2014 - Under Water

My original title for this blog entry was ‘Party Animals’. I was going to write a vibrant, colorful, envy-inducing tale of Spanish fun: national festivals, late night fiestas, and the never-ending spray of fireworks this country so enthusiastically displays. I would blissfully babble about making friends, practicing vocabulary, preparing tapas, nesting in the villa, and generally showing off what a laid-back, casual culture these Spaniards have. Was also going to post this blog months ago, followed by more insightful drivel of the exciting dream life I was living in Spain.

Sometimes things don’t go as planned.

Aldofo and the villa renovation rubble

While the festivals and fiestas and fireworks were happening down below Huw’s ‘house on the hill’, he and I instead were making memories of a different sort. A bizarre blend of home-owner bliss and cultural uncertainties mixed with the daily frustrations dealing with “ordinary life” in a foreign country and the renovation headaches of a cliffside villa.

Take, for example, the day Huw and I looked up to find an armed police officer at the entrance gate pointing to the piles of construction rubble and debris around the terrace walls. As he sternly repeated, “Tienen un licensia de obra?” I ran inside, grabbed my dictionary, and with shaky fingers, quickly looked up ‘obra’ …WORK. WORK! I said to Huw. “He’s asking if we have a license for this work!” Yes, of course we do, I thought. “Si, si, claro,” I stammered back to the officer. But Huw’s call to our contractor proved otherwise. Apparently he’d “neglected” to file the formal paperwork with the city, and now the official wanted some form of payment. Later that day, after Huw’s guided tour of the local police station and my frustrated rants with our otherwise intelligent and responsible contractor, we learned the Spanish “custom” of such matters…generally get on with the job and don’t worry about filing or paying for a ‘license for work’ until the authorities show up on your property to inquire. sigh

Other memories include numerous trips to the Gandia appliance store in search of accommodating refrigerators, washing machines and ovens. Browsing the shiny, new household goods had its appeal, but jeez-louise did I pity the poor sales clerk. We saw the same, sweet woman every time. After the first couple visits, she knew us well. With the patience of Job, she smiled and made some sense of my ear-screeching, un-conjugated Spanish as I tried to ask questions about the features of this or that and attempted to arrange delivery dates with a driver I was certain couldn’t find us at the top of the hill. For our last purchase, she gave us a nice discount. “You’re special clients,” she said with her usual smile and clear, enunciated sentences for my benefit. Honestly, it’s no wonder this country celebrates so many Saints days!

Shiny new appliances in an "almost" finished kitchen

And of all the jaw-dropping, beautiful places I’ve seen now in Europe, I simply can’t erase the visual memory of me bent over, doing dishes, in the bottom of a tiny, basement shower because, amidst the remodeling, there was no other place with running hot water. Picture me wrangling a giant Paella pan (literally with a circumference larger than the width of the shower floor) scrubbing and scraping to get it clean, while simultaneously trying to prevent the browned bits of rice from going down the drain and mixing with the stringy, soapy strands of my long hair that had tangled around inside. Lovely!

Yes, these are my memories of the last several months. Thankfully I can laugh about them now.

Ordinary life in Every-Town-Spain

The other day I was riding a bus, meandering through one of many, small Spanish towns, winding around tiny streets and circular roundabouts. I realized how accustomed I’ve become to them. Long stretches of palm trees and various types of yuccas line the sidewalks and medians. Blocks of dry, sandy earth scattered with thick, sagebrush and spindly weeds pass for city parks, with splashes of graffiti art plastered on brick walls. Rows of businesses and shops appear in familiar bundles, recognizable by a logo, design, or name that I pronounce in my head with my American accent. And each of these stores are stacked with blocky, modest apartment flats where loosely flowing lines of laundry hang out over their unassuming balconies. On nearly every corner sits a group of large green and yellow bins prompting people to recycle. And on the outskirts, giant billboards advertise the “big-box” stores while nearby, large, industrial-sized warehouses and petrol stations extend the town into a generic upward version of stale, concrete USA. This is Every-Town-Spain, and for me, no longer seems exotic, unique, or strange.

I’ve discovered that despite the familiarity these places have acquired, living in a foreign country, as opposed to touring one, is a bit like being under water. You look up towards the sky where everything is blurry. You can only barely make out what’s going on. You see people moving about, but because your view is limited to the edge of the pool, you don’t quite know from where they’re coming and to where they’re going. You hear people talking, but can’t quite comprehend what they say. Activity is happening all around, but you’re too far below the surface to fully participate. After treading water as hard as you can, it starts to feel like you’re not really getting that far. Don’t get me wrong, I like to swim, but sometimes it’s more comfortable walking on the ground.

Indre & Ana - Expat Goddesses

There is hope, however. Lately I’ve been hanging out with two American women who’ve lived in Spain for 20/30+ years. They married Spanish men. Gave birth to Spanish babies. Speak the Spanish language. They’ve built lives here. They LOVE it here! One admitted to me that she can’t describe the Spanish culture to people back in the States. “I don’t even try,” she said with a big, wide grin. “Until you experience it firsthand,” she added, “you can’t comprehend it.” She’s absolutely right.

I return to Portland in a few days. “For good? Or just a visit?” my cousin asked recently. Great question! I can’t wait to see my friends, my family, my dog. My son and his girlfriend are getting married, so I have that to look forward to. And of course, the holidays are just around the corner. But…if I’m being honest, I dread the incessant barrage of advertising and marketing, the post-election political mud bath, the fake news, the egocentrism, the hectic pace, the disingenuous inquiries of “what do you do?” and the gloomy winter weather. To quote a blogger I recently discovered: “The United States is my alcoholic brother. Although I will always love him, I don’t want to be near him at the moment.” (lol, if you like that…check out the full article: http://markmanson.net/America)

So what’s a girl to do? Tread water or walk on the ground? Live in Spain? Live in the States? There’s no clear answer.

How can I leave this??

Plus…there’s Huw. Last year I gushed about unicorns and rainbows. Well, I’m afraid the unicorns gave way to mosquitoes and the rainbows to heatstroke (ha! that’s a private nod to the hell that is Spain in August!). With my tail between my legs and a few fresh dents in my heart, I solemnly admit that life with a dreamy, blue-eyed Welshman has ended. I think. Pretty sure. Maybe, last time I checked. Feeling rather silly about all that love junk now.

If I sound a bit melancholy, a bit tired, well, I am. But I’m also eternally grateful, enlightened, and humbled. The sides of one’s moods aren’t mutually exclusive after all. In six months, I’ve traveled, learned a language, sunbathed nude, and eaten amazing food. I’ve also slept on streets, cried myself to sleep, and woken to jackhammers. Nothing is perfect, and everything, no matter where one is in the world has its joys, its pains, its uncertainties.

In the end, life in Spain is, well, LIFE…in Spain. 

2014 - Moving In

There’s a smokin’ hot 20-something year old Spanish lad working down below on the pool that I’m standing above, three stories up on a tiled terrace. Although it’s not his name, I affectionately, secretly, call him ‘Juan Carlo the Pool Boy’. I’m trying not to stare. Instead I just shake my head in disbelief. Suddenly I feel as if I’ve walked into a cheesy episode of Desperate Housewives. Should be cutting to commercial any second. The panoramic view beyond is expansive and overlooks the Mediterranean Sea. Soon the sun will be setting, just over the mountains. The fourth one we’ve seen to date. Of all the sunsets I’ve watched in all the places I’ve been around the world, the ones I’m privileged to see now, every night, just outside my new front door, are by far the MOST impressive!

Happy new home owner!

It took quite a long time and quite a lot of patience, but finally, FINALLY, Huw signed on the purchase of his house and now I’m privy to the oh-so-unique experience of settling into a home in a foreign country. In my lifetime to date, I’ve bought (or rather, been involved in buying) three houses. With that, comes the hand-cramping process of signing large stacks of legal documents to seal the deal in The U.S.A. But what I saw as the “closing” process with this Spanish villa was something completely different. Six parties took place in the event – the seller, the seller’s real estate agent, the bank representative, the city Notary, Huw (the buyer), and Huw’s lawyer (who’s Spanish and was essentially there to act on behalf and translate). Oh, and I can’t let it go without comment that the bank representative (female) was wearing a VERY low-cut top and carried something akin to a ‘Hello Kitty’ handbag for her paperwork and bank notes. When she bent over to reach for some papers, all present in the room got quite an eyeful, and I couldn’t help but giggle when I watched her stuff a giant wad of cash into her silly bag. LOL! Well, anyway, there we all were in a small room around a large table to witness the Notary’s reading of the contract. After no more than about 10 minutes review and discussion, one, SINGLE piece of paper was passed around the table for the chief parties to sign. I took a quick glance at the papers and was surprised to see such an informal contrast to what I’m used to in the States. They were nothing more than about a dozen, double-spaced, hand-typed pages that looked like a research paper I might have written in college. But that’s all it took. And with that, Señior Garcia (the seller) gave Huw three crowded rings of house keys and the deed was done. Muchas Gracias and Adios. Wow!

The 'hood' on Tossal Gros

They say the three most important things about a house is: location, location, location. Damn!! Is that ever the case here! I’ve probably gushed enough about the view, so I won’t say more about that. But now, strolling the “neighborhood” is just as surreal. I say neighborhood in quotations because it’s more like a scene from a foreign film, dotted with jaw-dropping multi-million dollar homes, high atop this mountain overlooking the ocean. Some have massive security gates and, are you kidding me??!!...the swimming pools are seriously worthy of sunbathing celebrities. Totally unbelievable!

Now then…hold it right there…(insert sound of a screeching record player). Before all this ooh la la fancy-pants, “villa on a Spanish hillside” nonsense gets carried away, let me clarify that Huw’s house is honestly just a nice, modest abode. Yes the view is to-die-for. And yes, George Clooney might, just might, spend his summers up the road around the corner, but as for this particular dwelling itself, well, the reality is, we’re rollin’ up our sleeves and gettin’ down to fixin’ her up.

This is where the fun really begins and where time spent tra la la-ing around the Spanish countryside changes. Our first couple of days were spent cleaning out the house. We learned that the owner didn’t stay here full time and apparently didn’t care to remove all his furniture and crap, so we’ve had quite an adventure going through drawers, dumping out piles, and sorting through various bizarre findings. Among the dried up spiders, hoards of plastic bags, and old bottles of different types of cleaners that I can’t translate, Señior Garcia  also left us: a large, rusty bike; the MOST hideous, worm-infected light fixture you ever saw; loads of clothes hangers (actually, some of those are quite useful); condoms in the bedside drawers and certain – ahem – kinds of magazines…ewww and double ewww; a couple of gawd-awful, bright, yellow neon shirts; several, very Spanish looking tapestry-like slip covers; and loads of trash. Oh…and there are twist ties and eye bolts securing the beds to the walls (hhhhmmm…). Surely everyone has, at some point, gone through other people’s castoffs. What a hoot doing it with a cultural twist! And in all fairness, we scored a few treasures too: a bitchin’ wood coffee table; some rustic, occasional chairs (that I’ve already set by the front door along with a lovely, fresh hot pink geranium); two large, ceramic pots; and several, typical terra cotta tapas bowls that we’ve been using nearly every night. SWEET!!

DIY center - Spanish style

If there’s one thing I’m learning, doesn’t matter where one is in the Western world, getting a new house in the 21^st century requires…a local Home Depot! And Huw and I quickly found Spain’s answer to that just a few miles up the road. There ought to be a Hidden Camera type reality show that features non-native speaking foreigners going into such a place. Seriously. Our first time there, I’m sure, was hysterical to watch for the locals. Not only were we turned around tying to find shit, with our giant-ass cart that’s tough to maneuver down the aisles (yeah, that’s universal too!) but now imagine not being able to read signs and packages and instructions, etc. Holy hell – it took us 45 minutes just to choose a freakin’ set of bed sheets and pillow cases ‘cuz we couldn’t figure out what went with what and the difference between this that and the other!!! eeeeyyyy carummbaa!!

Gettin' down to work!

And then there’s yard work. Wow! Are we ever working our asses off outside, trying to clear away and tend to the jungle-like overgrowth that is the grounds. Imagine steep slopes of this “hillside Spanish villa” entangled with various plant forms from large agave cactuses (cacti??), thick mounds of grasses, yuccas, ivy and the horrendously barbed, spindly vines that can only be described as the WORST STINKING DEVIL plant on earth!! CRIMINEY it’s awful!!! Days we’ve spent now clearing brush, pulling vines, and pruning trees. It’s hot, dirty, nasty work, but honestly, pretty fun! Let’s hope one of us doesn’t end up in a sticker-bush, scratched-up heap at the bottom of the hill! Think I came close a couple of times…ah yes, life in Spain has indeed taken a turn!

Finally, last but not least, I make a quick nod to our new neighbors…to the south, an Algerian French family who come ‘round on holidays to lie in the sun and “get away” from their home outside of Paris (get AWAY from their home in PARIS??!!! Shheeesh!) Only the teenage girl speaks English, none of them really speak Spanish, so talking is a bit tricky. They invited us over for coffee. But alas, Huw didn’t really want to go. Doesn’t much like the French. It’s a British thing…blame history for that one. To the north of us is an older, German woman, who also comes on holiday now and again. She’s a lawyer, apparently, and seems to take some pleasure in chatting us up over the fence to inform us ALL about the goings on of the previous owners. You know the type. A bit of a busy-body -- German style. One day she went on and on about some “illegal” additions made to the house. We tried to tell her that everything had been cleared. The city updated the records and they were stamped and signed accordingly. “harrummpff” she exclaimed in her thick German tongue. Rolling her eyes she added, “don’t be zo zure…dey only tell you dat…ze Spanish lie about zuch dings!” yeah, ok, lady. Thanks for the advice. Now why don’t you go remove your large, white granny-pantys you got hanging out there on the line? Jeez! We can see them from our pool!

Just another night on the hill

Well…I must run now. Huw’s busily trying to identify which light switches go to which lights and which keys fit which locks. And I gotta washing machine instruction manual written entirely in Spanish that I need to figure out. Hasta luego!

2014 - Déjà Vu

Three months, two weeks, five days and some odd hours from when I left Spain last December, I find myself back again. WOW! Un-be-LIEV- able!! The word surreal barely begins to express what it feels like being here – so soon after leaving -- and for the reasons that bring me back. I’ve started writing this blog from the country villa I was renting before. And nothing, really has changed. Remember the one? Eduardo and Amparo’s estate surrounded by olive trees with a great view of the little old castle on the hill up across the village where, last fall, I blissfully wandered the farmers market and was shocked to see snow! What a head trip to see that castle again, the market, and all the familiar small-town roads. In fact, I just brewed a cup of coffee and am pretty sure I used the last of the sugar I left here in December. 

To recap…my trip last fall was for 3 months to explore the southern region of Spain and take in the culture. I lived and traveled 2 of those months around Granada then moved in November to the rural town of Cocentaina near the Mediterranean coastline. I like to call that trip my “return to sanity” after the challenges caring for my grandmother and, later, the divorce…blah blah blah. Figured running away to Spain – ALONE – for 3 months would be an ideal way to see a super cool part of the world and help transition me into the next phase of my life -- whatever the hell THAT was going to be! But what I didn’t expect was to get swept off my feet by a charming, funny, intelligent, gentle, blue-eyed Welshman who’d ultimately fly across the globe (literally) in the dead of winter to help me break away from Portland and bring me back to start my next chapter with him instead. Sometimes one just never knows which way the wind will blow!

My "stuff" pared down to a small storage unit

Our time together in Oregon was incredibly special, and Huw was a real trooper bopping around meeting the whole clan of friends and family…but I’m not gonna lie…it was also INCREDIBLY stressful. Stressful because I had monstrous decisions to make. (And if you know me, simply trying to decide between soup and salad can be treacherous.) Was I going to keep an apartment in Portland and travel back and forth between there and Spain every three months or so? Or was it better to get rid of all my stuff and keep an open itinerary with some uncertainty as to a “permanent residence”? There was no easy answer. And the thought of reducing your life’s possessions down to a 5 x 5 storage unit and moving thousands of miles away with a man you’ve barely met, well, that’s some pretty scary shit! Of course I had to think about my boys and other family and friends too. Could I leave all of them for an unknown amount of time?? The indecision drove me nuts! Then one morning I woke up, with a giant weight lifted, and told Huw I’d sell my stuff, go back with him, and try to get a long-stay visa for Spain. I would take the leap, cuz ultimately I didn’t want that nasty ‘ol monster Regret breathing down my neck. As for my boys, well, if they weren’t doing as fantastic as they were, in the lives they’ve started to live quite independently, I don’t think I could’ve decided what I did. Damn I’m proud of them! And thanks, boys, for giving me your blessing to do this. I love you SO much!!! XOXOX

True paella made by master Eduardo

So what’s happening now? oh. my. gawd. We’re having a BLAST! Just chillin’ really. We wake up to sun and no alarm clock. We take walks. Sometimes I go for a run. We get creative – Huw with his photography and me with my writing. We talk. We think. We laugh and revisit old movies. We cook for each other and sample new wines (ok, that’s a lie…we drink a LOT of wine!) We explore the countryside, take in the local festivities (more on those later), and occasionally just hang out with Eduardo, Amparo and their band of eclectic friends and relatives. Usually this includes a GIANT pan of paella rice, prepared fresh over a flame in a large brick oven. Awesome Spanish tradition! The best part of those evenings is the hilarious, and often incomprehensible, blend of Spanish and English mixed together in a haphazard flurry of bad grammar and exaggerated hand gestures as we all try to communicate together in the only possible way we can.

Jealous yet? Don’t be. We’ve got our share of headaches too.  There’s drama among friends that Huw and I are caught in the middle of. And we’re getting awfully frustrated with closing the deal on his house…Spaniards are notoriously lax, and I swear there’s a bank holiday every other day, so business takes FOREVER! Sometimes ordinary bad luck happens too. Just today we had car trouble forcing us to change plans and return home. And I had major issues with the washing machine then spent an hour hand washing the load before hanging the clothes out on the line.

View from Huw's new villa…if we can ever move in

By far the greatest challenge is still the language barrier. Despite my best intentions to continue studying back in the States and improve my Spanish, I simply didn’t. Days turned into weeks. And those weeks slipped by as my re-entry into American life overshadowed my time in Spain. Soon, I no longer needed to think about what I needed and wanted to say…I just said it. But now that I’m back here, and could stay here for a much, much longer time, it’s necessary again to focus on learning the language. Problem is, it’s a slow and frustrating process. Fortunately, I’m picking back up where I left off. I can still read a lot of signs. I can still order in a restaurant. I can still transact money. I just can’t bloody hold a conversation, with ACTUAL  people, that uses more than a few simple words in a sentence!!! GGGRRRRRR!!!!!! But I am trying, and I’ve been studying with a good app, Duolingo, that cousin Sara turned me onto – gracias chica!

Easter procession in Cocentaina

All this seems like a sort of curious balancing act between being a foreigner in another country and living, “normally,” among the natives. I’m definitely feeling less like a tourist – much more like a resident. I suppose it’s only natural when you start doing things like browsing furniture stores instead of old cathedrals. Buying large containers of shampoo rather than those little travel-size bottles. And preferring home-cooked meals over touristy tapas bars. Hell, even when I eat now, I use my fork upside down in my left hand, piling the food up on the end (look that one up if you don’t get the reference). HA! This is what acclimating to a European lifestyle looks like I suppose.

The other day I walked up to the castle above Cocentaina. My déjà vu was profound! I never expected to see that view again, let alone possibly living here. Strolling back down the hill, I thought about my good fortune and what it means to have such a leisurely, luxurious life right now. Suddenly it occurred to me what I think this adventure is really about and what I hope to relay through this blog. Yeah, sure, I’ll have some travel stories and talk about the trouble I get myself into. But there’s more now compared to what I shared last fall. Now this is the story of stripping away a big part of my American culture. Letting go of certain beliefs systems. Questioning certain values, ideas, customs, and ways of life. I think many people in the States dream of simpler ways. Leaving the mad race to “succeed” and having fewer things, fewer responsibilities to occupy their time. Well, maybe I can’t speak for others, but that’s certainly been my own desire. The time is now even if my plans are temporary at best and subject to change at any moment. Either way, I’ll be damned if I’m not gonna jump in and give this a whirl! 

LOVE being back!!