often include the message: Thanks for your visit! But yesterday, we tried someplace new - Taberna de Moncloa - my favorite by far of all the little restaurants and bars we've been to. It was the most comfortable, and I can't wait to go back. It's just like being at Mom's, including the message on the napkins: Don't forget to brush your teeth after every meal.

When your dad is an evolutionary biologist

2009-08-12T13:51:00.000-07:00

Today was kids' choice day - so we went to the Madrid zoo. Alex was a little worried that the bears would fall off the ledge of their enclosure. So I launched into the whole thing with him: "What do you think a bear would do faced with this situation in the wild? If animals weren't smart enough to figure this out, what do you think would happen to them as a species?" Poor kid never gets a break. So Jack weighs in: "Yes, a perfect example is the bear species from Patagonia know as the Dumb Ass Bear." Presumably they aren't around anymore.

Then we headed over to the dolphin show where they did a Michael Jackson tribute. Weird watching all those dolphins and dolphin trainers booging down to Thriller.

Crystal Palace holds: two stuffed animals

2009-08-08T14:31:00.000-07:00

Here's another mystery from our visit to Retiro today. There is a fabulous space called Palacio de Cristal - the Crystal Palace. Jack visited it in March and remembers there being interesting sculpture here. But now, there are two life sized stuffed animals hanging like peanuts high inside this space. Nothing else here except a pile of brochures titled: Are Animals People?

Billboards

2009-08-08T13:42:00.000-07:00

I couldn't resist these. Especially the green guy.

The Boating Situation in Madrid

2009-08-08T13:38:00.001-07:00

Retiro - Madrid's Central Park

Buffy Cazavampiros (Buffy the Vampire Slayer)

2009-08-08T13:32:00.000-07:00

First, you have to say Buffy correctly. U in Spanish is pronounced like oo in moon. So in Spain it’s Boofy who’s running around kicking, well, vampiros. This is the value of that TV that we carried all the way home on the Metro. A Spanish prof at UNR told me months ago to watch Spanish on TV to learn Spanish. He said you need to engage as many senses as possible to learn. The great thing about watching Boofy over and over again (it’s on 4 or 5 times a night) is the level of repetition is very helpful to learning. Every night I learn a little bit more. But I’m afraid Jack is getting sick of Boofy and her friends. So he might be cutting us off.

Final score

2009-08-06T10:50:00.000-07:00

How many trips does it take to get a copy of the apartment keys?

1 - Trip to ferretaria down the block. I just love this word ferretaria since it sounds like a store to buy ferrets. Fer means iron. It's the hardware store.
2 - The shoe repair and key store around the corner. (closed)
3 - Same store again - open, and he ruins are key. AND he's grumpy. Alex cleverly decides that he's probably pretty embarrassed to botch the job.
4 - Benito gets one copy at a new serious key shop. We need to wait several days for that shop to get the blank key from another town.
5 - At the store, they tell me, Manana
6 - Again. Manana.
7 - Luego (later today).
8 - SUCCESS! We finally have two sets of keys and are no longer so dependent on each other.

Final score = 8

Too cool

2009-08-06T10:42:00.000-07:00

Something exciting is happening but we’re not sure what it is. There are two identical entrances to our building, and there are camera crews carrying equipment in to the other half of the building. In front of the building there are trucks loaded with costumes and hair and makeup chairs. There is a table of food on the sidewalk (the kids are eyeing that). Cool looking guys are standing around. Too cool to go up to and ask in idiot talk “what’s up?” Sure we could let ¿Que pasa? roll off our tongues, but then we’d be standing there looking like fools, unable to appreciate just how very cool the people are who are being filmed right here in our building. Therefore, I’m acting too cool to care. We’ll just outcool them with our indifference.
_____________

Later we see Benito standing outside watching all the action. He confirms that it is in fact the filming of a pelicula (movie). What movie? we ask. He doesn't know. But he assures us that no one famous is here.

En la piscina

2009-08-02T15:29:00.000-07:00

Today we decide to take a break from getting stuff done and take the kids to the pool. We went to the pool in Casa de Campo – an enormous park on the east side of the city that used to be royal hunting grounds until the 1930s. During the Civil War Franco used the area as a strong hold. Now, it’s a massive public natural resource.

I guess I was a little concerned that we’d find a dumpy, dirty, crowded pool. Instead, we find three beautiful crystal clear pools that aren’t very crowded at all. They are absolutely delightful – it’s like a park within the pool area. This could definitely be a regular destination for us – especially in the notorious August heat.

This is the most civilized public pool I’ve ever seen, in fact. In addition to the three outdoor and one indoor pool, there is a little outside library from which you can check out reading material during your visit and decent selection food and drink at the café.

Observations:
- If you’ve got a great looking body and a tight, flesh colored swim suit, it doesn’t leave much to the imagination…wait, maybe that’s not a swim suit he’s wearing, it’s just his pale butt.
- We have swim suits on that cover more flesh than most of the other bathers. I’ve taken to wearing “boy short” swim bottoms recently with my bikini top. I look ridiculous among this crowd of thong bikini bottoms. A real prude. Alex is the only person in this whole place with a swim shirt on. Almost makes him look like a religious conservative next to the rest of the crowd.
- This is the kids’ first exposure to toplessness. They seem pretty nonplussed.
- Generally people are a lot thinner here.
- The generally handsome physiques and lack of clothing make for nice P.W. (Alex and Mom code for people watching). Which is, of course, the point.
- The better the body, the less flesh covered. Especially for the men. Few of the women have much covered regardless of physique.

Keywords to learn today: la piscina = pool, climatizado = heated (or air conditioned in another context), nadar = to swim, socorrista = lifeguard.

I’ve often wondered in the US why some immigrants don’t try harder to integrate and blend in. However, in England as an exchange student, I was always somewhat uncomfortable in my own skin because I was always an outsider, regardless of how much I attempted to blend in. I didn’t want to be prejudged as an American. But to some extent, it’s not possible to just blend in for most people. Your skin, hair, glasses, clothes, accent, personal space, smell – and stuff that you’re completely unaware of – all give you away. It’s just more or less for any given person. But ultimately, to be an American does not mean to be an ugly American. So, the hell with it. I’m just going to wear my baseball cap and Keens and shorts and have Americano written all over myself. As Harriet M Welch says, “Anyway, don’t think about it.”

The big meal of the day is midday here – sort of like lunch but later – like 2-4 pm. Then in the late evening folks have a very light meal – kind of snacking. I didn’t really think we’d readily adopt this schedule. But it’s absolutely natural. For one thing, the heat makes it the only desirable plan. Ysabel told us that the Spanish clock is two hours off of the sun time. I didn’t understand what she meant until yesterday when I looked up at 2pm and the sun was straight up (high noon). Now I see what she means. We feel like it’s 5:30 pm by the sun when it’s 7:30 pm. This is why we’re having such a hard time adjusting to the time. We’re used to being tired a couple hours after dark, but here that means it’s really late. So we’ve been going to bed around 1 am and getting up late. But what’s late on the clock (10-11:00 am) is really about 8 – 9:00 am by the sun, which isn’t so bad. So, I’ve decided to stop worrying about it.

We decided to have that lunchy/dinnery meal at the pool at about 5 today. We had a heck of a time figuring the system out and it pushed us from stressed to grumpy status. Really grumpy. At this point, Jack usually takes over the ordering. For some reason this is particularly difficult for me. Asking for directions, no sweat. But ordering food can drive me over the edge. Jack gets a plate of pasta, and the guy says “blah, blah, blah” to Jack as he hands him his dish. Jack smiles and says “gracias” with great confidence and walks away. “What did he say?” I ask. And cool as a cucumber he says, “No idea” and walks to the table only to realize that he has an inedible cold pasta dish. I am in tears laughing. This usually freaks out the rest of the family when I lose control like this. It’s my release after utter embarrassment or frustration. All at once Jack jumps up with understanding and warms his pasta up in a microwave. After the gafaws, I bribe Anna with a 1 Euro reward if she’ll go order a drink for herself.

These are little moments, but collectively what this whole thing is like. Not knowing the system, not knowing the language, not knowing…..

There is the fantasy that you go to a foreign country, especially France or Spain, and with no effort eat wonderful meals and have a glorious time. It’s not that way. Food is damn hard. Much of the time you get a crappy meal and are exhausted in the getting, so you don’t even care because you just have to eat something. I'm just hoping that I lose weight this way. But I don’t notice any clothes fitting better yet. I can hope.

PWR - People Without Rides

2009-08-01T14:19:00.000-07:00

We have fully embraced being what Mark and Willie Walker call PWRs. We managed to carry a 21” flat screen TV (can you believe we have a digital TV?), a large floor fan, a folding laundry rack, and a few bags of various Ikea goods all on the train home – including multiple line transfers.

We’re looking at the TV as critical aspect of our Spanish lessons. We want to be able to listen to Spanish in a no pressure situation. Like the long line at the store after ringing up our TV and fan and various other bits and pieces when the cashier said the credit card wouldn’t go through without a passport and we didn’t have it, and all the people in line didn’t think this was very funny and then you start to get nervous and it’s hard to remember the right words as you’re thinking as fast as you can about how to get cash fast and say you’ll be right back as the peeps in line start to get restless. Anyway, Anna is in watching Real Madrid right now (eat your heart out Lou). Course, we can’t understand a word they are saying….

I have no hesitation most of the time to plunge in with my dozen verbs and extremely limited vocabulary and mostly present tense. But it’s just dang boring. My communication is boring. “Where is the …?” "I would like..." “We need to …” but since there are only a few verbs to choose from, there aren’t very many things I can tell people we need to do.

Nonetheless, I was so pleased with myself yesterday for telling our wonderful porter Benito that “Tengo un problema grande.” Though I completely botch everything – for some odd reason I remembered that problema is un problema instead of una problema – despite what you’d think. So I was smiling inside at this tiny victory at not sounding like a foreigner (HA, HA, HA).

Once we get life basics in order, language lessons are next. I’m already really tired of speaking like a 2 year old.

It takes at least four attempts to accomplish anything

2009-07-31T13:23:00.000-07:00

I didn't realize it at the time, but Adventures with the Spanish Consulate should have taught us about dealing with perhaps more than just the Spanish government. Perhaps it takes at least four rounds to get anything done.

There was one exception today. Ysabel went to the bank with us and we successfully opened an account in one visit. Well, there was the other stop at the bank on the first day we were here...

Keys - llaves
We had one set of keys on arrival. Two keys are needed to get home - one for entry into the building, and the other to get into the apartment (piso). Yesterday we split up for a bit while Jack and Alex rushed home so Alex could go to the bathroom while Anna and I shopped for dinner. By the time we were headed home, I was in dire need of the bathroom. But we hadn't really figured the bell system yet. At the outside door the bells are marked by the floor, then either D for derecha (right apartment) or I for Izquierda (left apartment). The question is, do you determine left and right from the top of the stairs or from exiting the elevator? I was pretty sure it was the elevator, and I needed the boys to unlock the door for me QUICK. But no one answered. And no one answered when I buzzed D. I buzzed several times, and since our neighbors were not very happy to see us move in, I didn't want to bother them. Alas, I was ready to charge into the quiet bar across the street in despiration when a delivery man (THANK GOD) buzzed someone else and got in. So we slipped inside and I ran up the stairs.

Thus, we decided getting a second set of keys moved up in importance on the to-do list. We also decide to figure out how the buzzer system works. Turns out that ours is I – izquerda – because it is to the left at the top of the stairs. Score, we figured that one out. Every little victory counts!

So Jack and I headed out to get keys made. Our fabulous porter Benito sent us to the hardware store (ferretaria) around the corner. We got one key made and found that the outside key required a special key maker. (round 1) Closed by the time we found it.(round 1.5) So first thing this morning the kids and I headed out to the keyshop (round 3). The keymaker had a rough time with this unusual key, only to finally throw in the towel. “No puedo!” Remarkably, I understood that. “I can’t.” Not only did he ruin the duplicate, he ruined our only copy of the key to get into the building. Good God, how do we deal with THIS? If Benito isn’t there, we’re in big trouble. The apartment owners 1) only speak Spanish and 2) are Reno, Nevada right now.

To our immense relief, Benito was there when we arrived, so the front door was open. And even more to our relief, he said he would go get copies made for us. Otherwise, we would have had to leave someone home all the time until we got a new key. So round 4 was in Benito’s court. When he came up to our apartment he delivered the message that the keys (we asked for 3) would not arrive until next week because they had to be ordered from another town. Lucky for us and after some effort to figure out the Spanish, we came to realize that he was able to secure one key today. Fabuloso. We are to pick up the others next Tuesday. Round 5 awaits.

So – Bank, Keys, Phones. The next hurdle to tackle. Phones. We have visited several cell phone shops briefly so far. Here’s the upshot – it required six trips to the Phone House today to get phones and get taken for a ride and return to get the phones working and get half the money returned to us and then again to correct the type of coverage, and then finally to learn the sad truth that every cell phone call includes a 18 cent charge just to connect, even if you are calling Happy to Happy plan (or Blau to Blau). Nonetheless, 6 trips to the store later, we finally have working cell phones. They aren’t flawless, but better than none.

It’s our 16 anniversary today. We’re in Spain, figuring out how to live here, and exhausted.

All said, it was a good day. Bank account opened. Key crisis partially fixed. Phones up and running. Not a bad day for non-Spanish speakers. But this evening when I was cooking a crappy meal in our less than well appointed kitchen, I didn’t want to hear a word of Spanish. I just wanted English.

Es bueno. Really. Life is good. I guess we’re pretty much living in Spain now. Even though absolutely everything is a mystery.

We have arrived in Madrid

2009-07-29T13:21:00.000-07:00

We have arrived in Madrid. We spent the first day doing our best to stay awake as long as possible to get our bodies on local time. So we walked and walked. We've had relative success with our Spanish on the simpliest of matters, but certainly recognize the need for language lessons pronto. We are incredibly fortunate to have a contact here who is helping a great deal. Today she went with us to four different government offices - two within walking range and the remaining two separate metro stops. We have decided to stay in the apartment - though Jack is slightly disappointed in it. I think it's fine. Pretty big. Absolutlely basic kitchen. But I think we can make it our home. Therefore, we have a hit list of things to accomplish. They all seem to depend of each other as a precursor, which makes it a bit confusing. Our visas say to go to the police station to register within the first 30 days to get a resident card. It seems that you need a resident card to do everything else - open a bank account, get utilities, phone, internet, etc. However, we can't open a bank account without a resident card. At the fourth stop today (bless Isabel's heart for taking us all over the city!) Isabel found someone who would give us a temporary something or other with which some banks will allow you to opening an account. We're to return to that location in 10 days, for something or other else, which should include proof that we have a bank account set up, which will allow us to apply for a resident card. Isabel also learned the following: we have to call from a land line to make an appointment (four actually, one for each of us - this sounds familiar) to apply for the resident card. Of course we don't have a land line. We were hoping to get a cell phone today. Isabel (again, bless her heart) said she will call and make the appointments for us. The bureaucrat told her that we will not be able to make appointments until October. Hard to see the logic behind all of this, but we're trying to laugh (or at least not cry) through it all.
Then we went to lunch where we met the restaurateur Filip who enjoyed swapping his bad English our bad Spanish with many laughs between. Again, we realize the necessity of language lessons.
The to-do list is LONG: get phones, keys, fans, a new bed, comfortable sheets, covers for two sofas and two chairs, a TV (part of the language learning plan), etc, etc. Get services set up, get a bank account, get a rental contract, etc. I fully appreciate now why our friend Wendy (also our renter) was about to strike when her husband wanted to bag their year in Spain just after she'd gotten everything set up. It's darn hard work and requires patience and fortitude. This we already know, and we haven't even hit the 48 hour mark yet.

So, we're fine. Tired. But fine. Alex seems to be digging watching Jack and me work at communicating in Spanish. It's pretty funny. I think Anna is in shock, probably because she knows the least Spanish and so shuts down in frustration.

Thursday July 29, 2009 Evening Update

This is what has been on our to-do list for the last two days:
Open bank account A
pply for resident card
Purchase cell phones
Get copies of apartment keys (5 total)
Get our names on the mail box
Get a fan
Get sheets, a new bed, various other items at IkeaT

This is what we’ve accomplished so far:
We have 2 new keys
We now have an appointment scheduled in November to apply for resident card
We have our names on the mailbox
We have spent hours and hours and miles and miles on our feet trying to accomplish the other items on our list.

Passports, visas, bedbugs and shingles

2009-07-28T13:18:00.000-07:00

We landed in New York on Monday night and Jack checked his Blackberry for messages before we even got off the plane to find a message letting us know that our passports along with visas (FOUR VISAS!!!) left California the same day we left Nevada. On Tuesday, John and Ann brought us our beloved passports. What a relief to have those in our hands. And all with student visas. We’re still baffled by that, but we’re going with it.

On Sunday night before we left Reno I noticed spider bites on my neck, and wondered if I should try to get in to see my doc before we left on our noon flight on Monday. I had a swollen lymph node that was very sensitive that concerned me. But we were too frantic on Monday morning, so I decided that I could survive a spider bite, and could go to a doc in NY if needed. On Monday in NY I realized that the bite situation was worse and I needed to do a little surfing to find out what kind of spider bite I had. A little time on the net and I was convinced that it wasn’t actually spider bites, but worse – bed bug bites. So Jack, Tom, Sharon and I started surfing and were pretty much all convinced that we had a potential problem on our hands. I was horrified – thinking that I’d brought bed bugs home from the hotel we stayed at on one of our Adventures with the Spanish Consulate trips. Horrified, I couldn’t sleep all night – thinking that I now had to resolve infestations in Reno and potentially in Tom’s house in New York since we brought 11 bags with us.
So this morning we trundled off to the doctor here in NY. At the same time our friend Tia was on the job in Reno heading over to our house to check for evidence of a bed bug infestation in Reno while all of our baggage was quarantined at Tom’s house. The doc in the box listened to my tales of woe and delivered a wholly unexpected diagnosis of shingles. We trundled off to a dermatologist for confirmation. Shingles is it. Fortunately, if you get it before 50, it’s often not even treated. Currently it’s uncomfortable, but not too painful. I have drugs to reduce the potency and duration and pain killers in case it becomes painful.
So, it’s been an exciting couple of days. We’re off on a most excellent adventure. We realized today, Jack and I did, that this is really the biggest adventure we’ve ever struck out on – really sticking our necks out more than all other adventures before. Generally, I think we’re pretty calm. Quite frankly, I really didn’t feel very stressed, so I’m shocked at the shingles situation. (Funny thing was, a couple months ago someone suggested getting a vaccination against shingles that I ignored. You might want to consider it yourselves….)

Advenures with the Spanish Consulate

2009-07-27T13:14:00.000-07:00

Sometime in April we remember the comment from the USAC office in Madrid. “First, get the visas sorted out.” My sister’s son Nicholas has First Communion on May 9. What a great time to go to San Francisco and get the visas sorted out! We’ll make an appointment with the consulate on Friday, May 8. In the mean time we’ll take a look at the visa application. How hard can this be?

Wendy and Jeremy advise against it. Fred and Anna advise against it. Our guides through this process have led the way without visas. But we’d rather do it on the straight and narrow. So we get started.

To apply for Spanish visas we collect a lot of documents. Birth certificates. Marriage certificate. Health certificates. We get finger printed so that we can get certificates saying we’re not bad guys. We get all the official certificates officially officialized with apostilles. (Note, if you ever plan a trip like this, figure the apostilles out early.) We travel to the Nevada Secretary of State’s office in Carson City multiple times. The people there are very nice to us. They push our paperwork through very quickly. They are pleasant. They are part of our feeling that the world is good. Our dear friend Tia accompanies me on a trip to California for more official document officializing. I get an official copy of our marriage certificate from the Plumas County Recorder then go to the California Secretary of State’s for yet more apostille action. Again, the people are nice. They are routing for us. We are checking off documents on the long list of what is required to apply for a visa.

Each document must be translated into Spanish. We are in first semester Spanish. We can’t translate. More help from incredible people. A friend and colleague, Patricia, offers to translate our documents. She and her mother, native Argentineans, know a lot about getting visas. They are angels and translate all those official documents and all the apostilles.

The date of our appointment with the Spanish Consulate in San Francisco is fast approaching as our visa applications become thick with bureaucratic paperwork. We have three copies of some documents; we have four documents of others. We have read and reread the instructions. We convince ourselves that the consulate is going to love us because we are so prepared. We have done such an exemplary job of reading the instructions carefully and following the rules. Nonetheless, we decide it’s best to show up in our Sunday finest and greet our visa application interviewers with the few Spanish words that we know. We are excited. Little do we know…

Adventures with the Spanish Consulate – Round One April 8, 2009

In which we learn
· that we should have started this process a long time ago (see March)
· that no matter how carefully you read the instructions you’ll never get the application right
· and nobody cares if you dressed in your Sunday finest when you arrive at your visa interview –
· oh and lastly, you need a separate appointment for each person applying for a visa. In our case this is four appointments. We end up not applying for a single visa and we reevaluate the advice of our Spain-veteran friends

Adventures with the Spanish Consulate – Round Two May 21, 2009

In which we learn
· that when the rules say your passport must be good for 6 months from the time you apply for your visa, it really means that it must be good for the entire length of your stay plus a little while.
· And therefore, Jack can’t renew his passport in the middle of our proposed stay because when you surrender your passport to get a new one, all visas therein are invalidated.
· Therefore, Jack needs to get an emergency passport renewal. Once again, we are saved by some very nice people at in an otherwise bureaucratic office. Jack proves that charm and persistence pays off.
· We finally have one visa application submitted

Adventures with the Spanish Consulate – Round Three May 27, 2009

In which we learn
· That even Spanish bureaucrats have heart
· There is some remote possibility that we could get 4 visas before leaving in July,
· but more likely Jack will get a visa and the kids and I will have to fly back to SF to pick up visas unless we want to adopt “Illegal Alien” as our theme song
· Surrender to the fact that the kids and I will have to fly from Madrid to SF in order to make this trip work. Surrender.
· Only by surrendering can this work.
· Surrender.

Adventures with the Spanish Consulate – Round Four
Call from Consulate two weeks before departure

In which we learn that
· This whole thing is a crap shot.
· The consulate calls and reports that Spain has told them that we’ve applied for the wrong type of visa.
· The consulate has now resubmitted our visa applications as student applications
· There is a chance that we will have four visas before leaving.
· Surrender. There is no alternative.

“My God, how did I get here?” -- Talking Heads

2009-07-26T13:12:00.000-07:00

Nearly a year ago, Jack was fishing for sabbatical opportunities. One day I received an email from him while I was at work. Sub¬ject line: Madrid! Over the years (20 together now) we often fantasize about great adventures, long shots all. We sometimes, though not always, progress to a real possibility. But rarely do we see these plans through. The one exception was the 18 months we packed up house and kids and moved outside of Washington DC while Jack worked for National Science Foundation (Jan 2001 – July 2002). So when I read that Jack had an invitation from a collaborator in Madrid, Spain I somewhat flippantly thought: “Why not?” Quite frankly, I never in my wildest dreams thought that we’d actually pull it off.

Today we left our home in Reno and are en route to Madrid until August 2010. Even to get this far, it’s been a wild ride. Alas, I’m certain it’s nothing compared to the ride we just stepped onto.

Fall 2008
Jack corresponds with a potential colleague who invites Jack to come to the Museo Nacional de Ciencias Naturales in Madrid to work on a project modeling the effect of climate change on species distribution. New area for Jack – which meets his personal goal of retooling to have a greater impact on the world. He brings his physiology background to the table. “Sure!” I say. “It will never happen” I think.

January 2009
We’re serious enough that we exchange books on Spain for Christmas gifts. You should see our collection of travel books to places we’ve never been. But this time we enroll in first semester Spanish classes.

February 2009
We meet two families who have walked this path before us. They come over for dinner. The greatest development of the evening is befriending Wendy, Jeremy and Kestrel. Kestrel was about Alex’s age when they packed their bags to live in a small Spanish town for 9 months. Wendy tells us all about Kes’ “Big Sleep” at about six weeks into the stay – when language learning exhausted her to the point where she slept for 3 days straight. Now we know. Watch for this. Children thrust into a foreign language situation need to sleep. Will need to sleep a lot. Maybe sometimes for days at a time. Okay, we’ll know in advance.

I tell Wendy that I think one of my biggest hurdles will be renting the house. She suggests that perhaps she and Jeremy could rent it, furnished, for the year, with a very flexible attitude about check in and check out dates. Hmmm...

March 15-20, 2009
Jack visits Madrid to meet Miguel. This is when I think things will break down. Jack comes home disenchanted with idea of living in Madrid, and I assume this will nix the plan. Deep down, I feel some relief when it sounds like this could be the straw to break the camel’s back. But it turns out not. He meets with the study abroad consortium folks associated with UNR who are in Madrid. They are very helpful and let Jack know that our number one priority is to sort out visas. This comes back to haunt us. We should have known. Someone mentioned this. Remember, sort out the visas as soon as possible.

All Winter 2009
We ski. We ski every single day that we can. Jack and I work toward a PSIA Level 1 Certification with other instructors from our kids’ ski school. We go to dry land clinics every Tuesday night while our dear, wonderful, generous friends Shannon and Lou take our kids in for dinner every Tuesday night while we do this. We are clinicing with our PSIA pals on Saturdays. We are teaching wedge Christies every Sunday morning at Sky Tavern. We are clinicing every Sunday afternoon with our trainer. We are exhausted and happy and in love with skiing and watching Alex and Anna become such good skiers that we are in awe. We’ll never catch them again. And we ski every single day that we can.

I mention this because it means that we are not making progress on two important aspects of the Madrid plan: visas and learning Spanish. These seem like details that we aren’t fully ready to commit to yet. Yes, Jack and I continue to plug away at Spanish 111, but we’re not emotionally invested here yet. Not like we should be if we are going full immersion in a matter of months. I’m still telling myself this wasn’t a mistake. That the skiing was worth it. I’m betting that in about two weeks from today I’ll be wishing we spent more time with the flash cards and verb tables. But, it truly was a magical family ski year. It deserves its own blog.