This breakfast didn’t come from canned goods, but it did come from a good can.

Let me explain. This breakfast of yummy pastries was born of two parents: the one-week anniversary of our coming to live in Torrevieja and the fact that I forgot to buy eggs or cereal yesterday. So while Mark was working on getting some paperwork together for yet another round with the Spanish immigration authorities (converting the visa into a residency permit, who knew?), I decided to amble down to the local pastelería and get breakfast treats. Only a few minutes and a couple of wrong turns later, it was mission accomplished and tummies filled. I can do this!

Thats where the cans come in, see? We are learning what we can do. We can buy pastries, get groceries, recycle our paper, hang up the laundry to dry on the lines on the roof, buy stamps, navigate the bus system- the list goes on. A week ago, we couldn’t yet do those things. Now we can. And, most importantly, over time what we can do will simply become what we do.

So cans are good. There are a lot more of them ahead, I hope. But even more inviting is the prospect of those cans morphing into a glorious, unremarkable, amazing life lived day-to-day. May it be so!

 

 

 

 

Yesterday Mark and I attended the matinee performance of the local symphony orchestra. I’m not much of a judge of orchestral quality; no one in the audience covered their ears, and the bows in the various sections seemed to be going the same way at the same time, so I guess they were pretty good. Even without much of a musical yardstick, though, we really enjoyed the performance.

One reason that the experience was so pleasurable, I think, was that much of the music was familiar. The orchestra played some Strauss waltzes, a selection from “El Lago de los Cines” (“Swan Lake”) and the Lone Ranger theme, aka “Final Obertura de Guillermo Tell.” One line in another piece was, I swear, the opening line from “The Eyes of Texas.” Hook ‘em, Torrevieja! (If that last comment is less comprehensible than the Spanish above, just ask me privately for an explanation.)

In a place where so much is foreign, the sense of musical recognition, of sharing in the experience, was especially welcome. But that desire for familiarity wasn’t limited to the music. Members of the orchestra began to look like people I knew. The Concertmaster was a slightly seedy version of a fellow we know from church in Austin, and the female French horn player was a dead ringer for a runner/lawyer pal from San Antonio. If you subtracted 25 pounds, the piccolo player looked just like our son-in-law. Even Mark spotted a trumpet player who could double for a law school classmate. So either there are only three dozen faces in the world and we just saw lots of familiar models yesterday or we both needed a bit of home at the concert.

Those players weren’t our friends, of course, and we knew that. But it was fun to have a touchstone for a while. That sense of security allowed me to move to a larger recognition of human character types among the musicians. There really are three dozen of those types, if that many. One of the violists was clearly one of those people who secretly wants to be Frida Kahlo. She scowled a lot during the performance and sported one of those super-floraly headdresses. Hers was listing alarmingly to starboard most of the program, though, and I really wanted to slip backstage during the interval and give it a good tug to straighten it up. Then there were the almost identical flutists, who were wearing almost identical aquamarine gowns. Perhaps they were bridesmaids at the same wedding where the bride assured them that they totally could wear the dresses again. But the prize for most fun clearly went to the Three Musketeers, who were probably were not French but were the life of the party on the third row of second violins. The best part is when they started dancing in their chairs while playing their appointed parts of the “can-can” song from Offenbach’s Orpheus in the Underworld. They were having a blast, and I sincerely hope to bump into them in a bar sometime.

So our time at the orchestra was enjoyable on many levels and met our need for a bit of home. How lucky we are to live with the familiar and the new, all at once!

 

Today is my 60th birthday, and this is what I see when I look out my window. It’s literally half a world away from the places I’ve spent all my other birthdays. I’m going to dinner to celebrate with my husband and two friends who don’t speak the same primary language I do. And there’s a guy outside on the promenade with Andean pipes, an amp, and a surreal version of “Nights in White Satin.” But however unusual today may be in the scheme of things, my job is the same it’s always been. My job today is to appreciate what’s in front of me.

Previous birthdays, on reflection, have been a mixed bag. The one I remember best from childhood involves a paper circus set arrayed across three-quarters of our dining room table; since it was a drop leaf table whose end had taken the appellation to heart, you couldn’t put anything there without it starting a slow slide to the scuffed floor. But I was happy to have my circus and a cake I got to pick out from Rao’s Bakery. I do still wonder why all my cakes had icing roses on them, as I’ve actually never liked icing.

Most birthdays since then have been spent with Mark and the kids, of course. I can’t claim specific memories of some of them. Thirty, for example, streaked past me entirely. In my defense, our daughter Jane was four months and four days old, and she had not slept for four of those months. True sleep deprivation apparently obliterated all of those memory neurons. Fifty, on the other hand, was truly amazing. Mark told me a couple of weeks in advance to block out my schedule for four days around my birthday, as we were going on a mystery trip. Packing consisted of putting a hot weather pile and a cold weather pile on our bed and vamoosing while somebody put one pile in a suitcase and hid the other one. On the appointed day, Mark, Jane, Mary, and I trooped to the airport, where I was handed a travel guide to San Francisco. It was glorious. I treasure the memories of those days.

The birthday I learned the most from, though, was my 25th. A quarter of a century is a big deal, right? I was working at my first job as a lawyer and dating a fellow I knew from law school. He knew when my birthday was and hadn’t said anything about celebrating, but I was sure that meant there was a big surprise coming my way. There was: he didn’t call. (For you youngsters, there were no emails, texts, or other social media on which to send a cowardly boyfriend/half-assed good wish.) And the funniest thing is that though I didn’t get the attention I wanted, all that day other people kept calling, leaving me cards and little gifts, and even bringing me a glass of wine for a toast when I got home from the office. The universe showed up with exactly what I needed: family and friends, each telling me that they were glad I was born. And did I appreciate it? Not even a little. I bawled myself to sleep because I got what I needed instead of what I wanted. What a putz!

So here is another b’day, and I’m trying to appreciate what has shown up in this beautiful and unpredictable dance called life. It’s not normally what we do, of course, and that’s a shame. Remember in the last act of Thornton Wilder’s “Our Town,” where the recently deceased Emily asks to return to her 12th birthday? She is shocked and saddened to see little people appreciate the small joys of life and the pleasure that being with those you love can bring. When she inquires of the narrator/Stage Manager whether anyone understands life while they live it, he replies, “No. The saints and the poets maybe-they do some.”

Happy birthday, saints and poets. Let’s appreciate this beautiful day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We have arrived in Torrevieja! After getting our eye-popping amount of luggage up to the 5th floor apartment – 6th in US counting – we ate takeout kebabs on the balcony and then made a grocery store run. The store sells Mexican tortillas, which is a great relief. (FYI in Spain, a tortilla is a frittata, which would make breakfast tacos redundant in the extreme.) Peanut butter, alas, is a pricey specialty item. We’re determined, though, so we’ll explore some of the mass markets after we’re unpacked.

And we are set up on WiFi. The password had the temerity to hide itself in the notebook containing the apartment information, but a quick phone call to the man who maintains the apartment when it’s rented resolved the problem. Note to self: yelling “Olly olly oxen free-o” was not efficacious.

The last task of the day is to locate the phone charger and my toothbrush. More adventures await tomorrow!

 

Happy 2019! After a day spent touring the Pantheon and the National Maritime Museum, Mark and I rested before going out for late-night festivities. To be specific, I took a nap, and Mark worked on taxes. See why I married him?

After a dinner here at our apartment (salad and quesadillas- we found tortillas here!), we headed out to find some Fado. Fado is, as Mark observed, Portugal’s version of blues music: soulful and often sad, grounded in commentaries on life and love and lack thereof. Finding Fado is not hard in the Alfama, the district where we are staying. Finding a Fado place that wasn’t full was more challenging. Fortunately, a restauranteur whose big heart compensated for a decided lack of teeth on one side took pity on us and found us two seats in his establishment. Just to be good sports, we ordered bread, cheese, and wine, followed by flan, chocolate mousse, and more wine.

The Fado singer was an attractive woman in her thirties with a tight violet dress and the lung capacity of a person twice her size. A guitarist and a guy playing a mandolin accompanied her. Surprisingly, several of the songs sounded rather cheerful, and audience participation in the form of clapping (which I am very good at) and singing “la la la la da” (which reportedly I am not so good at) was encouraged. We could have been clapping and la la la da-ing about nuclear holocaust for all I know, since, of course, the lyrics are all in Portuguese. One song did appear to be about Lisbon; I swear she was singing about Mufasa in another one, although as many times as I’ve seen “The Lion King” you’d think I’d have recognized the tune if that were the case. Anyway, we left after I suggested to Mark that we should introduce the singer to “Deep in the Heart of Texas,” which has lots of clapping and might make a nice addition to her repertoire.

We headed down to the main square, which is featured in the picture below. A band played good old rock ‘n’ roll on a brightly-lit stage. I couldn’t understand them, either, but they may well have been singing in English. Or Portuguese. Or Latvian, for that matter, because the crowd was pretty noisy.

So midnight found us counting down with 20,000 of our new best friends, and happiness reigned when we got to 12 o’clock. The trick to this particular gathering, it turned out, was leaving. We successfully made our way into the crowd by following a group of people wearing oversized pink neon sunglasses. Any veteran of music festivals can tell you that people with oversized neon sunglasses of any shade are getting to the front of the stage come hell or high water, so it’s just best to clasp the hand of the last person in that line and tow your beloved along with them. Most of the time the people in the line are so drunk they forget who’s in their party, so you’re usually welcome to latch on.

That exercise made getting into the crowd fairly easy. Getting out was another matter. Sunglasses people generally don’t leave the party until the police politely suggest that such a move might be a good idea, so you have to pick someone else to snowplow for you. After a few misfires – the really big guy shouting in German was a dud, all hat and no forward motion cattle – I spotted a small woman with a ferocious expression and a very bad hair dye job. I figured if she was as determined to be gone as she was to be blonde, we were in good shape. So Mark and I made it home safely and with lots of memories of a great start to the year.

May 2019 bring much joy to all!

 

 

 

Or, rather, it’s the black and white street tile road or the bumpy cobblestone sidewalks. It’s not the easiest walking on the knees, but Lisbon is lovely and very much a walking city. Despite jet lag, Mark and I had a great day with our tour guide, Judite, and her boyfriend, Carlos, our driver, yesterday. We got a great overview of this beautiful city and heard lots of stories about its history.

So why, then, am I posting a picture of our TV remotes? It’s because I’m super proud of how we navigated yesterday, even though we were both very tired from the blessedly boring flight from Boston. We had to stand in line for an hour for Passport Control (!) at the airport but apparently did not look sufficiently suspicious to raise any eyebrows there or at Customs. Judite and Carlos met us there and gave us a fantastic day tour of this lovely city. (Just ask me why St. Vincent holds a boat and crows in his hands!) From there we got to our Air BNB and were met by our host. We settled in nicely slept well, and are ready for the day.

A new abode is always a challenge. So far we’ve used the ATM to good end and gotten groceries. The latter exercise was a bit surreal, since the supermarket is in the area rail/Metro station and required a bit of finding. We did know to look for the milk in asceptic containers on the shelf, though. Score! In the apartment, we’ve run a load of laundry at a yet unknown temperature, adjusted the thermostat, taken much-needed showers, made coffee in a new-to-us kind of coffee maker (thank you Google for knowing where the power switch is) and plugged into the WiFi. The one thing we haven’t conquered is the – you guessed it – TV. The really embarrassing part of this failure is that, as you will note, the controls are in English. 😉

Today we pack to go to Lisbon for four days and then on to Torrevieja. Although we’ve shipped 29 boxes to Torrevieja, we can’t expect that material before March at the earliest. So what we’ve left there on previous trips and what we’re carrying now will be what we have for the time being. (Although I hear they have stores in Europe. I’ll keep you posted on that one.)

We’re flying TAP, the Portuguese national airline. Its weight limits are more restrictive than the ones for US carriers: two checked bags each, with a limit of 50.6 pounds per bag. Your carry on bag is limited to 17.6 pounds; your personal item is 4.4 pounds. Whoa, Nelly! We have our work dumped out – er, cut out – for us.

Note: Alternative titles suggested include “Towel the ancient Yuletide carol” and “Heavenly hosts sing towelelujah.”

We’re having a rather laidback holiday, as you can see. Getting a tree seemed like a lot of work, especially since yesterday after church and a grocery run Mark, Mary, and I melted into puddles of do-nothingness. So here we are on Christmas Eve, with brunch at 11:30 and an agenda that consists of a grocery run and church. Where have I heard that before?

 

So much has happened since I last checked in that it’s hard to know where to start! The bottom line is that we had a full-price offer on our house in West Lake Hills after two days in MLS. We were able to set the closing for November 30th, so the family came for one last Thanksgiving in that house. It was a lovely day, and it gave our kids the chance to say goodbye to the house and to clean out the last of their stuff.

Selling the house was a cause for sentimental reflection, but not sadness. We had almost 25 wonderful years there, for which we are more grateful than we can express. But that house is made for a family, and two people kind of rattle around in it. Our buyers have young kids, and we wish them the best as this house becomes their home.

Mark and I spent the three weeks before coming here at our little house in Dripping Springs. The packing up, storing Mark’s Mustang, and shipping off our boxes for Spain (see you in three months, shoes!) kept us crazy busy.

A week ago was our last Sunday worship at First Methodist. This church has been an important part of our lives in Austin. We will be back to visit, but to our deep delight our pastors blessed us and wished us Godspeed, and after the service we collected hugs and prayer shawls to serve as remote hugs as we travel on. That all felt great.

Getting back to the mundane, Mark and I were working on getting the house closed up, laundry done, etc., until about 5PM on Friday. Happily for us, our dear friends Vivian and Jimi Ballard invited us to spend the night with them so as to be able to leave housekeeping issues behind for a night. We ate, drank, and made very merry with two of the nicest people ever. And then on Saturday it was off to the airport for us!

So after lots of miles and hauling of super heavy luggage, here we are in New Hampshire. Our darling daughter Mary is with us; apparently babies arrive on Christmas (there’s precedent for that, I hear), so our dear Jane and JJ are in Cleveland for the holiday. It’s my 60th Christmas and my first one with snow and outside of Texas. These two conditions are probably causally associated.

After a lovely service this morning at the local Methodist church, we are hanging out in the condo and doing a whole lot of nothing. Life is good!
Continue reading “Fast forward and then slow down” →

Okay, this is getting real! We leave Texas two weeks from tomorrow.

Getting ready to leave is like being engaged. People are happy for you and want to do nice things for you. In our case, that has meant eating. We’ve been to Home Slice, Kerbey Lane, and several other lovely places. Terry Black’s is in the offing. I may need to pack lots of sweatpants in case my jeans don’t fit by the time we depart!🤪🛫