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.
