30 September, 2013
One Month In
30 September, 13
Yesterday marked one month in Spain. It feels like one year. Since we arrived, we have done the following:
Yesterday marked one month in Spain. It feels like one year. Since we arrived, we have done the following:
- Spent a week at the beach with Julio, Toñi, Julia and Alvaro. We needed that to unwind from the frenzy of moving.
- Spent a week in front of some government employee or other. I will be writing about waiting soon. You'll have to wait for it.
- Spent a week coordinating school and finding a place to live. Our time in Ikea is another post.
- Spent a week working through the kinks of school.
As I write this, I am amazed at how neat and tidy that looks, because in reality, it was more like a hockey game, and we were the puck.
School has been an up in the air question since Day One. Our original intent was to put them in the same school as Julia. It has a bilingual, really trilingual, track and a sturdy curriculum. Then we thought home-schooling would be great, because it would allow us the freedom to travel the rest of Europe. We got excited about that, but when we arrived, our friend in the school system told us that wouldn't fly in Spain. So we were back to public school, Instituto De Educación Secundaria (ies) Alquibla.
When I attended the parent meeting for 7th graders, I learned that parents and school administrators are pretty much the same anywhere in the world. The administrators sit up front and talk a lot about nothing. Then the parents ask all the questions the administrators didn't think about. Then, "What about my little Juan? Why can't he..." "Well, Señora Lopez, your little Juan stole the sacapunta and destroyed a classroom with chili powder last year, so we don't think he would be a good fit for this class." Blah, blah, blah.
Katherine's class is using Samsung tablets. All of her assignments are virtual. I have to admit that I am pretty impressed so far. Her English teacher, however, speaks horrible English. Katherine almost asked her to just speak Spanish, as it would be easier to misunderstand. She even corrected Katherine's English one time, saying it was incorrect. I told Katherine to just give her the bird and smile next time. They don't use that sign here.
Elizabeth seems to be content with doing the minimum in her classes. She is relying on friends to tell her what is happening in class, and they normally respond with, "Nothing. You're good." I have made her start to translate her books into English, much to her chagrin.
Susan's back went out in Week 3. All the way out. Susan has an incredible pain tolerance. When she says she hurts, that would normally be dead for other people. She was weeping in agony from the pain and could get no relief from any position. We have been applying heat and ice, TENS machine and drugs to get it under control. We are also on our third set of mattresses. It is finally getting better.
Meanwhile, I am living the Life of Reilly. I have taken much of the cooking/cleaning/shopping duties, which is fine. I write in the mornings, shop during the day and ride bikes with friends in the afternoon. Totally unfair.
All of us have had Homesick Meltdowns somewhere along the line over the past month. Katherine, the cuddle in my lap child, wouldn't even look at me the other day. She was mad. Her big issue is that she is a perfectionist, and being here really screws that up. She is working so hard to get on top. She will make it and be better for it. Katherine is putting a headlock on this challenge, and I promise, Spain will tap out before it's over with. After her meltdown, we got back to cuddling again, too.
Elizabeth still won't tell me she loves me, except on my birthday, which was last week. It's her way of punishing me. She continues to be affectionate. We laugh and play, like always, but when I say, "I love you", she remembers that she is supposed to punish me. She has made many friends and seems to be adjusting well. As soon as she gets her mind right about work, she will soar in this environment.
Susan has been a little depressed, mainly because she has been imprisoned by pain. She can't really leave the house, because walking was out of the question. That is changing now, however. We spent a couple of hours in Ikea the other day, and she was OK for that. Susan will find her niche with a couple of ladies and begin to spread her special brand of love. If you are a friend of Susan's, you know exactly what I mean.
Meanwhile, I am living the Life of Reilly. My ultimate goal is to begin a Stop Hunger Now affiliate in Spain. I need to learn Spanish and identify some key leaders to get that started. I am well on my way in both departments.
So, onto the next month. What in the world will that bring?
29 September, 2013
How we got here
29 September, 2013
Several people have asked us how we got here in the first place. I am sure we have explained that to many of you in the past few months, but not in this blog. So here goes.
In a previous post, I talked about how Susan spent three months in Spain with her girlfriend, Alicia, who subsequently married Antonio. He and I became fast friends. Our first meeting was in Washington, DC in 1995, while Alicia and Antonio were still dating. In 1998, Susan and I travelled to Spain with a large contingent of Americans, about 15 of us, for ten days after Christmas.
We spent most of the time in Velez Rubio, which is a tiny hamlet compared to La Alberca. Many of Antonio's friends, about 20 of them, came for a grand fiesta. We cooked tapas over an open fire oven in the kitchen of his grandfather's house, which is about 300 years old. The whole time was incredible. The foreigners were checking us out. We were checking out the foreigners. Some jokes translate well. Others do not. It was a great moment in international relations.
We also spent time in Granada, which is a fascinating city. For 800 years, Muslims, Jews and Christians lived in peace and solitude in and around Granada. La Alhambra is one of the most magnificent castles in Europe and overlooks the city, like a doting parent to a child. Antonio took us to restaurants and flamenco halls dug out of caves in the side of the mountain.
The one thing I knew for sure when we got back to the USA was that I was going to return to Spain for another vacation. And we did, several times. Each time we returned, I had a deeper love for the people and the country.
Susan and I have also travelled several times to Peru and Nicaragua on missions trips with our church. Every time I am in a Spanish speaking country, my heart swells with affection toward the people. I don't really know why, but sometimes you don't need to know everything. God has a plan, and we are just a small part of it. That is both humbling and comforting at the same time.
So that encapsulates about 20 years of our lives. Now fast forward to April, 2013. Susan and I were sitting in Best Buy, talking about the future, because that's what you do in Best Buy, right? We were thinking through the possibilities of buying an insurance agency in another town, such as Greensboro, NC, which is a nice place to live and has great potential for growing an agency.
Then I asked her a question that changed everything.
"If you could go anywhere and do anything, where would you go and what would you do?"
It is a hard question to answer, far too open-ended. Even unfair to ask. But I asked it. It really started opening our minds to new possibilities. Why were we limiting ourselves to Pinehurst or North Carolina or the east coast?
Or America?
Could we move to Spain? We could move to Spain. We could move to Spain? We could move to Spain!
Many conversations later, many prayers later, many doubts and hopes and fears later, here we are. In Spain. Together. As a family.
That still might not satisfy some of you, but I guess you will need to keep reading my blogs to assemble the rest of the story. Stay tuned!
Several people have asked us how we got here in the first place. I am sure we have explained that to many of you in the past few months, but not in this blog. So here goes.
In a previous post, I talked about how Susan spent three months in Spain with her girlfriend, Alicia, who subsequently married Antonio. He and I became fast friends. Our first meeting was in Washington, DC in 1995, while Alicia and Antonio were still dating. In 1998, Susan and I travelled to Spain with a large contingent of Americans, about 15 of us, for ten days after Christmas.
We spent most of the time in Velez Rubio, which is a tiny hamlet compared to La Alberca. Many of Antonio's friends, about 20 of them, came for a grand fiesta. We cooked tapas over an open fire oven in the kitchen of his grandfather's house, which is about 300 years old. The whole time was incredible. The foreigners were checking us out. We were checking out the foreigners. Some jokes translate well. Others do not. It was a great moment in international relations.
We also spent time in Granada, which is a fascinating city. For 800 years, Muslims, Jews and Christians lived in peace and solitude in and around Granada. La Alhambra is one of the most magnificent castles in Europe and overlooks the city, like a doting parent to a child. Antonio took us to restaurants and flamenco halls dug out of caves in the side of the mountain.
The one thing I knew for sure when we got back to the USA was that I was going to return to Spain for another vacation. And we did, several times. Each time we returned, I had a deeper love for the people and the country.
Susan and I have also travelled several times to Peru and Nicaragua on missions trips with our church. Every time I am in a Spanish speaking country, my heart swells with affection toward the people. I don't really know why, but sometimes you don't need to know everything. God has a plan, and we are just a small part of it. That is both humbling and comforting at the same time.
So that encapsulates about 20 years of our lives. Now fast forward to April, 2013. Susan and I were sitting in Best Buy, talking about the future, because that's what you do in Best Buy, right? We were thinking through the possibilities of buying an insurance agency in another town, such as Greensboro, NC, which is a nice place to live and has great potential for growing an agency.
Then I asked her a question that changed everything.
"If you could go anywhere and do anything, where would you go and what would you do?"
It is a hard question to answer, far too open-ended. Even unfair to ask. But I asked it. It really started opening our minds to new possibilities. Why were we limiting ourselves to Pinehurst or North Carolina or the east coast?
Or America?
Could we move to Spain? We could move to Spain. We could move to Spain? We could move to Spain!
Many conversations later, many prayers later, many doubts and hopes and fears later, here we are. In Spain. Together. As a family.
That still might not satisfy some of you, but I guess you will need to keep reading my blogs to assemble the rest of the story. Stay tuned!
28 September, 2013
Pepi the Butcher
24 September, 13
Part of my daily or every other daily routine is a trip to the carniceria, the butcher shop. It is one of my favorite places to go. If you ever shot a deer, you had to clean it. I will save you all the macabre details, but suffice it to say that I was fascinated with the whole process. I still am. I think I was meant to be either a serial killer, surgeon or undertaker. Probably the latter to avoid incarceration and lawsuits, as I tend to lose focus too quickly to be successful at the other two, and I am also a pretty good salesman, which helps with undertaking.
So my fascination with meat is being fed quite well by Pepi and her butcher brethren. You can walk in and see all sorts of animals hanging around, waiting to be chopped, dropped and plopped on a platter. Pepi literally lights up the room with her smile and good nature. She loves what she does, which is so hard to find anywhere. Her staff shares her enthusiasm. It is obvious with every stroke of the cleaver, every slice of the knife. I have seen that look of satisfaction on a few faces in my life. Pearl Fryar in Bishopville, SC is one of them. He creates topiary landscapes just because he loves it. My mama in a classroom full of students . Grandaddy driving a 16 penny nail into a 2x4.
I told Pepi the other day how much I loved coming into her shop, instead of a place like Wal-Mart, and I began to riff on how much I love everything here, even the local beer, Estrella de Levante, which you can only find in Murcia. She walked into the cooler and opened a beer for me on the spot. Juan, her husband who runs the cash register, would not let me pay for it.
Pepi's attitude about work begs the question, why are so many of us doing things that we hate? Are we living to work or working to live? Is all that stuff that we have accumulated worth all that painful, thankless toil in a job that does not bring us joy?
Paychecks or Passion?
Part of my daily or every other daily routine is a trip to the carniceria, the butcher shop. It is one of my favorite places to go. If you ever shot a deer, you had to clean it. I will save you all the macabre details, but suffice it to say that I was fascinated with the whole process. I still am. I think I was meant to be either a serial killer, surgeon or undertaker. Probably the latter to avoid incarceration and lawsuits, as I tend to lose focus too quickly to be successful at the other two, and I am also a pretty good salesman, which helps with undertaking.
So my fascination with meat is being fed quite well by Pepi and her butcher brethren. You can walk in and see all sorts of animals hanging around, waiting to be chopped, dropped and plopped on a platter. Pepi literally lights up the room with her smile and good nature. She loves what she does, which is so hard to find anywhere. Her staff shares her enthusiasm. It is obvious with every stroke of the cleaver, every slice of the knife. I have seen that look of satisfaction on a few faces in my life. Pearl Fryar in Bishopville, SC is one of them. He creates topiary landscapes just because he loves it. My mama in a classroom full of students . Grandaddy driving a 16 penny nail into a 2x4.
I told Pepi the other day how much I loved coming into her shop, instead of a place like Wal-Mart, and I began to riff on how much I love everything here, even the local beer, Estrella de Levante, which you can only find in Murcia. She walked into the cooler and opened a beer for me on the spot. Juan, her husband who runs the cash register, would not let me pay for it.
Pepi's attitude about work begs the question, why are so many of us doing things that we hate? Are we living to work or working to live? Is all that stuff that we have accumulated worth all that painful, thankless toil in a job that does not bring us joy?
Paychecks or Passion?
27 September, 2013
Irony
27 September, 13
My life is pretty ironic sometimes. It has a tendency to go the opposite way that I thought it would go, sort of like a bottle rocket, whose stick has been removed. The less I think, the more opposite the rocket's trajectory. You light it, throw it and hope for the best, which, when I was a kid, would be that it hits somebody else. We didn't have a whole lot of options for recreation in Hartsville. There's a blog in there somewhere...
Take Spanish for instance. I have had exactly two school years of formal training in Spanish. Actually that is not correct. I have had two school years, less a few weeks of suspension from school. Way back in high school, I really saw no need for something as useless and, frankly, stupid as a foreign language. Look to your left. Look to your right. If you live in America, we all speak English. Especially back in the 80's. I already shared with you how rare it was to spot a Yankee in my town. Foreigners from other countries were downright exotic. I remember we had one exchange student, a boy from Mexico. We thought it was the best thing since sliced bread to teach him bad words. He left after one semester. You just can't beat good raising.
So when the two rivers of my life, that being curiosity and rebellion, converged at Spanish class, I found ample opportunity to flood the banks of propriety and wreak havoc on the landscape. I feel sorry for those teachers. They had no idea what was coming, and they acted appropriately by kicking me out of the classroom so many times. One time, the teacher kicked me out at the beginning of class. I said, "What did I do wrong?" She replied, "Nothing, but I know you will, so get out."
My Spanish name was El Salvador, because of the war in that country at the time. In 10th grade, I just kind of spoke out of turn. Eleventh Grade was a breakout year for me. Louis Cook and I turned the classroom into a freeform performance theater. He would stand on top of his desk, while the teacher was turned around. He never got in trouble, because his mama was the math teacher at school. I stole the sacapunta, or pencil sharpener, off the wall. The teacher knew I did it, but she couldn't prove it, so every time somebody would say they needed to use the sacapunta, she would tell them to borrow it from me.
One day, we had a fiesta and the class cooked some South American dishes to eat outside. A real treat. Well, the teacher saw fit to take punitive action against me by not allowing me to go outside. I was left all by myself in the room. Curiosity and rebellion began raging against the sides. Chili powder found its way into my view. In a moment of culinary inspiration, I sprinkled it around the entire perimeter of the classroom, and the bell rang for the next class. The next class met outside as well, because they couldn't breathe inside.
After one suspension, I met with the principal and my mama. He asked me whether I could now behave in that class, to which I replied, "No, I don't think so." Incorrigible.
Now I am in Spain. My Spanish grammar is atrocious. On one trip to Nicaragua with Stop Hunger Now, we had a translator. When I would speak Spanish, he would translate my Spanish into Spanish. It's that bad.
I wasn't ready to learn. I did not have a proper perspective. I lived my whole life, to that point, deep within a canyon, and I could not see above the walls. Once I emerged from the canyon, then I realized how foolish I had been to not take advantage of such an incredible opportunity. Now I am trying to lift my kids out of their respective canyons to give them a better view of the world. Hopefully they will grasp a root at the edge and pull themselves the rest of the way out. The vistas are incredible.
My life is pretty ironic sometimes. It has a tendency to go the opposite way that I thought it would go, sort of like a bottle rocket, whose stick has been removed. The less I think, the more opposite the rocket's trajectory. You light it, throw it and hope for the best, which, when I was a kid, would be that it hits somebody else. We didn't have a whole lot of options for recreation in Hartsville. There's a blog in there somewhere...
Take Spanish for instance. I have had exactly two school years of formal training in Spanish. Actually that is not correct. I have had two school years, less a few weeks of suspension from school. Way back in high school, I really saw no need for something as useless and, frankly, stupid as a foreign language. Look to your left. Look to your right. If you live in America, we all speak English. Especially back in the 80's. I already shared with you how rare it was to spot a Yankee in my town. Foreigners from other countries were downright exotic. I remember we had one exchange student, a boy from Mexico. We thought it was the best thing since sliced bread to teach him bad words. He left after one semester. You just can't beat good raising.
So when the two rivers of my life, that being curiosity and rebellion, converged at Spanish class, I found ample opportunity to flood the banks of propriety and wreak havoc on the landscape. I feel sorry for those teachers. They had no idea what was coming, and they acted appropriately by kicking me out of the classroom so many times. One time, the teacher kicked me out at the beginning of class. I said, "What did I do wrong?" She replied, "Nothing, but I know you will, so get out."
My Spanish name was El Salvador, because of the war in that country at the time. In 10th grade, I just kind of spoke out of turn. Eleventh Grade was a breakout year for me. Louis Cook and I turned the classroom into a freeform performance theater. He would stand on top of his desk, while the teacher was turned around. He never got in trouble, because his mama was the math teacher at school. I stole the sacapunta, or pencil sharpener, off the wall. The teacher knew I did it, but she couldn't prove it, so every time somebody would say they needed to use the sacapunta, she would tell them to borrow it from me.
One day, we had a fiesta and the class cooked some South American dishes to eat outside. A real treat. Well, the teacher saw fit to take punitive action against me by not allowing me to go outside. I was left all by myself in the room. Curiosity and rebellion began raging against the sides. Chili powder found its way into my view. In a moment of culinary inspiration, I sprinkled it around the entire perimeter of the classroom, and the bell rang for the next class. The next class met outside as well, because they couldn't breathe inside.
After one suspension, I met with the principal and my mama. He asked me whether I could now behave in that class, to which I replied, "No, I don't think so." Incorrigible.
Now I am in Spain. My Spanish grammar is atrocious. On one trip to Nicaragua with Stop Hunger Now, we had a translator. When I would speak Spanish, he would translate my Spanish into Spanish. It's that bad.
I wasn't ready to learn. I did not have a proper perspective. I lived my whole life, to that point, deep within a canyon, and I could not see above the walls. Once I emerged from the canyon, then I realized how foolish I had been to not take advantage of such an incredible opportunity. Now I am trying to lift my kids out of their respective canyons to give them a better view of the world. Hopefully they will grasp a root at the edge and pull themselves the rest of the way out. The vistas are incredible.
26 September, 2013
The Honeymooners
26 September, 13
My anniversary blog the other day spawned a lot of Facebook chatter. Thanks to all who wished us well. I am eternally grateful to my ex-girlfriend for introducing Susan to me. I should send her a gift or something. She probably gave herself the biggest gift possible in dumping me.
Susan's brother Jeff Kjellgren, aka Jeff Curtis, who is an amazing guitar player, reminded me of our honeymoon fiasco. We got married in Lake Worth, Florida, which is basically an extension of West Palm Beach. Our first night was in a nice hotel that gave us a free upgrade to the Presidential Suite. The next morning, we were picked up by our pastor, who was to take us to the Miami Airport. We were headed to Brussels, Paris, Lucerne and Bern for our honeymoon. My daddy always said, "Boy, the gene pool here in South Carolina is pretty shallow. You need to dive into deeper waters." I took the high dive into the Mariana Trench when I got married.
Everything was smooth as butter that morning. Pastor Glen picked us up and drove us the hour to Miami Airport. We got out and grabbed our bags at the curbside check-in. Only we were missing one bag. The bag with our tickets. And passports. And money. Houston, we have a problem.
The blood drained from my new bride's beautiful face. I only had two jobs the whole dang week. Say, "I do" and load the luggage. So far I'm batting .500. Well, I sprang into action. I leaped to a pay phone (this was 1995, when they had whole banks of pay phones) and tried to call my new mother-in-law. The hole just keeps getting deeper, doesn't it? We still had plenty of time before our flight. All I needed was for her to drive the bag, which was left at the hotel concierge's desk, from Palm Beach to Miami. Problem solved.
Except she wasn't home. Only Bert, my new 80 year old, just had a massive heart attack and doesn't need stress, father-in-law was at home with his son, Jeff. Neither of them can hear worth a dern, so I was trying to yell in a very calm manner, not wanting to send Bert into defib. I simply told him that we left a bag at the hotel, and that we need Joyce to bring it to the airport at her earliest convenience.
I waited 15 minutes and called the hotel to see if the bag was picked up. "Yes, it was. Some old guy picked it up a few minutes ago." Throw away the shovel and commence to digging with a backhoe. This hole is gonna be deep, boys. Visions of a new bride burying her daddy, in lieu of a honeymoon, were dancing through my head. I had already planned out which sofa was going to be mine for the rest of my life.
We waited pensively outside the doors of the airport for an eternity. Time was now against us. We were in danger of missing our flight. Suddenly we saw Jeff running through the airport. Okay, he was doing a quick walk, but in his mind, he was Carl Lewis running for gold. We grabbed the bag and took off running toward the metal detector. I quickly realized that my pockets were full of condoms in cute little metal packages that resembled coins. Full. I took them all out in a wad and threw them at the cop beside the metal detector as I pulled my bride behind me. We never looked back. Some cop was gonna get lucky that night. I ran a la OJ Simpson through the airport, juking and jiving. Every now and then I would look back to try and spot my lovely wife in the fading distance. It was getting harder and harder to see her, but I knew that if I could get to the gate, I could lodge myself in the doorway until she arrived.
We finally got to the gate, and the door was closed. No amount of begging, pleading, "Hey, we're newlyweds", worked on the guy at the gate. Sunk. We just stood there despondent. Then the guy said, "Hey, if you stay here at the airport for 5 hours, we can give you a direct flight to Paris." Cue the angels singing. Hallelujah!! Praise the LORD!!
We missed our flight to Belgium, which we didn't really care about anyway, and got an extra day in Paris. Butter my butt, and call me a biscuit! I would never in my life have dreamed things could work out that way.
And that is a microcosm for my life. I forget stuff, and the rest of the world commences a mad dash to make it work out.
P.S. Bert was fine. He had the time of his life driving 90 mph down I-95.
My anniversary blog the other day spawned a lot of Facebook chatter. Thanks to all who wished us well. I am eternally grateful to my ex-girlfriend for introducing Susan to me. I should send her a gift or something. She probably gave herself the biggest gift possible in dumping me.
Susan's brother Jeff Kjellgren, aka Jeff Curtis, who is an amazing guitar player, reminded me of our honeymoon fiasco. We got married in Lake Worth, Florida, which is basically an extension of West Palm Beach. Our first night was in a nice hotel that gave us a free upgrade to the Presidential Suite. The next morning, we were picked up by our pastor, who was to take us to the Miami Airport. We were headed to Brussels, Paris, Lucerne and Bern for our honeymoon. My daddy always said, "Boy, the gene pool here in South Carolina is pretty shallow. You need to dive into deeper waters." I took the high dive into the Mariana Trench when I got married.
Everything was smooth as butter that morning. Pastor Glen picked us up and drove us the hour to Miami Airport. We got out and grabbed our bags at the curbside check-in. Only we were missing one bag. The bag with our tickets. And passports. And money. Houston, we have a problem.
The blood drained from my new bride's beautiful face. I only had two jobs the whole dang week. Say, "I do" and load the luggage. So far I'm batting .500. Well, I sprang into action. I leaped to a pay phone (this was 1995, when they had whole banks of pay phones) and tried to call my new mother-in-law. The hole just keeps getting deeper, doesn't it? We still had plenty of time before our flight. All I needed was for her to drive the bag, which was left at the hotel concierge's desk, from Palm Beach to Miami. Problem solved.
Except she wasn't home. Only Bert, my new 80 year old, just had a massive heart attack and doesn't need stress, father-in-law was at home with his son, Jeff. Neither of them can hear worth a dern, so I was trying to yell in a very calm manner, not wanting to send Bert into defib. I simply told him that we left a bag at the hotel, and that we need Joyce to bring it to the airport at her earliest convenience.
I waited 15 minutes and called the hotel to see if the bag was picked up. "Yes, it was. Some old guy picked it up a few minutes ago." Throw away the shovel and commence to digging with a backhoe. This hole is gonna be deep, boys. Visions of a new bride burying her daddy, in lieu of a honeymoon, were dancing through my head. I had already planned out which sofa was going to be mine for the rest of my life.
We waited pensively outside the doors of the airport for an eternity. Time was now against us. We were in danger of missing our flight. Suddenly we saw Jeff running through the airport. Okay, he was doing a quick walk, but in his mind, he was Carl Lewis running for gold. We grabbed the bag and took off running toward the metal detector. I quickly realized that my pockets were full of condoms in cute little metal packages that resembled coins. Full. I took them all out in a wad and threw them at the cop beside the metal detector as I pulled my bride behind me. We never looked back. Some cop was gonna get lucky that night. I ran a la OJ Simpson through the airport, juking and jiving. Every now and then I would look back to try and spot my lovely wife in the fading distance. It was getting harder and harder to see her, but I knew that if I could get to the gate, I could lodge myself in the doorway until she arrived.We finally got to the gate, and the door was closed. No amount of begging, pleading, "Hey, we're newlyweds", worked on the guy at the gate. Sunk. We just stood there despondent. Then the guy said, "Hey, if you stay here at the airport for 5 hours, we can give you a direct flight to Paris." Cue the angels singing. Hallelujah!! Praise the LORD!!
We missed our flight to Belgium, which we didn't really care about anyway, and got an extra day in Paris. Butter my butt, and call me a biscuit! I would never in my life have dreamed things could work out that way.
And that is a microcosm for my life. I forget stuff, and the rest of the world commences a mad dash to make it work out.
P.S. Bert was fine. He had the time of his life driving 90 mph down I-95.
25 September, 2013
Thinking Ahead
25 September, 13
Now I am the first to admit that I don't look before I leap. I kind of like it that way. No, I did not consider the possibility of rocks or a cypress knot sticking up just under the surface of the water, before I jumped off the platforms at Black Creek. I also did not consider whether the near-rotten boards would support my weight. Or whether anybody had a plan in case somebody broke their neck or some other body part on said stump. Or if everybody in my party could swim. Or what would happen if somebody climbed up and was too scared to jump. I could have thought through all those scenarios, and many more, before I took my girls, nephew, niece and two other little friends to the Black Creek platforms. But I didn't. We just went. And jumped. And Craig was not a strong swimmer. Katherine almost didn't jump. Somebody had a cell phone, I am sure, so 911 was taken care of, and since I jumped first, I was able to confirm beyond a shadow of a doubt, that no stumps, rocks or any other such obstructions stood in our way. Whew! What a relief.
It is in my genetic code, the part of the code in the back alley that never quite made it to the finish line, to jump first and review later. My daddy and I were out shooting his brand new compound bow one day. We lived at 536 West College Avenue, which is smack dab in the middle of town, but we had a back yard. So what would any self-respecting redneck with a new toy do? That's right. We walked up the stairs to the top of the barn in the backyard, turned around and took aim at the hay bale that was propped up against the house. What? That's what the hay bale's there for, stupid.
It turns out that compound bows are incredibly powerful, and in the unpracticed hands of a couple of newbie archers, fairly inaccurate. Technically, I guess the bow is not inaccurate, anymore than my computer is stupid for doing exactly what I tell it to do. Daddy took aim at that hay bale, visions of Big 'Ol Buck dancing through his head.
He just missed a little high, but almost got a doe. My mama just happened to be in her bedroom at the time, which just happened to be the very same room against which our hay bale rested. The arrow just happened to enter the bedroom a few inches above the floor. Looking back, I now know that this was a really cool premonition of things to come in their marriage, but at the time, I just thought my mama almost caught an arrow in the foot. Perhaps we should have put the hay bale against a neighbor's house instead, thereby insuring that nobody of consequence got hurt. You might have some other ideas as well. Please feel free to share.
I am not a planner. I am spontaneous. That is what makes me me. (Is that correct grammar?) Many people asked me what were my plans for Spain, which is a perfectly legitimate question. I came up with some basic answers--learn a new language and culture, expose our kids to same, etc. The truth is, though, that I did not have every little detail worked out. I still don't.
And yet we are here. We haven't found any cypress knots. School is hard, but doable. Susan's back is out. We have some amazing family and friends, both here and back in the USA. And God has an incredible sense of humor.
"Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own." (Jesus, Matthew 6:34, NIV)
Now I am the first to admit that I don't look before I leap. I kind of like it that way. No, I did not consider the possibility of rocks or a cypress knot sticking up just under the surface of the water, before I jumped off the platforms at Black Creek. I also did not consider whether the near-rotten boards would support my weight. Or whether anybody had a plan in case somebody broke their neck or some other body part on said stump. Or if everybody in my party could swim. Or what would happen if somebody climbed up and was too scared to jump. I could have thought through all those scenarios, and many more, before I took my girls, nephew, niece and two other little friends to the Black Creek platforms. But I didn't. We just went. And jumped. And Craig was not a strong swimmer. Katherine almost didn't jump. Somebody had a cell phone, I am sure, so 911 was taken care of, and since I jumped first, I was able to confirm beyond a shadow of a doubt, that no stumps, rocks or any other such obstructions stood in our way. Whew! What a relief.
It is in my genetic code, the part of the code in the back alley that never quite made it to the finish line, to jump first and review later. My daddy and I were out shooting his brand new compound bow one day. We lived at 536 West College Avenue, which is smack dab in the middle of town, but we had a back yard. So what would any self-respecting redneck with a new toy do? That's right. We walked up the stairs to the top of the barn in the backyard, turned around and took aim at the hay bale that was propped up against the house. What? That's what the hay bale's there for, stupid.
It turns out that compound bows are incredibly powerful, and in the unpracticed hands of a couple of newbie archers, fairly inaccurate. Technically, I guess the bow is not inaccurate, anymore than my computer is stupid for doing exactly what I tell it to do. Daddy took aim at that hay bale, visions of Big 'Ol Buck dancing through his head.
I am not a planner. I am spontaneous. That is what makes me me. (Is that correct grammar?) Many people asked me what were my plans for Spain, which is a perfectly legitimate question. I came up with some basic answers--learn a new language and culture, expose our kids to same, etc. The truth is, though, that I did not have every little detail worked out. I still don't.
And yet we are here. We haven't found any cypress knots. School is hard, but doable. Susan's back is out. We have some amazing family and friends, both here and back in the USA. And God has an incredible sense of humor.
"Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own." (Jesus, Matthew 6:34, NIV)
The Value of Work
24 September, 13
Growing up in South Carolina, I naturally went deer hunting. Usually my daddy would say something like, "Hey, boy! You wanna go huntin' tomorrow?" To which I would eagerly reply, "Does a squirrel have nuts?" The double entendre still makes me laugh.
Hunting is more than just shooting Bambi, although I have absolutely no problem with that. I am a Redneck after all. Hunters are the original "Slow Food Movement" crowd. Hunting is a series of events that all weave together to make a beautiful camo-patterned tapestry. Early in the morning, about 4:30 AM, my daddy would wake me up. I would launch out of bed and throw on my camouflage everything and jump in the truck. First Breakfast was Sweet Sixteen donuts and black coffee right out of the thermos, man style. That means it was hot and strong enough to melt the enamel right off your teeth. I didn't necessarily like coffee, but my daddy did, so I did too. I am so thankful he didn't like hot tea or lattes. We would climb up into a deer stand at Kirk Dunlap's farm and wait for daylight and that elusive buck. Sometimes we got him. Sometimes he got us. Then we would have Second Breakfast, the big one with grits and eggs and bacon and toast and red-eye gravy. All the hunters would talk about what they saw or didn't see. Inevitably somebody would tell a story about the "Big One" from last year. It was always a great morning.
Until the work started.
You see, my daddy was a cunning little devil. Still is, actually. He knew he could get me out the door by dangling the hunting carrot in front of my nose. Once I was in the truck, I inevitably smelled the gasoline can that went with the big box of chainsaws, axes and other tools of manly destruction. Hunting season meant woodpile season. They say you can get warm three ways by using a fireplace. Cutting the wood. Stacking the wood. Burning the wood. It was hot, dirty, hard work.
I actually tried to get out of it one time by sleeping in my closet, hoping my daddy wouldn't find me. He did. That day I was sleepy AND tired. At the end of the day, though, I always loved seeing a truck bed full of wood. I knew we had accomplished something. To this day, I am very goal-oriented. I will quit before I start, unless I have some higher goal in mind. I already shared how much quit I have in me.
My oldest daughter, Elizabeth, is a little bit of a diva, bless her heart. Alright, she's ALL DEE-VAH. Work is not in her vocabulary. We are praying for a very rich man to fall madly in love with her. Right now she is having to work twice as hard as all the other students at her school, because her classes are in Spanish. She has to translate the pages, then study them. It will be work. Hard work. I hope Elizabeth will stick it out long enough to see the truck bed full of wood. With a little luck, we can stoke a fire in her to fall in love with learning. That will keep her warm long after we are gone. Maybe I should take her hunting...
Growing up in South Carolina, I naturally went deer hunting. Usually my daddy would say something like, "Hey, boy! You wanna go huntin' tomorrow?" To which I would eagerly reply, "Does a squirrel have nuts?" The double entendre still makes me laugh.
Hunting is more than just shooting Bambi, although I have absolutely no problem with that. I am a Redneck after all. Hunters are the original "Slow Food Movement" crowd. Hunting is a series of events that all weave together to make a beautiful camo-patterned tapestry. Early in the morning, about 4:30 AM, my daddy would wake me up. I would launch out of bed and throw on my camouflage everything and jump in the truck. First Breakfast was Sweet Sixteen donuts and black coffee right out of the thermos, man style. That means it was hot and strong enough to melt the enamel right off your teeth. I didn't necessarily like coffee, but my daddy did, so I did too. I am so thankful he didn't like hot tea or lattes. We would climb up into a deer stand at Kirk Dunlap's farm and wait for daylight and that elusive buck. Sometimes we got him. Sometimes he got us. Then we would have Second Breakfast, the big one with grits and eggs and bacon and toast and red-eye gravy. All the hunters would talk about what they saw or didn't see. Inevitably somebody would tell a story about the "Big One" from last year. It was always a great morning.
Until the work started.
You see, my daddy was a cunning little devil. Still is, actually. He knew he could get me out the door by dangling the hunting carrot in front of my nose. Once I was in the truck, I inevitably smelled the gasoline can that went with the big box of chainsaws, axes and other tools of manly destruction. Hunting season meant woodpile season. They say you can get warm three ways by using a fireplace. Cutting the wood. Stacking the wood. Burning the wood. It was hot, dirty, hard work.
I actually tried to get out of it one time by sleeping in my closet, hoping my daddy wouldn't find me. He did. That day I was sleepy AND tired. At the end of the day, though, I always loved seeing a truck bed full of wood. I knew we had accomplished something. To this day, I am very goal-oriented. I will quit before I start, unless I have some higher goal in mind. I already shared how much quit I have in me.
My oldest daughter, Elizabeth, is a little bit of a diva, bless her heart. Alright, she's ALL DEE-VAH. Work is not in her vocabulary. We are praying for a very rich man to fall madly in love with her. Right now she is having to work twice as hard as all the other students at her school, because her classes are in Spanish. She has to translate the pages, then study them. It will be work. Hard work. I hope Elizabeth will stick it out long enough to see the truck bed full of wood. With a little luck, we can stoke a fire in her to fall in love with learning. That will keep her warm long after we are gone. Maybe I should take her hunting...
24 September, 2013
Missionary to Yankees
24 September, 13
Barkley Pierce was the first real life, dyed in the wool, proud of it Yankee that I had ever met in my life. To be sure, we had some Yankees in Hartsville, SC, but they were more like weeds in the garden. Every respectable Redneck has a garden. Each year, you plant some beans, watermelon, squash, tomatoes and a few collards. Nobody eats the collards, but it just seems right for them to be there, like an appendix. If you're gonna eat collards, you need a whole mess of them, and that takes too much room, so you just buy them off the back of somebody's pickup truck on the side of the road. In every garden, there are always gonna be some weeds, but you don't really talk about the weeds. When you visit somebody else's garden, you just say how lovely the squash looks, or "I just love your tomato plants! Who thought to grow them in a 5 gallon Yogi Bear Honey-Fried Chicken bucket like that? And so attractive on your front porch, too. Your husband is such a handyman, bless his heart." Yankees in Hartsville were kind of like the weeds in the exquisite Kalmia Gardens. So long as they didn't clump up or stand too tall, they were fine. A few of my friends growing up were Yankees, but they were kids, and were thus saved by early exposure to the South. Some of them have even gone on to be NASCAR fans.
Barkley, however, was all Yankee. He was my freshman roommate at Clemson University. He talked funny. He looked funny. He listened to Pink Floyd. He thought Lynyrd Skynyrd was a foot disease. I knew right away I would need some help, so I enlisted all my Hartsville buddies. Luckily for Barkley, there were only about 20 of us at Clemson from the Class of '88. Several others had chosen the path of the dark side in Columbia, SC and were thus beyond saving and useless. We set about to convert Barkley Pierce. In a moment of weakness (maybe a headlock), we even got him to declare, "I love the South!"
Barkley and I went on to become good friends. He even invited me to go back home with him to Delaware for Spring Break. I met many of his friends, none of which made the same declaration as Barkley. That trip stirred up in me, however, a keen desire to see the world.
Clemson prepared me in so many ways for where I am today. I didn't learn a thing in class, but I did learn a lot about myself and other people. Clemson was my first exposure to:
Barkley Pierce was the first real life, dyed in the wool, proud of it Yankee that I had ever met in my life. To be sure, we had some Yankees in Hartsville, SC, but they were more like weeds in the garden. Every respectable Redneck has a garden. Each year, you plant some beans, watermelon, squash, tomatoes and a few collards. Nobody eats the collards, but it just seems right for them to be there, like an appendix. If you're gonna eat collards, you need a whole mess of them, and that takes too much room, so you just buy them off the back of somebody's pickup truck on the side of the road. In every garden, there are always gonna be some weeds, but you don't really talk about the weeds. When you visit somebody else's garden, you just say how lovely the squash looks, or "I just love your tomato plants! Who thought to grow them in a 5 gallon Yogi Bear Honey-Fried Chicken bucket like that? And so attractive on your front porch, too. Your husband is such a handyman, bless his heart." Yankees in Hartsville were kind of like the weeds in the exquisite Kalmia Gardens. So long as they didn't clump up or stand too tall, they were fine. A few of my friends growing up were Yankees, but they were kids, and were thus saved by early exposure to the South. Some of them have even gone on to be NASCAR fans.
Barkley, however, was all Yankee. He was my freshman roommate at Clemson University. He talked funny. He looked funny. He listened to Pink Floyd. He thought Lynyrd Skynyrd was a foot disease. I knew right away I would need some help, so I enlisted all my Hartsville buddies. Luckily for Barkley, there were only about 20 of us at Clemson from the Class of '88. Several others had chosen the path of the dark side in Columbia, SC and were thus beyond saving and useless. We set about to convert Barkley Pierce. In a moment of weakness (maybe a headlock), we even got him to declare, "I love the South!"
Barkley and I went on to become good friends. He even invited me to go back home with him to Delaware for Spring Break. I met many of his friends, none of which made the same declaration as Barkley. That trip stirred up in me, however, a keen desire to see the world.
Clemson prepared me in so many ways for where I am today. I didn't learn a thing in class, but I did learn a lot about myself and other people. Clemson was my first exposure to:
- Yankees (There are many varieties.)
- New Jersey Yankees (I loved them. They always told you exactly what they were thinking.)
- New Jersey Yankee Girls (Mixed results there. BIG HAIR!!!)
- Bagels (Never even heard of them before.)
- Unsweetened Tea (I thought it was a mistake. Still do.)
As backwater as Clemson might seem to some, it was a safe environment for me to to explore other cultures. Living in Pinehurst, NC gave me my Masters Degree in Cultural Studies. I was outnumbered there by a large margin. Tom Bryant and I were about the only Rednecks left in Pinehurst. He has made a nice living selling Grits trees to the Yankees. Now I am in Spain, getting my PhD. I will be Dr. Redneck.
23 September, 2013
Castles in the Sky
23 September, 13
Yesterday Julio took me on the bike ride to hell. And back. We spent three hours in the saddle. That hurts, but it was worth it.
We have taken several trips into the mountains around La Alberca. The vistas are incredible. You can see 80 kilometers in any direction, from the Mediterranean Sea on one side to mountain ranges on the other. The whole trip, however, is uphill. When I say the whole trip, I mean from Julio's doorstep until the last 20 minutes of the ride. When I say uphill, I'm talking UP-HILL. I grew up in the Pee Dee, where it is pretty doggone flat. Speed bumps count as hills, where I'm from. It has gotten to the point where I look forward to seeing a rut cut across the trail, because I know that for at least 1/2 a second, I will have the sensation of going downhill, before I have to push up and over the other side of the rut.
Yesterday, though, I was a monstro. I had eaten my Wheaties or something, because I was attacking the mountain. I even passed a few runners. They really make me mad, especially the old grisly ones that look nigh unto death, but are moving faster on feet than I am on wheels. Finally we took the mountain and were headed downhill. Julio had promised me cervezas when we got to the bottom, so I was properly motivated. After 10-15 minutes of a slight descent, however, we started back uphill. Nothing breaks my heart like thinking I am about to get a present, only to find I am getting more work instead. Then we stopped for a minute to catch our collective breath and refill the water bottles. Julio pointed out into the distance, the far distance, a castle ruin at the top of a mountain. We were far away and far below. That means one thing. We must go up and up and up. So up we went. We rode our bikes as far as we could, then dismounted and hiked the rest of the way.
The castle ruins are from Castillo de la Asomada. I attached a link for a YouTube video that somebody else made. The castle was built by the Moors in the 1200's. You can see everything from there. It begs the question, however, what you could do once you saw what you were looking for. I mean, nobody is going to attack you way up there. Why bother? Just take the valley below and make you come out of your big ole castle to do something about it. I suppose they had some sort of early warning device, like smoke signals, that alerted the other castles to get ready for the invaders. It made sense to somebody. Now it's just a ruins that provides beautiful views, if you are crazy enough to climb up to it.
Then we started for home. That meant more uphill. I was pissed and I was out of water. Finally we crested a hill and started our descent. Julio told me we were going to go down Matarhombre, which we are planning to ascend in one month. Let me break down that word for you. Matador derives from matar, which means, "to kill". Hombre is Spanish for, "man". So this particular path we were about to descend is literally called, "Mankiller". I understand why. All it lacked was some rails and a seatbelt to qualify as a roller-coaster. This sucker was wicked. I have worked on roofs that were flatter than this. My arms and hands hurt from pushing against the handlebars to keep from going over them the whole time. There was a serious pucker factor going on with that little bike seat. After we got down, Julio told me that they call it Matarhombre, because it is so difficult to go up. Down was just fun. That's why I like Julio.
We did get our cervezas at the local biker bar in town. When I say biker, I mean guys who ride mountain bikes and wear those little biker shorts. It is really hard to look or feel cool in biker shorts, even when everybody else is wearing them. About 20 of us sat outside, drinking beer and eating olives. The rest of the day I was useless. But it was worth it, just to say I did it.
Yesterday Julio took me on the bike ride to hell. And back. We spent three hours in the saddle. That hurts, but it was worth it.
We have taken several trips into the mountains around La Alberca. The vistas are incredible. You can see 80 kilometers in any direction, from the Mediterranean Sea on one side to mountain ranges on the other. The whole trip, however, is uphill. When I say the whole trip, I mean from Julio's doorstep until the last 20 minutes of the ride. When I say uphill, I'm talking UP-HILL. I grew up in the Pee Dee, where it is pretty doggone flat. Speed bumps count as hills, where I'm from. It has gotten to the point where I look forward to seeing a rut cut across the trail, because I know that for at least 1/2 a second, I will have the sensation of going downhill, before I have to push up and over the other side of the rut.
Yesterday, though, I was a monstro. I had eaten my Wheaties or something, because I was attacking the mountain. I even passed a few runners. They really make me mad, especially the old grisly ones that look nigh unto death, but are moving faster on feet than I am on wheels. Finally we took the mountain and were headed downhill. Julio had promised me cervezas when we got to the bottom, so I was properly motivated. After 10-15 minutes of a slight descent, however, we started back uphill. Nothing breaks my heart like thinking I am about to get a present, only to find I am getting more work instead. Then we stopped for a minute to catch our collective breath and refill the water bottles. Julio pointed out into the distance, the far distance, a castle ruin at the top of a mountain. We were far away and far below. That means one thing. We must go up and up and up. So up we went. We rode our bikes as far as we could, then dismounted and hiked the rest of the way.
The castle ruins are from Castillo de la Asomada. I attached a link for a YouTube video that somebody else made. The castle was built by the Moors in the 1200's. You can see everything from there. It begs the question, however, what you could do once you saw what you were looking for. I mean, nobody is going to attack you way up there. Why bother? Just take the valley below and make you come out of your big ole castle to do something about it. I suppose they had some sort of early warning device, like smoke signals, that alerted the other castles to get ready for the invaders. It made sense to somebody. Now it's just a ruins that provides beautiful views, if you are crazy enough to climb up to it.
Then we started for home. That meant more uphill. I was pissed and I was out of water. Finally we crested a hill and started our descent. Julio told me we were going to go down Matarhombre, which we are planning to ascend in one month. Let me break down that word for you. Matador derives from matar, which means, "to kill". Hombre is Spanish for, "man". So this particular path we were about to descend is literally called, "Mankiller". I understand why. All it lacked was some rails and a seatbelt to qualify as a roller-coaster. This sucker was wicked. I have worked on roofs that were flatter than this. My arms and hands hurt from pushing against the handlebars to keep from going over them the whole time. There was a serious pucker factor going on with that little bike seat. After we got down, Julio told me that they call it Matarhombre, because it is so difficult to go up. Down was just fun. That's why I like Julio.
We did get our cervezas at the local biker bar in town. When I say biker, I mean guys who ride mountain bikes and wear those little biker shorts. It is really hard to look or feel cool in biker shorts, even when everybody else is wearing them. About 20 of us sat outside, drinking beer and eating olives. The rest of the day I was useless. But it was worth it, just to say I did it.
Wedding Anniversary
23 September, 13
Today is my wedding anniversary. Susan and I have been married 18 years, if my math is correct. We are married in no small part due to Spain. I met Susan at the end of my Junior year and her Freshman year at Clemson, when my girlfriend at the time introduced us. Several people gathered everyday in Schilletter Dining Hall to hang out and eat. We would have 20 or 30 people gathered around a few tables, so it was quite a cabal. Susan was a little more reserved, and I was a little more outgoing, so we naturally fit together. Over the course of the following Summer, both of us got dumped, and we kind of fell in together at the beginning of my Senior and her Sophomore year.
When Susan finally graduated in 1994, she had a choice to make. Her girlfriend, Alicia, was in Spain for a year between college and law school. She invited Susan to join her for a few months. Susan decided to look for a job close to me, and if she received no offers, she would go to Spain. Sort of a Gideon's fleece kind of thing. Well nothing showed up, so she packed her bags and left the continent.
I was working at Burlington Industries in Raeford, NC. Okay, I was being stretched on the rack and having my fingernails pulled out by evil little minions at Burlington Industries in Raeford, NC. I hated my job. My woman was in Spain. My life sucked.
I had considered asking Susan to marry me about a year before this. I even walked into a jewelry store to get a ring and found one that I liked. I held it in my hand, and then I told the clerk I needed to go think about it for a minute. I never went back in. I was scared to death. I was terrified that she would say, "No!" What did I have of any consequence to offer somebody like her? I was in a dead end job. She came from a very nice family, who would certainly have high expectations for a spouse. And now she's off in Spain, probably meeting some suave Spanish guy that speaks 5 languages and has travelled the world, like Antonio Lomba, Alicia's Spanish boyfriend.
Susan would call me from Spain at 11AM her time, which was 5AM my time. She was homesick, and she missed me, but I encouraged her to stay and have fun. That was hard. After a few months, Christmas was around the corner, and some of Susan's family friends, who were from England, invited Susan to spend Christmas with them in London. Susan invited me to spend a few days in London with her, which is like asking Br'er Rabbit to jump in the briar patch.
We had a great time. I got home on Sunday. I bought the ring on Monday. A few months later, I proposed to her just outside Manning Hall at Clemson, where I first told her that I loved her. She said yes. Seven months later we were married.
Without Spain, we would have gotten married. I am convinced of that, but I do believe it played an important role for both of us. The separation and reunion forged a deeper bond for us. It ignited a more intense passion for each other that still burns brightly today. We have certainly shared some troubling times and have descended into marital valleys, like everyone does. We have soared high above the mountaintops as well. Wherever we have gone in our marriage, though, it has been together.
Right now, we are in Spain. Together. And that is the best anniversary present I could ever imagine.
I love you, Susan.
Today is my wedding anniversary. Susan and I have been married 18 years, if my math is correct. We are married in no small part due to Spain. I met Susan at the end of my Junior year and her Freshman year at Clemson, when my girlfriend at the time introduced us. Several people gathered everyday in Schilletter Dining Hall to hang out and eat. We would have 20 or 30 people gathered around a few tables, so it was quite a cabal. Susan was a little more reserved, and I was a little more outgoing, so we naturally fit together. Over the course of the following Summer, both of us got dumped, and we kind of fell in together at the beginning of my Senior and her Sophomore year.
When Susan finally graduated in 1994, she had a choice to make. Her girlfriend, Alicia, was in Spain for a year between college and law school. She invited Susan to join her for a few months. Susan decided to look for a job close to me, and if she received no offers, she would go to Spain. Sort of a Gideon's fleece kind of thing. Well nothing showed up, so she packed her bags and left the continent.
I was working at Burlington Industries in Raeford, NC. Okay, I was being stretched on the rack and having my fingernails pulled out by evil little minions at Burlington Industries in Raeford, NC. I hated my job. My woman was in Spain. My life sucked.
I had considered asking Susan to marry me about a year before this. I even walked into a jewelry store to get a ring and found one that I liked. I held it in my hand, and then I told the clerk I needed to go think about it for a minute. I never went back in. I was scared to death. I was terrified that she would say, "No!" What did I have of any consequence to offer somebody like her? I was in a dead end job. She came from a very nice family, who would certainly have high expectations for a spouse. And now she's off in Spain, probably meeting some suave Spanish guy that speaks 5 languages and has travelled the world, like Antonio Lomba, Alicia's Spanish boyfriend.
Susan would call me from Spain at 11AM her time, which was 5AM my time. She was homesick, and she missed me, but I encouraged her to stay and have fun. That was hard. After a few months, Christmas was around the corner, and some of Susan's family friends, who were from England, invited Susan to spend Christmas with them in London. Susan invited me to spend a few days in London with her, which is like asking Br'er Rabbit to jump in the briar patch.
We had a great time. I got home on Sunday. I bought the ring on Monday. A few months later, I proposed to her just outside Manning Hall at Clemson, where I first told her that I loved her. She said yes. Seven months later we were married.
Without Spain, we would have gotten married. I am convinced of that, but I do believe it played an important role for both of us. The separation and reunion forged a deeper bond for us. It ignited a more intense passion for each other that still burns brightly today. We have certainly shared some troubling times and have descended into marital valleys, like everyone does. We have soared high above the mountaintops as well. Wherever we have gone in our marriage, though, it has been together.
Right now, we are in Spain. Together. And that is the best anniversary present I could ever imagine.
I love you, Susan.
21 September, 2013
La Marcha
21 September, 13
Last night Susan and I went with friends to downtown Murcia for tapas. Julio and Toñi, Fede and Alicia, Susan and I were primed for a good time. Fede is Julio's cousin. Alicia works for Julio at Estanco de la Fuente, the tobacco shop. Helena is Fede's and Alicia's daughter, who is in Katherine's class at school. They live one block from us. Are you starting to see how tightly wound our little world can be? I can't talk bad about anybody in this town.
Murcia is the capital of the province of Murcia, sort of like New York, New York, except NY is not a capital. According to Wiki, Murcia has a population of 442,573 and is a university town with a nice cathedral. The downtown area is beautiful with grand plazas that interconnect and are filled with shops, restaurants, bars and about 5,000,000 yogurt shops. It is meant to be viewed with friends at a leisurely pace, while eating and/or drinking. And that begins La Marcha.
Growing up in Hartsville, SC we didn't have a lot to do as teenagers, so we cruised from the Sonic Drive-In to the Pizza Hut parking lot. If you were a total redneck, you went to the Rose's parking lot, too. We drank beer and got in fights. The police finally shut that down, mostly because we were cruising and parking behind the police station, and they were jealous. After that, we went out into the woods and built huge bonfires, where we would drink beer and get into fights. We called it "Uncle Ted's" to keep it a secret. Somehow that was a better alternative.
If you are a high school or college kid in Spain and looking for a good time, you go on La Marcha. The basic idea is to go from bar to bar drinking beer and eating tapas. Tapas are a beautiful Spanish invention. Each bar has its own speciality for bite-sized snacks. In the USA, you might get pretzels or peanuts. Here you could get octopus, Pulpos de Galicia, or snails, Caracoles. bocadillos with different types of jamon serrano and atun. If you went to another town, such as Granada, you would get totally different things. Every bar in every town has its own gastronomic expression. I realize right now that some of you are picky eaters and are ready to throw up at the mere mention of octopus and snails. Let me encourage you, however, to give everything at least one taste. Then you will know for sure how much you don't like it. I liked all of it, even the garlic mayonnaise, which is a minor miracle, since I am the other Southerner, my sister being the first, who does not like mayonnaise. John Crowley used to torture me by eating serving spoon-sized dollops of Duke's mayonnaise right out of the jar.
We had both of those last night. We also had potatoes with garlic aioli, some sort of big bean in a reddish sauce and little
We had a tamer, more elderly inspired La Marcha, hitting all of two bars and finally to one of those 5,000,000 yogurt shops. The point, though, is not to see how many places you can go, but to enjoy the people with whom you went. Evidently we accomplished that mission, because we got home at 2AM. Bienvenidos a España.
Last night Susan and I went with friends to downtown Murcia for tapas. Julio and Toñi, Fede and Alicia, Susan and I were primed for a good time. Fede is Julio's cousin. Alicia works for Julio at Estanco de la Fuente, the tobacco shop. Helena is Fede's and Alicia's daughter, who is in Katherine's class at school. They live one block from us. Are you starting to see how tightly wound our little world can be? I can't talk bad about anybody in this town.
Murcia is the capital of the province of Murcia, sort of like New York, New York, except NY is not a capital. According to Wiki, Murcia has a population of 442,573 and is a university town with a nice cathedral. The downtown area is beautiful with grand plazas that interconnect and are filled with shops, restaurants, bars and about 5,000,000 yogurt shops. It is meant to be viewed with friends at a leisurely pace, while eating and/or drinking. And that begins La Marcha.
Growing up in Hartsville, SC we didn't have a lot to do as teenagers, so we cruised from the Sonic Drive-In to the Pizza Hut parking lot. If you were a total redneck, you went to the Rose's parking lot, too. We drank beer and got in fights. The police finally shut that down, mostly because we were cruising and parking behind the police station, and they were jealous. After that, we went out into the woods and built huge bonfires, where we would drink beer and get into fights. We called it "Uncle Ted's" to keep it a secret. Somehow that was a better alternative.
If you are a high school or college kid in Spain and looking for a good time, you go on La Marcha. The basic idea is to go from bar to bar drinking beer and eating tapas. Tapas are a beautiful Spanish invention. Each bar has its own speciality for bite-sized snacks. In the USA, you might get pretzels or peanuts. Here you could get octopus, Pulpos de Galicia, or snails, Caracoles. bocadillos with different types of jamon serrano and atun. If you went to another town, such as Granada, you would get totally different things. Every bar in every town has its own gastronomic expression. I realize right now that some of you are picky eaters and are ready to throw up at the mere mention of octopus and snails. Let me encourage you, however, to give everything at least one taste. Then you will know for sure how much you don't like it. I liked all of it, even the garlic mayonnaise, which is a minor miracle, since I am the other Southerner, my sister being the first, who does not like mayonnaise. John Crowley used to torture me by eating serving spoon-sized dollops of Duke's mayonnaise right out of the jar.
We had both of those last night. We also had potatoes with garlic aioli, some sort of big bean in a reddish sauce and little We had a tamer, more elderly inspired La Marcha, hitting all of two bars and finally to one of those 5,000,000 yogurt shops. The point, though, is not to see how many places you can go, but to enjoy the people with whom you went. Evidently we accomplished that mission, because we got home at 2AM. Bienvenidos a España.
20 September, 2013
Foreigners
20 September, 13
M*A*S*H was one of my favorite shows growing up. I thought of it more as a comedy, along the lines of Laverne and Shirley or Happy Days, being too young and cloistered to appreciate some of the more serious anti-war, feminism and equality messages. Major Burns was always my favorite to watch. He was so stupid and inept, and somehow got Hot Lips and the second highest rank on base. Some things never change.
One of his best lines was, "I hate all these foreigners!", speaking of course about the Koreans. I think that is the way many people travel. On the benign side, people in another country are oddities to be observed, like pieces of art at a museum. "Oh, look Harold! Doesn't that old woman look so quaint? I'll bet she hasn't worn a new dress in 50 years." The more malignant version assumes everyone is the enemy, or at least that they are perpetually thinking about how to steal your money, watch, passport, etc. "You just can't trust these foreigners, Vicky. They're always looking for a way to suck you dry, like little parasites. They can smell an American from a mile away." Either way, our reality is warped by our preconceived notions of foreigners, even when we are the foreigners in somebody else's country.
I had a couple of experiences like this the other day. In Spain, they have "Chinese Stores". The stores are called things like "China" or "Super China". Very creative. It's where you go to buy cheap Chinese stuff. Since we have Wal-Mart, I have no built in biases against cheap Chinese stuff. The Spaniards, however, don't even like to walk in, as if they will be defiled by stepping foot in the place. The stores are even run by Chinese people, and you can't trust them. According to Julia, "All they want to do is take your money, and everything they sell is junk." She was wide-eyed with fear for our safety as we walked into the pit of hell right there on Calle Mayor in La Alberca. Somehow we survived.
Susan and I went on a similar shopping trip together yesterday. Susan has absolutely no fear of these Chinese bandits. She walks around the store like she owns the place. Nothing will get in the way of her desire to fill our home with worthless Chinese junk. I really admire her courage and pluck and swell with pride as I survey every bag of worthless Chinese junk she buys. She walked around with a shopping cart. I followed behind like a petulant child, pulling our little wheeled shopping bag that all old ladies in Spain use for going shopping. It looks like the redheaded stepchild of a wheeled golf bag. We were in Santo Angel, so there was a good chance I wouldn't run into anybody I knew.
Susan's first foray into the jungle was for makeup wipes for Elizabeth. That gave me an excuse to separate, as men are not allowed anywhere near the feminine products aisles. Just ask any guy, and he will tell you of the inherit dangers therein. I wandered aimlessly about the store, pulling my little bag behind me. Every now and then, I spotted one of the Chinese workers down the aisle, furtively looking at me, then moving on. After four or five times like this, I got the idea they thought I was stealing stuff and putting it in my bag. I even got into a staring contest with one of them. The very idea! This foreigner had the audacity to think that I would be stealing something, and I was in a Chinese store, where all they have is worthless junk anyway. I walked every aisle and touched everything. Stupid little foreigners.
I got a little taste of what it must be like to be an immigrant in the USA. All anybody wants to do is make a living for their family. We load up all these ideas about immigrants. They are dirty. They are illegal. They are drug-runners. They steal our jobs. They drain our economy and use our benefits. Stupid little foreigners. Maybe we need to see them as humans first, without labels. Maybe they have a story to tell that is worth hearing.
M*A*S*H was one of my favorite shows growing up. I thought of it more as a comedy, along the lines of Laverne and Shirley or Happy Days, being too young and cloistered to appreciate some of the more serious anti-war, feminism and equality messages. Major Burns was always my favorite to watch. He was so stupid and inept, and somehow got Hot Lips and the second highest rank on base. Some things never change.
I had a couple of experiences like this the other day. In Spain, they have "Chinese Stores". The stores are called things like "China" or "Super China". Very creative. It's where you go to buy cheap Chinese stuff. Since we have Wal-Mart, I have no built in biases against cheap Chinese stuff. The Spaniards, however, don't even like to walk in, as if they will be defiled by stepping foot in the place. The stores are even run by Chinese people, and you can't trust them. According to Julia, "All they want to do is take your money, and everything they sell is junk." She was wide-eyed with fear for our safety as we walked into the pit of hell right there on Calle Mayor in La Alberca. Somehow we survived.
Susan and I went on a similar shopping trip together yesterday. Susan has absolutely no fear of these Chinese bandits. She walks around the store like she owns the place. Nothing will get in the way of her desire to fill our home with worthless Chinese junk. I really admire her courage and pluck and swell with pride as I survey every bag of worthless Chinese junk she buys. She walked around with a shopping cart. I followed behind like a petulant child, pulling our little wheeled shopping bag that all old ladies in Spain use for going shopping. It looks like the redheaded stepchild of a wheeled golf bag. We were in Santo Angel, so there was a good chance I wouldn't run into anybody I knew.
Susan's first foray into the jungle was for makeup wipes for Elizabeth. That gave me an excuse to separate, as men are not allowed anywhere near the feminine products aisles. Just ask any guy, and he will tell you of the inherit dangers therein. I wandered aimlessly about the store, pulling my little bag behind me. Every now and then, I spotted one of the Chinese workers down the aisle, furtively looking at me, then moving on. After four or five times like this, I got the idea they thought I was stealing stuff and putting it in my bag. I even got into a staring contest with one of them. The very idea! This foreigner had the audacity to think that I would be stealing something, and I was in a Chinese store, where all they have is worthless junk anyway. I walked every aisle and touched everything. Stupid little foreigners.
I got a little taste of what it must be like to be an immigrant in the USA. All anybody wants to do is make a living for their family. We load up all these ideas about immigrants. They are dirty. They are illegal. They are drug-runners. They steal our jobs. They drain our economy and use our benefits. Stupid little foreigners. Maybe we need to see them as humans first, without labels. Maybe they have a story to tell that is worth hearing.
19 September, 2013
Neighbors
19 September, 13
We met our neighbors, Juan and Katy. Katy is from the USA. They live under us and have a precious little daughter, Julia. When Katy met our girls, she started that, "I really need a babysitter so I can get some peace and quiet" drool that all moms get. For dads, it's the same, except it's, "My wife really needs to get a babysitter, so my wife and I can go make another baby." No rest for the weary.
Juan and I went hiking last night right up behind our apartment. It was beautiful as afternoon turned into evening, and the full moon rose to give us light. We walked and talked about the meaning of life and solved all the world's problems. Katy and Susan were in their respective houses, cooking. I guess Juan and I solved all the problems, except one. They came up after dinner, and we talked and had drinks on the terrace until almost midnight, while the girls entertained Julia. It was a school night for our girls, but no big deal. When in Spain... Juan and Katy were amazed at our girls' ability to keep Julia occupied. I think we have a side business for the girls.
We have only seen our other neighbors in passing. Katherine's soccer coach, Pedro, recognized a couple of guys who live on our floor. He told me in a whispered voice, "I know those guys. I am pretty sure they smoke pot, but they are OK." It is always good to know you have a local source for fresh produce.
I bumped into the lady who lives beside us the other day. I invited her to dinner, then realized that I had better add, "with my family" after she gave me one of those looks. How is it that women are able to communicate so much with just an eyebrow?
One of our neighbors has a dog that sounds like he has an electronic voice box, all raspy like he just smoked a pack of Lucky Strikes, unfiltered. He looks like the same kind of dog that Howard and Donna Tucker had for years. Butt ugly, bug-eyed. He's so ugly he's cute.
Juan told me the other day that he thinks the first floor neighbor's dad sells stuff on the black market. Stuff like motor oil. Can you imagine what the inside of his jacket must look like? "Psst. Hey you! Yeah you! Ya wanna buy some motor oil? It's top shelf. 10W30. Pennzoil. For you, it's only 5 bucks. Buy two quarts, and I'll throw in this GEN-U-WHINE Rolex watch for free. How about this commemorative Statue of Liberty pickle fork?" (Shout out to my grandmama Jettie for that last one.)
One of my regrets from Pinehurst, NC is that we really didn't know our neighbors. I can make excuses about being too busy, and that is pretty legitimate, but the fact remains that I did not make a concerted effort to know them. I want to change that here, but I am not sure how to do it. We only know Juan and Katy because he made an effort to knock on our door. Had he not done that, I am not sure we would have done the same thing.
The four of us concluded that Americans live and exist in bubbles. If you are inside the bubble, you have friendship. If you are outside the bubble, you are just like the guy in the car beside you. Ten feet away, but in an entirely different world. There must something to that, because even Jesus talked about neighbors in the story of the Good Samaritan. Who is my neighbor? We are gonna have a block party to find out. Stay tuned...
We met our neighbors, Juan and Katy. Katy is from the USA. They live under us and have a precious little daughter, Julia. When Katy met our girls, she started that, "I really need a babysitter so I can get some peace and quiet" drool that all moms get. For dads, it's the same, except it's, "My wife really needs to get a babysitter, so my wife and I can go make another baby." No rest for the weary.
Juan and I went hiking last night right up behind our apartment. It was beautiful as afternoon turned into evening, and the full moon rose to give us light. We walked and talked about the meaning of life and solved all the world's problems. Katy and Susan were in their respective houses, cooking. I guess Juan and I solved all the problems, except one. They came up after dinner, and we talked and had drinks on the terrace until almost midnight, while the girls entertained Julia. It was a school night for our girls, but no big deal. When in Spain... Juan and Katy were amazed at our girls' ability to keep Julia occupied. I think we have a side business for the girls.
We have only seen our other neighbors in passing. Katherine's soccer coach, Pedro, recognized a couple of guys who live on our floor. He told me in a whispered voice, "I know those guys. I am pretty sure they smoke pot, but they are OK." It is always good to know you have a local source for fresh produce.
I bumped into the lady who lives beside us the other day. I invited her to dinner, then realized that I had better add, "with my family" after she gave me one of those looks. How is it that women are able to communicate so much with just an eyebrow?
One of our neighbors has a dog that sounds like he has an electronic voice box, all raspy like he just smoked a pack of Lucky Strikes, unfiltered. He looks like the same kind of dog that Howard and Donna Tucker had for years. Butt ugly, bug-eyed. He's so ugly he's cute.
Juan told me the other day that he thinks the first floor neighbor's dad sells stuff on the black market. Stuff like motor oil. Can you imagine what the inside of his jacket must look like? "Psst. Hey you! Yeah you! Ya wanna buy some motor oil? It's top shelf. 10W30. Pennzoil. For you, it's only 5 bucks. Buy two quarts, and I'll throw in this GEN-U-WHINE Rolex watch for free. How about this commemorative Statue of Liberty pickle fork?" (Shout out to my grandmama Jettie for that last one.)
One of my regrets from Pinehurst, NC is that we really didn't know our neighbors. I can make excuses about being too busy, and that is pretty legitimate, but the fact remains that I did not make a concerted effort to know them. I want to change that here, but I am not sure how to do it. We only know Juan and Katy because he made an effort to knock on our door. Had he not done that, I am not sure we would have done the same thing.
The four of us concluded that Americans live and exist in bubbles. If you are inside the bubble, you have friendship. If you are outside the bubble, you are just like the guy in the car beside you. Ten feet away, but in an entirely different world. There must something to that, because even Jesus talked about neighbors in the story of the Good Samaritan. Who is my neighbor? We are gonna have a block party to find out. Stay tuned...
18 September, 2013
Quittin'
18 September, 13
I have a lot of quit in me. Some of it originates from the fact that I was always small for my age and young for my grade. A defining moment for me was in the 3rd grade, when I tried out for midget football. I had never played organized football, but in Bob Gardner's front yard, I was a certified gridiron warrior. Football with pads would be a piece of cake.
At tryouts, all the coaches moved us from station to station--offense to defense. Blocking, tackling, running, catching. I quickly discovered some deficiencies in my game. I sucked at football. For line drills, I was stuck in front of a monster-huge kid with a nasty grimace and 5" long fangs. He looked into my soul and told me what he was going to do with me when the ball got snapped. I was mortified. Even down South, "Hut!" is a one syllable word, but I managed to dig a hole and jump in it before the QB got past H. Hulk landed on me and I screamed like a girl. Three or four more snaps with the same result convinced me that I should go sit beside my daddy. We sat together in awkward silence. Neither of us knew what to do. Finally I said we should go home. That was the end of my stellar football career. I quit. Looking back, I know that the kid on the other side of the ball was not a pro wrestler or freak of nature. He was just fat and his mama didn't love him. If we lined up today, I would be the one talking smack, which is a big problem for me. My daddy said, "Boy, you have a linebacker mind with a kicker body." Not a good combination.
I quit Boy Scouts at the rank of Life, two merit badges and a project away from Eagle. All my friends are Eagle Scouts. Jerks.
I have completed half a dozen marathons and triathlons. My longest was the White Lake Half Ironman. It involves a 1 mile swim, 60 mile bike ride and 13 mile run. It took me 6 hours to complete. I was the last man out of the water. During my training, I came to realize that I have a phobia about putting my face in the water when I start getting short of breath. It takes me 1 hour to swim a mile. White Lake is supposedly a flat bicycle course, but my route was uphill ALL THE WAY. My calf muscle ripped halfway through the run. I quit the entire race. The only reason I finished was because I am cheap. I paid $84 for that stinking event, and I was gonna finish, dammit! I just knew they wouldn't give me my money back. I was so mad, I could have chewed metal and spit nails. After the race, I walked straight to the freebies tent and demanded my T-shirt. Luckily for them, they complied.
Why is it so easy to quit when things are hard? Why don't we all scale Mount Everest? Maybe we're all quitters. Today my girls are in school for the first day. I am bound up. Will they be OK? Will I need to go bail them out? Is some Spanish boy looking at my daughter?
Katherine and I walked to school together. When we got there, a whole slew of kids was milling about and talking. I asked her if she knew anybody, and she had that deer in headlights look. Then I heard something to my right. "Kath-ween" It was like seeing an oasis in the desert. Five girls came up and took Katherine by the arms in the embrace of friendship. They escorted her off to class like she was a rock star. She didn't even say goodbye as she was swept away. I guess I'll quit another day...
I have a lot of quit in me. Some of it originates from the fact that I was always small for my age and young for my grade. A defining moment for me was in the 3rd grade, when I tried out for midget football. I had never played organized football, but in Bob Gardner's front yard, I was a certified gridiron warrior. Football with pads would be a piece of cake.
At tryouts, all the coaches moved us from station to station--offense to defense. Blocking, tackling, running, catching. I quickly discovered some deficiencies in my game. I sucked at football. For line drills, I was stuck in front of a monster-huge kid with a nasty grimace and 5" long fangs. He looked into my soul and told me what he was going to do with me when the ball got snapped. I was mortified. Even down South, "Hut!" is a one syllable word, but I managed to dig a hole and jump in it before the QB got past H. Hulk landed on me and I screamed like a girl. Three or four more snaps with the same result convinced me that I should go sit beside my daddy. We sat together in awkward silence. Neither of us knew what to do. Finally I said we should go home. That was the end of my stellar football career. I quit. Looking back, I know that the kid on the other side of the ball was not a pro wrestler or freak of nature. He was just fat and his mama didn't love him. If we lined up today, I would be the one talking smack, which is a big problem for me. My daddy said, "Boy, you have a linebacker mind with a kicker body." Not a good combination.
I quit Boy Scouts at the rank of Life, two merit badges and a project away from Eagle. All my friends are Eagle Scouts. Jerks.
I have completed half a dozen marathons and triathlons. My longest was the White Lake Half Ironman. It involves a 1 mile swim, 60 mile bike ride and 13 mile run. It took me 6 hours to complete. I was the last man out of the water. During my training, I came to realize that I have a phobia about putting my face in the water when I start getting short of breath. It takes me 1 hour to swim a mile. White Lake is supposedly a flat bicycle course, but my route was uphill ALL THE WAY. My calf muscle ripped halfway through the run. I quit the entire race. The only reason I finished was because I am cheap. I paid $84 for that stinking event, and I was gonna finish, dammit! I just knew they wouldn't give me my money back. I was so mad, I could have chewed metal and spit nails. After the race, I walked straight to the freebies tent and demanded my T-shirt. Luckily for them, they complied.
Why is it so easy to quit when things are hard? Why don't we all scale Mount Everest? Maybe we're all quitters. Today my girls are in school for the first day. I am bound up. Will they be OK? Will I need to go bail them out? Is some Spanish boy looking at my daughter?
Katherine and I walked to school together. When we got there, a whole slew of kids was milling about and talking. I asked her if she knew anybody, and she had that deer in headlights look. Then I heard something to my right. "Kath-ween" It was like seeing an oasis in the desert. Five girls came up and took Katherine by the arms in the embrace of friendship. They escorted her off to class like she was a rock star. She didn't even say goodbye as she was swept away. I guess I'll quit another day...
Cumpleaños (Birthday)
18 September, 2013
Yesterday was my 43rd birthday. I am older and thankful for it. Julio and I went out for a mountain bike ride up to Relojero and over to Cresta de Gallo. Then we finished up at the Iglesia de la Virgen Fuensanta, which I wrote about yesterday. The most dangerous part of the bike ride was dodging all the spectators as we rode our bikes downhill.
When we arrived at my house, Toñi, Alvaro and Julia were already there along with my family. They decked out the salon with Happy Birthday's and Feliz Cumpleaños. Susan cooked spaghetti, and Toñi cooked something. I can't remember what she called it, but it was a lot of small sausages, rice and some other stuff. It reminded me of dirty rice, and of course it was a Murciano specialty, and of course it was awesome. We also had some more of that morsilla, which is a kind of blood sausage. It is absolutely gross to think about, but the flavor is pretty good. They cook everything but the oink here. Lamb's head is on my list. It keeps looking at me, literally, when I go to Pepi, the butcher's. It is a lamb's head cut in two, lengthwise. You are supposed to eat everything that is not bone, so think about that for a moment. Prince Kamal Khan sucked down an eyeball in Octopussy, as he and Bond discussed Bond's demise and Khan's megalomaniac plans to rule the world. That is where I am headed. (Insert evil laughter)
I imagine my life as if I am climbing a very tall mountain. Every birthday is an opportunity to look back and enjoy the view. So far I am only a third of the way up, and it looks pretty good from here. My goal is to live to be 130 years old, so that I can say I lived in three centuries. Hence the one third comment.
I don't know what this year holds for me, but then I don't really want to know. Knowing what comes next is like seeing how the magician pulls off a trick. It is interesting to see, but then you never want to see that trick again. You are left jaded by the knowledge that it really isn't magic after all. So far my life has been magical, all 43 years. I know the Great Magician has it all worked out for me. I know He is in control, and I am okay with stopping there. I don't need to see how He does it. I am just glad to have a part in the show.
Yesterday was my 43rd birthday. I am older and thankful for it. Julio and I went out for a mountain bike ride up to Relojero and over to Cresta de Gallo. Then we finished up at the Iglesia de la Virgen Fuensanta, which I wrote about yesterday. The most dangerous part of the bike ride was dodging all the spectators as we rode our bikes downhill.
When we arrived at my house, Toñi, Alvaro and Julia were already there along with my family. They decked out the salon with Happy Birthday's and Feliz Cumpleaños. Susan cooked spaghetti, and Toñi cooked something. I can't remember what she called it, but it was a lot of small sausages, rice and some other stuff. It reminded me of dirty rice, and of course it was a Murciano specialty, and of course it was awesome. We also had some more of that morsilla, which is a kind of blood sausage. It is absolutely gross to think about, but the flavor is pretty good. They cook everything but the oink here. Lamb's head is on my list. It keeps looking at me, literally, when I go to Pepi, the butcher's. It is a lamb's head cut in two, lengthwise. You are supposed to eat everything that is not bone, so think about that for a moment. Prince Kamal Khan sucked down an eyeball in Octopussy, as he and Bond discussed Bond's demise and Khan's megalomaniac plans to rule the world. That is where I am headed. (Insert evil laughter)
I imagine my life as if I am climbing a very tall mountain. Every birthday is an opportunity to look back and enjoy the view. So far I am only a third of the way up, and it looks pretty good from here. My goal is to live to be 130 years old, so that I can say I lived in three centuries. Hence the one third comment.
I don't know what this year holds for me, but then I don't really want to know. Knowing what comes next is like seeing how the magician pulls off a trick. It is interesting to see, but then you never want to see that trick again. You are left jaded by the knowledge that it really isn't magic after all. So far my life has been magical, all 43 years. I know the Great Magician has it all worked out for me. I know He is in control, and I am okay with stopping there. I don't need to see how He does it. I am just glad to have a part in the show.
17 September, 2013
NASCAR in Spain
17 September, 2013
NASCAR is the national sport of the South. Now I know the South is technically not a country, but come on. We all know there are distinct areas of the USA, each with its own identity. NASCAR is our way of exporting Southern values to the rest of the country. Now you can be a Yankee and stay in Michigan or Ohio, instead of traveling all the way to Myrtle Beach, SC for a taste of the South. All that's missing is the calabash style seafood.
NASCAR is a simple sport with complicated fans. Its origins lie in running moonshine. The fastest cars eluded the Revenuers. Somehow it became a sport. They made it easy by only allowing for left turns, and only the fans can have alcohol. I am pretty sure NASCAR is the only sport in the world where fans are encouraged to bring their own coolers full of beer into the stadium. Daytona holds about 160,000 rednecks, all of whom are three sheets to the wind, whooping it up. They actually camp out for a week prior to the race. And for sure there is a veritable arsenal of weapons in the crowd. Even the drivers are packing heat. If you don't believe me, try stealing somebody's cooler.
The complicated part for me is how the fans mix Christianity with the party. The South has a deep tradition with religion. If you are not in church on Sunday, you are either nigh death or at a NASCAR event. Just prior to the race, the whole stadium bows in reverent prayer. You can hear a beer tab open from across the track. Then you hear, "Gentlemen, START YOUR ENGINES!" For the next 3 hours, you can't even hear yourself.
Today I attended what looked to me a lot like a NASCAR event. It was the Fiesta de la Virgin Fuensanta. La Alberca has an icon for a fountain at a church up on the top of the mountain. Every year on September 17th, the icon, carried by about 10 people, and about 100,000 fans walk up the mountain, which takes about 6 hours. The belief is that if they walk the path, they will do penance for their sins. Along the way, the people drink beer. They even camp out in anticipation of the fiesta. At the top of the mountain is a beautiful cathedral with a golden altar. When the icon gets into the church they say some prayers, while all the fans return to their fiestas.
I certainly don't mean any disrespect to either NASCAR fans or followers of the Virgin de Fuensanta, but both parties seem to me to be more concerned with the party than for the reason for the party. On the other hand, when do you see that many people together, having a good time, without any trouble? Maybe that is the reason. "Gentlemen. START YOUR PENANCE!"
NASCAR is the national sport of the South. Now I know the South is technically not a country, but come on. We all know there are distinct areas of the USA, each with its own identity. NASCAR is our way of exporting Southern values to the rest of the country. Now you can be a Yankee and stay in Michigan or Ohio, instead of traveling all the way to Myrtle Beach, SC for a taste of the South. All that's missing is the calabash style seafood.
NASCAR is a simple sport with complicated fans. Its origins lie in running moonshine. The fastest cars eluded the Revenuers. Somehow it became a sport. They made it easy by only allowing for left turns, and only the fans can have alcohol. I am pretty sure NASCAR is the only sport in the world where fans are encouraged to bring their own coolers full of beer into the stadium. Daytona holds about 160,000 rednecks, all of whom are three sheets to the wind, whooping it up. They actually camp out for a week prior to the race. And for sure there is a veritable arsenal of weapons in the crowd. Even the drivers are packing heat. If you don't believe me, try stealing somebody's cooler.
The complicated part for me is how the fans mix Christianity with the party. The South has a deep tradition with religion. If you are not in church on Sunday, you are either nigh death or at a NASCAR event. Just prior to the race, the whole stadium bows in reverent prayer. You can hear a beer tab open from across the track. Then you hear, "Gentlemen, START YOUR ENGINES!" For the next 3 hours, you can't even hear yourself.
Today I attended what looked to me a lot like a NASCAR event. It was the Fiesta de la Virgin Fuensanta. La Alberca has an icon for a fountain at a church up on the top of the mountain. Every year on September 17th, the icon, carried by about 10 people, and about 100,000 fans walk up the mountain, which takes about 6 hours. The belief is that if they walk the path, they will do penance for their sins. Along the way, the people drink beer. They even camp out in anticipation of the fiesta. At the top of the mountain is a beautiful cathedral with a golden altar. When the icon gets into the church they say some prayers, while all the fans return to their fiestas.
I certainly don't mean any disrespect to either NASCAR fans or followers of the Virgin de Fuensanta, but both parties seem to me to be more concerned with the party than for the reason for the party. On the other hand, when do you see that many people together, having a good time, without any trouble? Maybe that is the reason. "Gentlemen. START YOUR PENANCE!"
16 September, 2013
Just Sayin'
16 September, 13
I have done a fair amount of public speaking. Churches,
Rotary clubs and Junior Achievement all seem to have a desperate need to fill
speaking voids in their calendars. I don’t mind speaking in front of large
crowds. I don’t mind speaking when I’m all by myself either. My dad told me once, “Boy
you got diarrhea of the mouth.” He was always my biggest cheerleader.
The problem I have with speaking is not glossophobia, but
people’s perception of me. My mama says that I am the only child of hers that
has exactly half of both mother’s and father’s traits. That is to say I am
really messed up. My brother and sister are weighted a little more to one side
or the other. I am more like the junction between a cold front and a warm front
out in the Atlantic Ocean, just itching for a little warm water, so I can make
a hurricane.
My father is somewhat reserved and brooding around a crowd.
My mother owns it. My daddy is a man of relatively few words, but they
are incredibly insightful, kind of like a walking haiku. My mama is loquacious
and effusive, like Gone with the Wind. Really the only thing they have
in common is playing bridge and reading. They are divorced, but I can’t
divorce myself. Superheroes rip off their “human” costumes to become their true
selves. My true selves live together in some sort of 38th Parallel
brokered peace agreement.
So you can understand why people would be a little confused
about who exactly is in front of them at any given moment. Generally speaking
most people gravitate toward thinking either that I am always joking or that I
am always serious. When I say a joke, half of the audience is rolling and the
other half is trying to understand the deeper truth of my obviously pithy
statement. When I make a profound comment, half of the crowd laughs, even
though they can’t figure out the humor in the situation, which makes it even
funnier, because it must be a really good joke.
Now add to the mix that I am speaking a foreign language. If
English speaking Americans can’t understand me, how in the world can Spaniards?
As we walked through the apartment for the first time with the realtor and
owners, I asked if the wine was included. We now have wine in the cupboard and
fridge. When I crashed my bike, Julio thought I was playing around. Then he saw
my wounds. Blood speaks. I asked Pepi, the butcher, if she had anything with
blood in it. We ate morcilla that night. Look it up.
I can’t wait for the opportunity to speak at the local
Rotary clubs in Murcia. They are going to be talking about that day for years
to come. Some will laugh. Others will cuss.
15 September, 2013
Learning to Fall
15 September, 2013
Julio has two mountain bikes, which just begs a ride. He took me up to the Monte area above his house. Murcia is in a valley between two mountain ranges, and there are myriad trails to ride, walk or jog. That has been one of the things I most looked forward to in coming to Spain. I used to participate in marathons and triathlons, but I managed to kick the habit about 4 years ago. The upside was I had more time for TV. The downside was I am now a marshmallow.
We were literally crawling up the hill. It is uphill from Julio's house to the top of the mountain, about 600 meters over 7 kilometers. The worst part is watching abuelos (granddaddies) pass you and offer a little cheese for your whine. I would kick out their spokes, but I am pretty sure they could outrun me too. The vistas make the trip worthwhile, however, as they are incredible. In one direction, we can see the beach, which is about 40 km away. In the other direction, we can see the mountains on the other side of Murcia and all the small communities in between.
The downhill part was awesome. We were flying past all those abuelos like they were standing still, cranking on the brakes, dodging ruts, living the life. Julio took me out to what they call "The Moonscapes" because it is so desolate and barren. It reminded me of Arizona or New Mexico. A fleeting thought of Julio's intentions entered my mind, but I really didn't have much time to think about anything more than saving my life from the breakneck speeds. Right in the middle of the moon, I took a nasty spill, head over handlebars.
Your natural instinct is to reach out toward the ground as it approaches your head. This is not, however, the best way to fall. I have learned, after much research and experimentation, to tuck and roll. Extending your arms exposes your shoulders to dislocation, your ribs to breaking and your face to road rash. My face is too precious for that. I was in a car wreck two weeks before high school graduation and mashed in my face pretty bad. My dad said, "Boy you look like you ran a 100 yard dash in a 90 yard gym." I told him it was genetic, but he said not to talk about my mama that way. That's the way we roll in the Askins family.
I have tried and failed at many things in life. I have learned that I have no business owning a computer sales and service business. I have learned to do a better job of math before buying a building. I have learned that people who look good are sometimes dirty, rotten cheaters who take your money and run. I have learned to fall. Tuck and roll.
I have also learned how to get back up, dust myself off, check my bike for damage and start riding again. Blood will wash off. To quote one of my favorite movies, "Tis merely a flesh wound!" I think that is why it was relatively easy for me to decide to come to Spain and so difficult for others to comprehend. I have embraced failure all my life. I am an entrepreneur and a risk-taker. Sometimes it works out. Sometimes I crash. Tuck and roll.
Julio has two mountain bikes, which just begs a ride. He took me up to the Monte area above his house. Murcia is in a valley between two mountain ranges, and there are myriad trails to ride, walk or jog. That has been one of the things I most looked forward to in coming to Spain. I used to participate in marathons and triathlons, but I managed to kick the habit about 4 years ago. The upside was I had more time for TV. The downside was I am now a marshmallow.
We were literally crawling up the hill. It is uphill from Julio's house to the top of the mountain, about 600 meters over 7 kilometers. The worst part is watching abuelos (granddaddies) pass you and offer a little cheese for your whine. I would kick out their spokes, but I am pretty sure they could outrun me too. The vistas make the trip worthwhile, however, as they are incredible. In one direction, we can see the beach, which is about 40 km away. In the other direction, we can see the mountains on the other side of Murcia and all the small communities in between.
The downhill part was awesome. We were flying past all those abuelos like they were standing still, cranking on the brakes, dodging ruts, living the life. Julio took me out to what they call "The Moonscapes" because it is so desolate and barren. It reminded me of Arizona or New Mexico. A fleeting thought of Julio's intentions entered my mind, but I really didn't have much time to think about anything more than saving my life from the breakneck speeds. Right in the middle of the moon, I took a nasty spill, head over handlebars.
Your natural instinct is to reach out toward the ground as it approaches your head. This is not, however, the best way to fall. I have learned, after much research and experimentation, to tuck and roll. Extending your arms exposes your shoulders to dislocation, your ribs to breaking and your face to road rash. My face is too precious for that. I was in a car wreck two weeks before high school graduation and mashed in my face pretty bad. My dad said, "Boy you look like you ran a 100 yard dash in a 90 yard gym." I told him it was genetic, but he said not to talk about my mama that way. That's the way we roll in the Askins family.
I have tried and failed at many things in life. I have learned that I have no business owning a computer sales and service business. I have learned to do a better job of math before buying a building. I have learned that people who look good are sometimes dirty, rotten cheaters who take your money and run. I have learned to fall. Tuck and roll.
I have also learned how to get back up, dust myself off, check my bike for damage and start riding again. Blood will wash off. To quote one of my favorite movies, "Tis merely a flesh wound!" I think that is why it was relatively easy for me to decide to come to Spain and so difficult for others to comprehend. I have embraced failure all my life. I am an entrepreneur and a risk-taker. Sometimes it works out. Sometimes I crash. Tuck and roll.
Lost in Translation
12 September, 13
Lost in Translation
Evidently I have a gift for saying the wrong thing. My dad
used to tell me, “Boy, you just open your mouth to switch feet.” In America, I
would say things at inappropriate times, something like wearing a red shirt to
a bull fight. Here in Spain, however, I am not even aware that I have said
something wrong, until I get a quizzical stare and little kids start blushing
and twittering about. I had no idea that many of their common Spanish words
have near cousins that describe every part of a woman’s anatomy in graphic
detail. Apparently with a slight change in a couple of letters, you can pretty
much dog-cuss anybody, and apparently I have unwittingly done so, to the great
amusement of friends and strangers alike. They don’t even tell me what the
stuff means anymore, although that gave them quite a bit of enjoyment as well. Just yesterday, I was at the butcher shop, by
myself, ordering some meat for the next couple of days, when I said something
that made everybody laugh. Be advised, ordering sausage in a foreign country
can be dangerous. It’s all about pronunciation.
I live in La Alberca, a tiny little suburb of Murcia. I can
walk from one end of L.A. to the other in about 12 minutes. I feel so
comfortable here, partly because this is Spain’s version of the deep South. The
whole province of Murcia has a thick accent and a largely agricultural base
with a lot of beachfront real estate. Many Spaniards make fun of Murcianos
because of their accent. Most, okay all, Murcianos don’t give a damn. They love
their families. They love to eat. Sounds like South Carolina to me.
So what makes one group of people look askance at another
group? Why do we insist on picking up on the differences and assigning negative
values to them? I don’t know. Maybe we need to do that to feel good about
ourselves, in some kind of scales of justice sort of way. I think L.A. has it
right, though. They just laugh good-naturedly when I mess up. They accept my
obvious speaking flaws and encourage me to try again. They are simple folks.
Simple is not the same as unaware or unintelligent. It just means that they
live relatively uncomplicated lives. Wake up, work, eat, hang out with friends
and family. Rinse and repeat. Simple. Sign me up.
Pace
10 September, 13
Pace
In greyhound dog racing, the track utilizes a mechanical
rabbit that races ahead of the dogs to give them a focal point. Evidently
greyhounds are incredibly fast, but also stupid and given to wandering about
when presented with the opportunity. It would be quite a disaster if a stray cat happened to
enter the race course.
I think sometimes, I am chasing a rabbit. Not even a real
one. Just a mechanical contraption that keeps me running really fast in a circle.
Most of it is hereditary. My grandfather would run across roof trusses that
were not nailed down. He was part billy goat.
As a kid, I used to love to watch my dad do his run/skip/scamper from
one place to another, snapping his fingers and whistling some unintelligible
tune. He was busy, and he was happy. My
wife and kids can attest to the fact that I have the same tics. The few times I
have worked in an office environment with others, they have always been
amused/annoyed by the same activity. “Why do you run everywhere?” “Here comes
Dan.”
For the past few months, Susan and I have been running at a
furious pace, trying to get everything together for this move to Spain. We
breathed a collective sigh when we landed at Alicante Airport. That was just to
catch our breath, however. Since arriving in La Alberca, we have been chasing
some of the same rabbits as in America, except we are like a blind dog that
doesn’t know the track is round and turns left. It is like running through the
woods downhill at night. (I love to do that, by the way.) Government forms this
way. School meetings that way. Furniture ahead.
Meal prep behind.
One of the things I do not want to export to Spain is
busy-ness. That is the rabbit that Susan and I chased all over Pinehurst, NC. I
want that rabbit to die. I am also learning, though, that without a plan for
the day, busy-ness is the default rabbit. I think we need to replace the rabbit
with an old horse that is comfortable in the harness. Horse, thy name is Schedule.
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