United States on the horizon…

Speaking of which, we have to find a reliable phone company on our return because I was serious when I said I would rather stab my eyes out with an icepick than go back to AT&T again. Let’s just remember what happened way back in 2010 – the short version:

N: Hello. Yes. I would like to close my account. I know I only have one month left on my service, but my phone was burned in a house fire, so I’d like to cancel it. What’s more, I had the worst service forever, so it’s good timing.

AT&T: You say you have some intermittent service issues? [N: that would be a euphemism] Well, have you tried rebooting your phone?

N: No, well, yes. Before it burned up in a house fire, you mean? Yes, I did try doing that on several occasions, and other stuff, too. Basically I had to go outside to make a phone call at my home and work – you know how that is.

AT&T: I see. Well, it looks like you have a month left on your account. We would have to charge you an early-termination fee. What was your reason for canceling?

N: I’m somehow getting the feeling like you aren’t listening to me. The house burned down. So the phone was in the house, and that means it was incinerated. There is no more phone. So, I’d like to prevail on your benevolence and understanding.

Now, you wouldn’t believe what happened next, but let’s just say after several more minutes of this I was driven to make the icepick statement. So, no more AT&T.

Dealing with Verizon today brought back the harsh reality of what it’s like to sit forever on hold, be bounced back and forth from department to department, all with an escalating sense of dread that this is what I have to look forward to. I can understand that the fraud department was curious that I ordered two phones from Spain with two different area codes in California and Oregon and sent to an address in Philadelphia while my billing address was in California, my last known address was in Oregon, and I’m spending the summer in Vermont while Lisa and Isadora live in Southern Oregon, and we move to Ohio in August, the phones being brought to Spain in a friend’s carry-on luggage. Anyone would want to take a second look. However, summarily canceling my order without telling me but having me get on the phone anyway, straighten out the fraud question (Date of birth? Blah blah… 1976. Good. And HOW OLD WOULD THAT MAKE YOU NOW!!!? – hold on! I wasn’t prepared for THAT kind of tricky question!) you would think they’d put a note in there that I was good to go, especially since I’d placed the order over the phone with all of them on the line together instead of clicking buttons. No such luck.

This is a rant, by the way…

Now they need a utility bill or a bank statement. I checked our bank statement; of course it’s in a different state than where my credit card is billed. How about that utility bill? Didn’t they get the memo on the previous fraud examination?

I have decided I may temper my ambitious academic career and work for a company that will embrace my mediocre work ethic, nurture my pension for passing the buck, and encourage the sadist in me.

– Nanosh

View from above…

I’ve spent a good part of the last two days scanning my class notes, organizing the huge box of receipts that reveal a year’s worth of Spain. We lived, relative to most people in the world, very comfortably on not very much, but there really wasn’t a moment that we wanted more than we had.

I met these two ladies while bringing my box down for recycling. We got to talking because they wanted my paper. I was reluctant to give it up because, even if you can’t get our credit card numbers off it, it’s my “private” information. They were selling paper to the municipal recycling center for five cents a kilogram, so receipts turned out not to be useful as they went by weight. Not to mention if they wanted them, they could have just fished through the bin after I left, making me not only into a jerk, but stupid to boot. At the bottom of the box, however, I found all my essays I’d written and all my class notes. We talked for a while about how one of the lady’s mothers was going back to Romania to get chemical treatments for cancer. I talked about people whom I knew who decided to fight it with medicine and those who decided to make their own way. I made a bad joke that I was also an “extranjero” (foreigner).

Two semesters devoted to Spanish history, culture, and grammar–the once dominant colonial power reduced to five cents a kilo. I am glad to see that my writing is worth something to someone.

From above, if you look out the window, all sorts of stuff is going on. I have been reading Aimé Césaire, who I found out this morning was Franz Fanon’s teacher.  Both are incredible thinkers. The postcolonial genre has so much to teach me. This, from Fanon:

Attempting to liberate the oppressed without their reflective participation in the act of liberation is to treat them as objects which must be saved from a burning building; it is to lead them into the populist pitfall and transform them into masses which can be manipulated.

I thought about how taking this picture is something that privileged people do. We turn people into messages, artifacts, stereotypes, reasons, causes, objects of contemplation.

I don’t suppose I will take a vow of poverty in order to “understand” or “help,” but it strikes me that something is very wrong that some of the world eat and drink like I did last night while others are forced to dig through trash bins in order to survive. My work is worth five cents a kilo, same as theirs.

– Nanosh

Tonight in Alcalá

When you have a night as enjoyable as the one I’m having, it’s even more enjoyable to relish in it for a moment. What makes it so remarkable is the absence  (or the ignorance) of anything not pleasurable. I am overpaying for wine and beer for the privilege of being in this plaza, where it seems all the parents in the town have found a place to eat, drink and smoke, while their children entertain themselves with all things available in a plaza like this one. Indeed, if we ever returned to Alcalá de Henares, this is exactly the plaza in which we would look for an apartment.

These evenings happen here every night. Perhaps the players are different, but the scene is the same: periodically someone looks out their balcony window. The people at the tables enjoy every moment of the 25° weather at 10pm, and the children soak up the weekend evening hours.

Today was a good day in the sense of Ice Cube’s overplayed, but now very relevant song. Nothing bad happened – I spent most of the day digitizing and filing my class notes and handouts, allowing a giant pile of paper to be recycled without any guilt whatsoever, whether I look at those papers ever again or not. Lisa got a cold (we were out the evening before on a friend’s HUGE balcony overlooking the city while we ate delicious barbecue, the wind might have done it, or perhaps the stress of good things coming to an end. She went home to recuperate, and I stayed with Isadora; that is, Isadora played in the plaza while I just sat and watched her run back and forth with the other kids.

When Isa told me when she was ready to go, we asked for the bill, and I didn’t have to ask twice for her to take responsibility for her baby and her baby stroller. There was no having to carry her home, even though it was pretty late, and we were both tired. Arriving at home, the house was a giant mess, as I’d been pulling stuff out of drawers and other places in order to organize. That, the cloud of smoke, the few mosquitoes that had managed to find their way onto the skin, and any other nuisances of the evening were completely overwritten by the wonderfulness that it was.

Arriving at home, I thought I’d watch a little TV while I put this little thing together (I NEVER watch TV), and while my intent was to see if I could find a great show called Aida, I turned on the TV and saw two people’s naked, blurred butts. Yes, it was the dubbed version of Naked and Afraid. I’d have been much happier with re-runs of the naked dating show I never got to see an episode of, but this was interesting. They seem to make a point of showing how much weight people lost by starving on the island. Looks rough.

Isadora woke up briefly to eat a banana and put herself back to bed. Indeed, it was a very good day. I only wish that I’d bought those Pringles I’d been thinking about getting on my way home.

Good night.

– Nanosh

Keep Going! – My Marathon

Back in December, before I started catching one cold after another, I ran a 10-kilometer race in a pretty decent time (for me). I was riding high on that feeling of success – my so-called “runner’s high,” so I decided it would be a good idea to sign up for the marathon in Madrid. When in my life will I have a spare few hours every day during which I could properly train for a marathon? So in my delirium, I grabbed my credit card, signed myself up, then found and printed a training schedule online. Over the next four months, I mostly stuck to that schedule, which increased in distance from week 1 (6 miles) to week 16 (20 miles). Yes, it was a lot, but the only time I thought I would not be able to complete my daily mileage was once, on my 18-mile day. The last mile I thought my legs might stop working and all I could do was think: one foot in front of the other – keep going.

I spent most of January and February fighting off one cold and sinus infection after another. I became very discouraged in February and, and one point, decided that there was no possible way I could be prepared for the marathon without having trained for over a month! One friend told me to KEEP RUNNING – you still have time to get your mileage up before April! So I did, but barely.

Finally, two weeks pre-race arrived. Stacia and Noah and Janice were visiting us here in Spain, so it was glorious to have a running buddy keeping me company while we ran along the sunny boardwalk in Barcelona, then again along the warm beach in El Campello, then in the rainy hills of Alcalá de Henares. In the final hour of my training, it proved essential to have this extra encouragement because I solo was burning out. 

The day before race day: April 25. Many thoughts, mostly in the form of questions, whizzed through my mind: Shouldn’t I be nervous? Why am I not taking this seriously enough? Will I poop my pants? Will I pee my pants? What should I eat? Will that result in pooping my pants? Will it provide me with enough energy to keep running? Which socks should I wear? Where can I buy some Vaseline? What if it rains? Should I carry my phone with me? Will Nanosh and Isadora make it to cheer me on? How will I rendezvous with them? On-and-on with the curiosities. And the night before the race… major meltdown! I didn’t see that coming. It was totally unrelated to the race (or so I thought), but tears were pouring out of me like a baby with colic.

I began to text with my avid-runner friend, Lisa Ryan. She was supportive and helpful, giving me lots of solicited advice. After listening to my concerns via text messages across the Atlantic and the continental US, she told me that I really needed to put on my “positive hat” and just have fun, smile, and enjoy the marathon experience. Then she asked: What is your mantra? Apparently that’s a thing. Marathon runners have mantras. Instead of responding: “I don’t like people who wear positive hats and have mantras,” I decided to wear this imaginary positive hat and think of two mantras, which came quite easily to me: 1. Be positive!; 2. Keep going!

Race day: Sunday, April 26. I had to be out the door by 7:00, so I woke up at 6:00, leaving plenty of time for breakfast, coffee, waking up, and doing my morning business to avoid having to do it in a blown-out outhouse along the way. All was well, except for the fact that it was raining! I am a fair-weather runner, but I obviously couldn’t cancel this one. I met up with two friends, Katie (also running the marathon) and Jen (Katie’s roommate and our cheerleader), at the train station. Feeling good as we rode in to Madrid for 40 minutes, it was great to have friends with whom to share the experience. Jen had even made a sign to encourage us!

The start line was at Plaza Cibeles, named after the Roman goddess of nature (Ceres) and an icon in the city of Madrid. There is a stunningly beautiful palace and fountain, as well as a statue of Ceres in – naturally – a lion-drawn carriage. Needless to say, this was a very impressive place to start my first marathon.

After paying attention to the fact that the end line was NOT in the same location as the start line, I decided to leave my change of clothes and shoes with Jen (instead of the bag check at the finish line), who so nicely offered to lug my backpack around while I ran! Best decision of the day: having put my dry clothes inside a plastic bag inside my backpack!

I cut a hole for my head and two armholes out of a large plastic bag and put in on with the intention of keeping my clothes somewhat dry. Laughable.

   

I changed into my running shoes, took off my sweats, pinned my bib on, ran in place and stretched for about 7 seconds, zipped my bag shut, handed it to Jen, gave her a hug, and she wished Katie and I well as we raced off for the start line. Somehow we were running a bit late (true ME nature), so we literally ran to the start line with the other hundred people who were running late. A few dozen steps in, I realized that I forgot to Vaseline up! On my long training runs, I discovered that there were two key places that chafed (TMI coming up, prepare yourself!): in between my cheeks and along my underwear line! We did an about-face (second best decision of the day), knowing that if I skipped the Vaseline application, I would be in utter misery around mile 15. I found Jen, dug deep in my backpack and pulled out that tube of Vaseline. We ran back toward the start line, at which point I had to figure out how to actually apply said Vaseline in such a public arena. Katie reminded me that, on race day, anything goes! SO… I reached down and did what I had to do, knowing very well that several people would see me rubbing Vaseline between my butt cheeks, but I mostly didn’t care, and there was no other way. One guy did laugh as he walked past us on the left, but it was a laugh and acknowledgement nod of: “ha! I just did that myself!”

Now that I was all lubed up in the key places, I left the tube of Vaseline hanging on the fence for anyone else that might need it. We jammed ourselves in some corral behind a pushed over fence a couple of minutes before the race started. I do not recall a gunshot, or a “ready, set, go!” or anything of the sort. I just remember starting to run with a massive amount of people (23,999 other runners)! Everything I read and heard advised me to start out conservative – not too fast. Save your legs for the second half of the race. So that’s exactly what I did. Whenever I felt myself running at a nice pace, I slowed down a bit. It was nice to have a running partner, as Katie and I ran at the same pace!

I probably have a bladder the size of a small lemon. Really, you do not want to go on a road trip with me. A few miles into the race, I had to pee and I could not ignore it. There were no outhouses in sight, so I said goodbye to Katie, much to my chagrin, as I had thoroughly enjoyed running with her. I ran down a little side street and squatted in between two cars. I looked up toward the race and saw hundreds and hundreds of people run by, and though that it would be nearly impossible to catch up with Katie. As I tried to put my positive hat on while I squatted there, I looked to my left and saw that also on this side street was a café abound with windows facing – well – me! It was obviously a popular little restaurant, because there were lots of customers watching me squat and pee between two parallel-parked cars. Luckily, I did not see myself in the newspaper the next day (nor did I look), so I’m glad to say that those were NOT my 20 seconds of fame.

About 15 minutes later, I saw Katie’s ponytail and headband bobbing in front of me! It took me a few more minutes to catch up with her, and miraculously, we ran together for the entire race, save the last 2 kilometers.

They say to “train in miles but brag in kilometers.” Here in Europe, distance is measured in kilometers. A marathon consists of 42 kilometers (26.2 miles). I can’t decide if this is a good or a bad unit while running a marathon. Forty-two is a large number, while twenty-six sounds much more manageable. Anyway, I ran the first 27k without much trouble. In fact, when we ran down past Plaza Callao into Puerta del Sol – nearly the halfway mark – I felt great! I couldn’t believe it. Then when I saw the 28 kilometer sign, I sort of panicked and thought, oh no! – I still have 14 k to run! I told Katie in that moment that I was starting to slow down. Positive hat! Positive hat! Positive hat! And it worked. We pushed through and before I knew it, we ran past the 32 k sign. I was tired, hungry, and thirsty, but not too bad off. I was looking forward to the race being over at this point, but because I had Vaselined up, I was not in utter misery! Katie and I had a conversation about running the last 10k. Really, 10k is just 5k, which is like a walk in the park. After that 5k, it’s just another 5k. Simple math. We can do this! Then the hills of Madrid became more noticeable.

The final few kilometers was a gradual uphill climb, which really hurt a lot of runners’ legs. We ran past amazing athletes with strong legs who were walking and really hurting. One man had come to a complete stop and was yelling “DIOS” (GOD), writhing in pain. Katie and I just kept our slow-and-steady pace the entire way, and climbed that hill in style. I had about 3k to go, and I realized that I really had to focus if I wanted to finish without stopping, cramping, or writhing in pain like the people I was passing. My heart broke for them; they had made it so far, but just could not quite finish. In a really twisted way, it also motivated me to keep going, so I wouldn’t end up like them. I had to dig deep, repeat my mantra to myself (it worked!), and tune the world out. Just after I made that decision, I heard a voice yell my name: Lisa!! Go, Lisa! Yaayyyy!! I looked left and there I saw, in the abyss of my difficulty, Nanosh and Isadora standing in the rain, soaked to the bone, cheering me on! Seeing them I smiled a big smile and enlivened my step. Nanosh snapped a picture of me running, and I trotted along.

At this point there was no end in sight. I knew logically that there must be an end to this god-forsaken race, but I knew not where it was. I was looking for a sign (literally), but saw none. Did I mention it was pouring rain? Raining cats and dogs? Raining so much that splashing through monstrous puddles did not matter! I was soaked through and through. From the tip of my head to the tip of my toes, all the way down to the bones. And it didn’t matter! I was running along, highly focused, when some guy next to me yelled at me: Don’t Splash Me! When I realized he was talking to me, I squeaked out a perdón at which point, he laughed and said he was joking. I was trying to stay positive, but he pulled me right out of my focus and I had to find my mojo again. I found it, and kept going! I must have looked really miserable, though, because just then another man from the crowd looked at me and started running WITH me and talking TO me! He asked if this was my first marathon, to which I barely replied yes. Then he said, well, think of positive things. Think of all the positive things in your life. Think of the things that keep you going every day. Do you have a family? Don’t answer, just run. One question after another, just running with me. Positive hat! I could not produce Spanish at the moment, or I might have told him to go away! Please, just let me run. Finally he stopped running with me and I heard a few guys behind me talking about him and how he should have left me alone! Finally, finally, I saw the 41 kilometer sign, which means I have only ONE remaining! The longest kilometer in the history of time. I had to pee again. So, because I was in a strange state of mind and wet to the bone anyway, I had no choice but to pee my pants a little! Just a little. There, now I can make it to the finish line if there is one. Finally, I see it! I big arch up ahead with people running under it. That’s it, I can make it! As I get closer, I see that it is not, in fact the finish line, but just a mean trick – a false summit! A few minutes later, I saw what turned out to be the real finish line with the timer and all. I saw that it said 4:30 and I decided to run a little faster and succeeded in crossing before it reached 4:31.

I had thought my legs were in pain while I was running. However, pain is what I felt when I slowed to a walk after crossing the finish line! I was taking baby steps and trying to focus enough to stay on my feet while volunteers asked me if I wanted water, chocolate milk, orange, banana, Power bar, cookies, etc. Somehow my Spanish skills evaporated into thin air, so I became a mute in need of a wheelchair. I did not stop at Go and collect my $200, nor did I get a photo taken like everyone else does at the finish line. I was in so much pain I knew I could not stop moving. Meanwhile, every other finisher we saw was smiling, stopping for pictures, and walking without any trouble. My feet hurt, naturally, as they had been pounding pavement for 4 hours and 30 seconds non-stop. That’s when Katie and I saw it; like a Coca-Cola in a dry desert; a soft bed after a long hike – we saw a sign that said “Podiatry!” We concluded that this must mean inside that giant tent they gave foot massages! There could be nothing better than that in this moment. We entered the tent and a man asked us what we needed. The mute that I had become could not utter a single word. I wanted to say: Isn’t it obvious?! But (thankfully) I couldn’t. Katie mustered up the energy to tell him that our feet hurt. They took our wet shoes and soaking socks off, wiped our feet down with a curry-color liquid, and then put our soaking wet socks and shoes back on. I almost cried of grave disappointment, but was thankful nonetheless.

Mind you, the hard part is yet to come. It is still pouring rain and we are V E R Y slowly inching our way to the rendezvous point. For your average person on a typical day, this is a 10-minute walk. But today, in the pouring rain, freezing cold, aching feet, stiff muscles, I have no concept of how long that walk took us besides: eternity. When we finally reached the Starbucks by the Reina Sofía museum where Jen had our dry clothes, I let out such a huge wave of relief and emotion that I couldn’t help but cry. She was our savior! Our hero! Our mom! Our friend! Our cheerleader! In that moment I was reminded of the time when I called home after being robbed in Ecuador when I was 19. As soon as my mom spoke on the phone, a similar emotion gushed out of me in the form of tears. Sheer and utter relief. It took me at least 15 minutes to peel my wet clothes off in the Starbucks bathroom and put dry clothes on. Nanosh and Isadora arrived shortly after I finished changing, and Izzy’s first words were: Mama, I’m freezing cold. She looked miserable with her wet hair draped over her face, her soaked raincoat (worthless thing), pants, shoes, every single item. Nanosh ran to the nearest store and bought her a dry outfit so she would survive the afternoon.

After warming up, drinking some tea, snacking, hobbling back to the train station and getting home, I felt very content. I followed some advice and – after a nice hot shower – iced and elevated my legs. Nanosh cooked a healthy dinner and then I drifted off into a restful night’s sleep.

Back to the daily routine the next morning, I woke up at 7:00, barely got myself out of bed, happy to see that my legs weren’t actually broken, got Izzy off to school, had coffee with a friend, then stopped by the running store where I had bought my shoes a couple months ago. I thanked them for selling me a good pair, which resulted in no blisters or injuries. I told them I had finished the marathon and they were surprised that I was walking the day following a marathon! They concluded that I obviously could have pushed harder and ran faster. I insisted that in no way could I have gone faster, and they insisted that I could have. According to them, as it was my first marathon, I was focused only on finishing. Next time, focus on speeding it up and apparently I won’t be able to walk the day after.

There’s really no moral to this story. I do not feel like I did some huge, magical accomplishment. It felt somewhat anticlimactic, but I am satisfied that I was able to train thoroughly enough to get through it. And it makes for a good story. I might sign up for another marathon soon… To be continued…

No tengo palabras en mi lengua

I witnessed something unrepeatable tonight: two guitarists, a box percussionist, and a cantaor. We were in the basement of a bar, and even though I snatched a little video on my phone, no recording can do this:

– Make you smell the grass at the Greek Theater when you watched the Gipsy Kings perform live almost two decades ago
– Make you hechizado. You feel as though your whole body has become the space between the guitar strings and his fingers; that the percussionist is beating your heart; that the singer is singing your soul
– Make you laugh, just because you have some uncontrollable joy spring forth for no reason, and everyone else is doing it, too
– Make you cry… the side tears you find a way to make look like you have something in your eye, but there is a lump in your throat and a wail of emotion that was locked away, doing its best to free itself
– Capture the feeling of forty people in an intimate room, our bodies vibrating with sound

We found out pretty quickly that the guitarist, Antonio, was Paco de Lucia’s student.* Antonio’s accompanying guitarist is a young man who turns out to be his own son, who has been playing for the past 9 years. Antonio thanked his teacher, and expressed his pride and gratitude that his son was carrying on the tradition. I cannot imagine what it would be like to love something so much, to dedicate your life to it, and then have your own child take up the mantle.

I wouldn’t have known about this had Lisa and I not made connections here in this town – I felt very fortunate… honored to be a part of this experience. There is the flamenco you see in Madrid in various places, and there is the flamenco in venues like this where you become a participant.

I can feel the molecules in my body still vibrating. When you experience something like this you cannot help but think, “How wonderful it would be if you could be with me here.” And that is exactly what I was thinking: I wish you could have been here with me tonight.

*Paco de Lucia. If you don’t know who he is, watch this for a second…

Gambas al ajillo

We went to visit the Museo Sorolla on Friday. Check it out here. It’s a great place to visit – beautiful house and beautiful gardens. Sorolla is, as far as I can tell, is the Spanish version of Thomas Kinkade, painter of light. You have to put that at the end to make sure you know who we are talking about. I, of course, am more interested in José Gutiérrez Solana, who is basically the painter of dark. Here is one of my favorites:

The above image essentially describes our “date.” We started by having to return to the apartment to get Flat Stanley. Later, in Madrid, we hopped off a train thinking it was the right stop then had to get the next one going the same direction, then did the same thing at a Metro stop. It was like one of those bad date movies, except there is nothing funny or entertaining.

The clincher was this nine euro plate of gambas al ajillo, which Lisa has been craving ever since we arrived. Looks beautiful doesn’t it? It was delicious. I semi-secretly ordered it as we stopped at a great place across from the museum because the museum was closing for fifteen minutes to change their cash drawers. Apparently the combination of hot peppers in the oil and Lisa’s powerful chest cough creates a near-death experience that involves the waitress giving her a sympathetic back rub while her eyes nearly popped out of her head. I had some great gambas, though all to myself! ¡Pobrecita!

¡Hasta luego!

Nanosh

No, I Will Not Bird-Sit

(Written by Lisa)

I don’t think I’m mean-spirited, but if you ask me to take care of your dog, cat, fish, bird, snake, hamster, gerbil, grasshopper, or any other pet, I will probably say no. I have said NO to my dear friends, dear friends’ parents, and have probably offended people without even knowing it. As usual, there’s a good reason. I used to house and pet-sit at every opportunity! I enjoyed the extra cash, as well as the nice feeling of doing someone a favor.

But you see, back in 2001, a friend of a friend asked me to watch their two dogs and stay at their house over Thanksgiving weekend. I agreed, went over there a week early to get the lay of the land and an overview of their expectations. Anyone who knows me is aware that I am not an animal-lover, but I decided that this would be a fine opportunity. So we clarified the days I would be caring for the dogs and house: Wednesday through Saturday (over Thanksgiving weekend). I showed up on Wednesday as I was supposed to, and they were still home, playing with the dogs, laughing, and having a merry ol’ time. I saw this all through their front window, so I slowly backed up and snuck away, very confused. I called them when I got to my friend’s house (thanks for the moral support, Kate!), and they thanked me profusely for taking such good care of their animals and house while they were gone! I admitted to them that I had not gone over there until tonight, but they were home. They said they were gone Saturday through Wednesday, not Wednesday through Saturday. In sum, we had a giant miscommunication, which explained to them why their dogs were so elated to see them, and which solidified for me that I would never, under ANY circumstances, pet or housesit again. (I will go to my grave knowing that the arrangement was Wednesday through Saturday, by the way.)

Until 13 years later when this little bird is sitting here in my apartment in Spain. Damn my inability to say no. It was Christmas Eve, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring – when the doorbell rang! It was my neighbor, Ángeles – Isadora’s surrogate Spanish grandmother. She asked if Santa Clause had stopped by our house yet, because he had stopped by her house and left a gift for Isadora! So we went across the hall where there was a large, nicely wrapped box with her name on it! She opened it and gave many, many kisses to her new baby doll that cries, laughs, etc. It was very thoughtful of our neighbor, and we were grateful.

She then informed us that she would be heading to her hometown down south by Seville for the holiday and most of January. We wished her well, Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, Happy Reyes Magos, and started to walk out the door. Then she handed me her little birdcage and food! She asked if (or rather, said she assumed that) I wouldn’t mind feeding it and giving it water until she returns? I told her that – uhhh – we would be traveling for 3 days and wouldn’t be able to bring the bird with us. She responded: Bueno, no pasa nada. Aguanta. Sí, creo que aguanta – which means that, basically, don’t worry, she’s pretty sure it will survive. So we walked home, back across the hall, with a bird in hand.

We went to Oviedo with Kento (our friend who visited from Japan!) and had a lovely time.

They had individual TV/movies on this bus! Izzy was in heaven…

But in the back of my mind was that damn bird. Was it going to be dead when we returned? How much bird shit would there be in its cage, and how do I clean that shit? If it’s dead, what do we do with a dead bird? Do we buy her a new bird? Where do we find a bird store? Is there a neighborhood bird guy, just like there’s a neighborhood everything-else-guy? And most of all, WHY ME? There are 4 apartments on every floor. Could she have asked a different neighbor?

We returned from Oviedo on December 29 and the house reeked of bird poop – which I suppose was a good sign. At least it didn’t reek of bird corpse! About 10 days later, the doorbell rang and Angeles’ daughter – who is about my age – delivered some mail that was mistakenly put in her mom’s mailbox, at which point she took the bird to her own house to take care of. Ahhh… such relief. No more cleaning a birdcage or sweeping up bird crap and birdseed from the floor all around. Ultimately, the bird survived. But you still should never ask me to watch your pet. I will say no.

La Pluma

Today this is what happened on the way to school when I stopped into a stationery store:

Me: Hi! I’m looking for a fountain pen in black.

Attendant: Here is a black fountain pen.

Me: Ah! Yes. I think I’m looking for a different brand. Also, it looks like you are showing me a fountain pen. I’m actually looking for a different type of fountain pen.

Attendant: Maybe you are looking for a pen?

Me: Ah. Ja ja! Yes, I’m actually looking for a pen, not a fountain pen. Sorry about that.

The word for pen is Spain is bolígrafo or boli. Pluma means feather, so I was asking for a quill pen/fountain pen. Good to know. 

San Sebastián

San Sebastián – by Lisa

Anticipation. Bus. Sleek, centrally located flat. Sangría. Great company. Port. Flavorful food. Art. Wine. Architecture. Merry-go-round. Sunny beach. Coffee and chocolate croissants. Take out. Walking. Campers & Art & Pikolinos, oh my! Paradise. Mmmmmm. San Sebastián.

Yes, that’s San Sebastián in a nutshell. If you care to hear any more details, do read on! I sat here for a few minutes trying to think of a more exciting, creative title for this post. Then I decided that nothing is more exciting than the fact that we went to San Sebastián with Mark and Elizabeth. We met up with two of our friends from Ashland who happened to be traveling in the area (i.e. Europe), which was magical. Almost as magical as the time we happened upon each other in NYC in the same nose-bleeding row of the same Broadway show! We were excited to spend time with some familiar faces from back home in one of our favorite places in the world thus far. It was perfectly timed.

This place has everything one might look for in a cool city. If San Sebastián were an actual person, I would write him a great review and highly recommend him for his charming personality and variety of skills. He has sandy beaches with an island and mountains nearby. We saw sun and rain, warm and cold in one brief weekend. The old town has narrow, cobblestone roads sandwiched between antique buildings that you see in the movies (or in most of Europe, I suppose), as well as modern shopping centers and bookstores. Every store is either a bakery, pintxo bar or restaurant of some sort, shoe store with really artistic designs – mostly made in Spain (Campers, Art, Pikolinos), a market with fresh fruit, meat, vegetables, booze, souvenirs – you get the idea. Fun, fun, fun. Elizabeth and I exercised sterling will power by opting NOT to buy shoes, although we did try some on and I even found a pair that I visited the next day, but managed to hold out.

They (Lonely Planet) say this Basque region is the culinary capital of Europe (although I’m sure the Parisians or people from other parts of the world would beg to differ). As we wound through the streets of the old part of San Sebastián, we stopped in bar after bar and ordered a bite to eat and a sip to drink. We ate a good variety of typical Basque food and drank not a variety of delicious red wine. In fact, I made a bit of a fool out of myself when a bartender asked what variety of red wine we wanted to drink. As I was relayed the question for the others, as they couldn’t quite hear him, I stopped mid-sentence and turned back to the bar to clarify: you said Rioja or… what? Everyone in the vicinity who heard me (mostly old men) laughed aloud and several of them looked at me and responded, almost yelling: It’s all Rioja! We have nothing else here! Just Rioja… hahaha! (Silly Americans.) Hence, we ordered a Rioja, but I have no idea what kind of Rioja. I do know it was tasty, though. You can see in Nanosh’s previous post (written in Spanish) the photos of food we consumed.

We stopped one evening at the merry-go-round and park so Izzy could have her fun, too. She likes going out to restaurants, but one after another probably gets old for her. This is a great place for adults and kids alike.

Photo bomb!

Cannon bomb!

The next morning was an overcast, rainy, windy day. Nanosh decided to stay in and do some homework, Mark and Elizabeth had errands to run, and Isadora and I started to make our way to the local aquarium. We decided to stop by the beach on our way there to meet some people from San Sebastián that my friend from Ashland met while here last summer. Their 3 kids were surfing and running around at the beach and Isadora played and played and played while I chitchatted with this lovely Spanish couple. We never made it to the aquarium. Isadora wanted to stay at the beach and make sand cakes, sand castles, sand whatever. She approached a couple of kids who had shovels and buckets and asked to play with them. She loved every moment of beach time in the fall. Finally we headed home for her nap, but not without first stopping for her choice meal (french fries & hot dog!), since we adults had had our fair share, I figured it was her turn.

That night I had my first insensitive moment since I’ve been in Spain in which I was actually – admittedly – slightly rude. It was cold and dark. Isadora had a cough and we had been stuck inside for hours. After eating some take out pasta, we collectively decided that fresh air was a good idea, so we bundled up and battled the rain, which wasn’t as bad as it sounded or looked from the inside. I knew a bakery was right around the corner and, since I frequently scout out the bakeries, I also knew it closed at 9:00 pm. It was 8:40 when we popped our heads in the door and asked if they were open for business. She responded that, if they were closed, we wouldn’t be able to get in the door. Hmm. Ok, so we walked in, a little put off already. We ordered a few pastries and cookies, and Nanosh asked about coffee. The two ladies working there clearly wanted us out, so my natural inclination was to have a seat! Elizabeth suggested that the more favorable karmic decision would be to just leave peacefully. I looked the employee square in the eye on our way out the door and asked again if they were open till 9:00, then looked at my watch (I wasn’t even wearing one), and said, well, bye. Anyway, they were rude, I wasn’t very polite, and it made my pastry taste bad (I ate most of it anyway). But luckily we had great company, and it started to DOWNPOUR while we were under a protected walkway so we did some window-shopping on our walk home.

It is never a good sign when you embark upon a six-hour bus ride with a 3.5 year old and find out that the bus’ W.C. is clogged up, stinky, and not flushable. And your seat happens to be right outside the bathroom door. I think this was my bad Karma from the previous night paying me a visit. Well, it wasn’t pretty, but Isadora just added to the pile as necessary, while Nanosh and I managed to hold it until we reached a real bathroom. We made it safely to Madrid, did a quick bus transfer back to our little home town, and had Isadora in bed by 9:30. It was another lovely, memorable weekend in the books!

El viaje a San Sebastián

Al principio, hay que reconocer que tenemos una vida muy privilegiada y poca merecida de poder vivir en España. Además, de vez en cuando tenemos la suerte de poder explorar varios sitios en este país magnífico. En este caso, estoy hablando de la maravillosa ciudad de San Sebastián. Situada en la costa noroeste del país, cerca de la frontera de Francia y núcleo del famoso País Vasco, la ciudad ofrece todo lo que uno podría querer: montañas para hacer senderismo, playas para tomar el sol y surfear, un sinnúmero de tiendas con todo tipo de ropa y recuerdos y sobre todo, un sinfín de bares y restaurantes para probar la gastronomía de la ciudad. Es en este último asunto en lo que vamos a dedicar la mayoría de nuestra atención, pero como muchos cuentos, vamos a comenzar al punto de salir.

El viaje dura la mejor parte de seis horas, así que decidimos salir a las 11:30 para llegar a las 17:00. Para gente que no le gusta despertarse temprano y para familias con niños, es siempre aconsejable dejar tiempo suficiente para empacar las maletas. En la foto Isadora está practicando una posición de Yoga llamada “shavasana.”

Estábamos muy satisfechos al llegar a nuestro alojamiento. Como podéis ver, estábamos casi justo al lado de la Catedral Buen Pastor. Las acomodaciones tampoco faltaban de nada. Nos quedábamos con unos buenos amigos: Mark y Elizabeth de Terra Cotta Inn en Ashland, OR. (http://www.vrbo.com/65608). Por casualidad, pasaron por Portugal y Francia durante la misma temporada, entonces nos aprovechamos de la oportunidad de verlos.

 

Por supuesto nuestra primera prioridad fue la comida, pero no era posible pasar la oportunidad de echar un vistazo a la catedral. Es una catedral del estilo gótico, pero es muy moderna. Carece de la decrepitud familiar a muchas catedrales, pero también carece de la originalidad de catedrales más antiguas. Para mí, me interesa más la parte afuera, por eso las fotos demuestran la fachada durante la noche.

 

En San Sebastián, hay varios nombres para comida, pero los más típicos son el pintxo y la brocheta. Hay también raciones, media raciones, y todo tipo de comida que se puede pedir del menú, pero los primeros dos son los más importantes para la turistas. Generalmente, el pintxo es comida puesta encima de pan tostado. Como es evidente en las fotos, hay muchas variedades de pintxos.

  

También las brochetas son deliciosas. Las brochetas en las fotos son de un bar que se llama Egosari.

Tengo buenas memorias de este bar porque en 2001, fui a San Sebastián por un par de días para explorar. Con mis amigos, andábamos por muchas calles. Paré en un casino para gastar un poquito de dinero. Por razones que todavía no puedo explicar, puse cinco euros en una máquina, y cuando pulse el botón, gané más de 80 euros. Cogimos el dinero y fuimos a comer más tapas. Paramos en el bar Egosari.

Después de salir de la iglesia en este viaje más reciente, contaba a nuestros amigos que había un bar muy especial que tenía las mejores brochetas en todo San Sebastián, y justo después de terminar la frase, gire la cabeza y vi el bar. ¡Qué casualidad! Entramos y comimos muy bien.

Los precios para cada pintxo o brocheta son entre 1.80 y 3.70, que es un poco caro si quieres llenarte bien de esa comida, y eso era lo que queríamos. Además, en San Sebastián, no es típico poner una tapa con una caña o vino – allí se cobra para todo.

Otro bar que voy a recordar muy bien es La Cuchara de San Telmo. Está justo al lado de la Catedral en el casco antiguo, y tiene comida para chuparse los dedos. Por casualidad, nosotros entramos cuando estaba para abrir, y yo comencé a pedir platos después de la octava persona. Pronto llenó todo el bar, y mi compañía estaba fuera comiendo mientras yo pedí la comida y se la pasaba a Mark, nuestro amigo de Ashland. Es un bar del índole que todo el mundo lo está buscando porque leyeron algo en el Internet. Es un caso en lo cual el Internet tiene razón. La comida es impresionante.

 

Fuimos a otros sitios, principalmente al parque que tiene vistas a la playa, el tiovivo, y la playa para disfrutarnos, pero en total fue un viaje para llenarnos las barrigas. ¡Fue un viaje genial!