Basketball as a Social Experiment

23 February, 14

Our family attended a UCAM Murcia pro basketball game today. UCAM is a basement dweller, number 17 out of 18 teams. They were playing Unicaja, which is 4th in the league. What should have been a blowout ended up to be a nail-biter, right up to the very end. We lost 78-76.

I have spoken about basketball in Spain before. It is a different game, played more horizontally, something like women's basketball in the USA. You could make the argument that this is a more pure form of basketball, requiring more passing and better defense than the NBA's run and dunk methodology, but really that would be nothing more than an excuse for not having big enough players to make it a vertical game.

Several years ago, the Spanish player's unions got together and bargained for a rule that would limit the number of foreign players allowed on the court at any given time. The measure aimed to give Spanish players more slots to play, thus protecting their jobs. On the surface this makes sense. Who doesn't advocate protectionism for their own personal interests? Go ask a farmer if he wants the market for lettuce or beef flooded with low-cost competition from a third world country. The problem, however, is that competition always improves a market and that protection always smothers a market. Competition forces costs to drop and quality to improve. Think about how much your computer cost today, versus 15 years ago, and how much more powerful it is. What used to be a luxury is now a high quality, feature rich commodity, thanks to competition.

In a totally open, free market, the customer dictates everything. Demand pulls products through the system. If your tomatoes are good and relatively cheap, buyers will show up at your stall to purchase all of them. If you insist on charging more for the same product as your competition, you will be throwing a lot of rotten produce at bad actors.

American sports models aim to create a level playing field for all teams in a particular sport by sharing revenues among the teams and imposing salary caps. Baseball is the exception to the salary cap rule. By sharing revenues, small market teams, like the Oklahoma City Thunder and the Green Bay Packers, can be assured a chance to secure top talent and vie for championships. The Boston Celtics and Los Angeles Lakers have won a combined 33 of 71 championships. The other 24 teams share the balance. Many different teams have dominated in certain eras.

Historically, Real Madrid and FC Barcelona have garnered 48 out of the 57 ACB championships. The rest of the 16 teams share 9 championships. The league is whop-sided and shows no signs of changing. Spaniards like to point to the Olympics and say that they have the most competitive basketball country, other than the USA. What they fail to take into account is that Olympic basketball is almost an afterthought for American players.

If they want to truly know their level relative to the NBA, I propose a championship tournament, representing every major basketball league in the world. This will accomplish several good things at once. The NBA is always looking to open markets to garner more fans and revenues. The other leagues will be playing against the best, creating opportunities to grow and develop players.

Spain also needs to develop a better farm system for cultivating young talent. Any Spanish 10 year old can outdribble an American high school soccer player. The reverse is true in basketball. Implementing a strong system would change the basketball culture here and elevate the game.

Everywhere I look, I see the need for free markets, free trade and free opportunities to exploit those markets. I am a Capitalist and proud of it. China doesn't scare me near as much as protectionism.

Now if I can just convince the ACB to let me run the league...

Basketball Serendipities

19 February, 14

We have a new friend that plays professional basketball for the Spanish league, Liga ACB. The path to meeting Scott Wood began in the free Spanish classes Susan and I attend twice a week in Murcia. In that class we met a girl from England, Amanda, who is dating a Spanish guy, who happens to have friends on the UCAM Murcia team. Sorry for the convoluted introduction, but that is really how my life evolves. I can assure you that I had no idea that I would go to an English class and eventually meet a pro basketball player.

Amanda is an absolute delight. She has a beautiful smile and winsome spirit that reminds me of Snow White or Cinderella. Her work history as a pole dancer in New Zealand and yoga instructor in New York City don't quite match that description, however. Amanda is something of a gypsy with a wonderful English lilt to her voice. Her boyfriend, Unai, is finishing his law degree through a university in Barcelona. That's where he met and befriended some pro basketball players that eventually moved on to play for UCAM Murcia.

Unai scored us some free tickets to a game, and we were invited to eat dinner with the team afterwards. Before going to the game, I looked up the team online to see if any Americans were playing for UCAM. I discovered that Scott Wood, who recently played for NC State, played on the team, which led me to ask my friend, Adam, who was a cheerleader for State, if he knew Scott. As it turns out, Adam cheered with one of Scott's best friends. I cannot make this stuff up. The path of my life is littered with examples like this.

According to Amanda and Unai, Scott was struggling with the transition from the USA to Spain. He was not learning the language very well and seemed a little down, so I resolved to meet Scott and invite him to dinner with the rest of the team. He was easy to spot outside the locker room, as the only person bedecked in Wolfpack gear. I flashed the Wolfpack gang sign to him, to which he quickly responded, so I took my girls over to say hello and explain our connection. He was happy to have an opportunity to speak in the Mother Tongue and quickly agreed to eat dinner with us. I think I could have invited him to a wrist-slashing party, and he would have agreed to attend.

Since then we have gotten together a couple of times for dinner as a family. We even kept his dog for one weekend, while he played an away game.

That is how my life works. I don't pretend to understand it. At this point, I just accept the opportunities that come and keep moving forward. None of us know what tomorrow will bring, so why waste energy trying to figure it out?

Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own. (Matthew 6:34)

Welcome to Utopia. Prepare to Die.

18 February, 13

"The youth gets together his materials to build a bridge to the moon, or, perchance, a palace or temple on the earth, and, at length, the middle-aged man concludes to build a woodshed with them." (Henry David Thoreau)

Today in our English class we asked a question:

What would your perfect world look like?

In every class our students need to read, write, speak and listen in English. Last week, we watched an episode of "Duck Dynasty". That's another blog post.

Today's purpose was to get our students to write something in future tense. We ended up having some great discussions around each person's response to the question about the future. It provided some insights into what is important from a Spanish viewpoint.

Pared to its essence, most responses fit into a few different categories:

1. Nobody will have to pay for anything.
2. Everybody will live at peace with everybody else.
3. The environment will be clean and free of harmful human practices.

I asked each person when their Utopia would come to pass, and all of them told me it would never happen. I started thinking, however, about the reasons for their responses. 

• What would an American say?
• A Russian?
• A Christian/Atheist/Muslim?
• Republican/Democrat?
• Capitalist or Socialist or Communist?

The basic premise of the responses was, in my opinion, a life of ease, without the worries of the daily grind or the stress caused by conflict. 

In our Spanish class, yesterday, we talked about Spain's history under Franco, and we discussed security and liberty. Our new Canadian student opined that there is only liberty in security, to which I replied that a prisoner in solitary confinement has absolute security and no freedom, while a person on the African savanna can enjoy absolute freedom without any security, constantly in danger from hungry lions. I didn't see a connection between the two words, where he did. 

In "The Matrix", the computer originally designed a world of universal happiness for the slave population, as the "machine" milked energy from each person. The computer discovered, however, that, absent conflict and work, people ended up dying prematurely. It was an interesting statement about society.

"The first Matrix was designed to be a perfect human world where none suffered, where everyone would be happy. It was a disaster."

―Agent Smith to Morpheus 

Are we really "happy" when we have everything we want? 

The most famous response to that question is Ecclesiastes, written by King Solomon, who really did have everything. He was the smartest, richest, most powerful man on the planet, which allowed him to turn his life into a grand experiment to discover true happiness. His conclusion?

"Meaningless! Meaningless! Everything is utterly meaningless!" (Ecc. 1:2)

I never liked this particular book of the Bible. The very concept of a meaningless existence chafed against my own self-importance. Maybe your life is meaningless, but not mine. I have since studied it more deeply and have understood it better, but it still sticks in my craw.

Henry David Thoreau added his two bits:

"Most men live lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them."

So why are we here, and why do we matter? We do matter. We are more than matter, more than Carl Sagan's space dust. 

We have purpose. Of that I am certain. The unknown for many of us is, "What is my purpose?" 

The Westminster Confession states our purpose is "to glorify God and enjoy Him forever." 

That is still a little too broad for me. I want to know what to do tomorrow morning. Maybe I should ask the Matrix.

For now, I am going to my buddy's house to watch Barcelona play Manchester City. Tomorrow morning, I am going to Spanish class. It's not Utopia, but it's pretty darn close.

Who Needs Autoescuela, Anyway?

17 February, 14

Who needs autoescuela, anyway?

The short answer is anybody that wants a Spanish driver's license. Duh.

I don't remember many of my birthday parties. It's more like a composite sketch or montage.

• A gathering at the upstairs kids' classroom at Wesley United Methodist Church on College Avenue. 
• Chuckie Douglas playing with my brother's really cool ladder style fire engine that squirted water out of the fire hose.

Okay. That was a really short film. I think I am going to go sit in a corner right now and suck my thumb.

The birthday that I do remember the most vividly is September 17, 1985. No birthday bash or celebration awaited me. This predates Facebook's birthday reminder service, so no posts from people you can't remember. It was a Tuesday. This birthday was special for only one reason:

FREEDOM!

I got my learner's permit to drive. 

Well almost freedom. Another six months of careful adult supervision, and then freedom, but it was close enough for me. 

My driving school education started at age 13. Becky, my sister, surprised the hell out of me one day and offered to let me drive. We took the family Chevette out to Woodlawn Cemetery, which had a nice big oval driving path. She shrewdly calculated that the danger of killing anybody at a cemetery was relatively low. 

My next lesson came at age 14, when Grandaddy let me drive his pickup truck all the way from Hartsville to downtown Florence, figuring that if I didn't learn how to drive, nobody on his crew of 8 or 10 drunks and homeless people would be able to get anywhere. I ran over an already dead dog, lying in the middle of Highway 52.  I was too scared to change lanes. He assured me that it was already dead. 

Then I took Driver's Ed at Hartsville High School. Fifteen of us sat in a trailer at the back of the high school and tried to act nonchalant. After a few weeks of the obligatory safe driving tips, we hit the road with the teacher. I think he was an assistant football coach too.

"Surely you have some qualifications to teach right, Coach?"

"Well, no actually I don't. I can't even spell my own name."

"Hmmm. Well today is your lucky day. We just had an opening to teach Driver's Ed. Whaddya think, Coach? We'll even pay you."

"WOW! I get to be a real live teacher?"

"Yes you do! Congratulations, Coach! Here's the keys to the car. Go get 'em!"

So Ol' Ball Coach (OBC) would strap us in the school's Chevette and strap himself into the passenger side. If he had any shred of intelligence, he would have signed a deal with Tum's or Rolaids, because he ate them like candy. He had no steering wheel or brakes. Basically he was just another passenger in the car driven by a nervous, pimply-faced teenager. Evidently he was unable to do ANYTHING else with his life, or he would have been doing it. I cannot imagine a more horrifying experience than escorting clueless teenagers around town, as they missed stop signs, made wrong turns and disregarded yield signs. He later went on to progressively worse positions. I am not sure what he is doing now, but I have no doubt about its futility.

Now we are in Spain, back in the Driver's Ed classroom, re-learning what we already know and trying to forget all the practical training we have acquired over 28 years of driving. Nothing matters, except what the stupid book tells us, and that is written in Spanish, although not a Spanish that the average guy on the street could understand, but a lofty, verbose, erudite form of Spanish. I know every speed limit for every type of highway, toll road, street, back alley and bike path in Spain.

I know what a vehicle is:

Non-motorized

• Pack animals
• Bicycles
• Wheelchairs
• Subway trains
• Crutches
• Trailer

Motorized

• Motorcycles
• Cars
• Things derived from cars (I don't know)
• Bus
• Truck
• Tanks
• Hovercraft
• Imperial Star Destoyer
  

The good news is that after I get my Class B driver's license in Spain, I will be qualified to drive all types of farm equipment, without limits regarding size. I am really stoked about driving a John Deere S690 combine through town. I will not, however, be qualified to ride a motorcycle in excess of 125cc. You could hurt somebody with a motorcycle.

Auto Escuela is Hell, Spelled Backwards

15 February, 14

Driving in Spain is a contact sport. Even the Spaniards say they drive by sense of feel. Car alarms and airbags have to be disabled prior to importing a vehicle into this country. Bumper cars were invented here.

Recently Susan and I purchased a big red beast for €200. It's a 1992 Mercury Villager Van with 27,000 miles. Compared to other vehicles on the road, it looks like a Mack Truck. We needed to get insurance, so of course, our journey began with a local guide. Julio's brother's uncle's best friend, Diego, sells insurance. That's where the fun started.

Susan and I discovered that we have to get Spanish driver's licenses. We were under the mistaken opinion that our US licenses would act as international licenses. This is true if you are a tourist, but we are classified as residents. That can only mean one thing--fees. Oh how they love their fees. And another thing--waiting. We mustn't forget autoescuela, or driving school, as well. Our lives are slowly spiraling downward into the Spanish Vortex, an endless black ink hole of policies and procedures.

Spain has the dual reputation for the hardest driving tests and the most accidents per citizen in the European Union. I have not yet encountered one citizen here that is willing to dispute either of those facts, a sad admission of guilt or complicity. Either way we had no option but to sign up for the school at a cost of €350 each. The irony is that we drive to the school. It's only illegal if you get caught, right?

Our teacher is named Mercedes. You cannot make this stuff up. If Johnny Cash were a Spanish woman, I think she would be Merche (that's the shortened name for Mercedes). She only wears black shirts and black pants and black boots. Her smoky voice belies a lifetime addiction, and the deep creases on her face tell a story of pain and sadness. Mercedes teaches Spanish people how to drive. If you believe in reincarnation, this particular life has to be near the bottom, somewhere close to dung flies.

I was wrong. Evidently dung flies only live about 24 hours. Mercedes is close to eternal. All of my friends are in their mid to late forties, and all of them learned to drive with Merche. She is a shaman, banished by Buddha himself to a life of purposeless servitude. Evidently she ran over his big toe with an oxcart, after making an illegal u-turn in the middle of a curve with low visibility, completely disregarding the prominently displayed road signs. This is why you will only see images of Buddha with his legs crossed and feet tucked in. That's not a smile on his face. It's a grimace. We may very well be her last hope of redemption. If we pass the test, she passes into the afterlife. Eternity hangs in the balance.

Looking for Mama

12 February, 14

Anytime I have traveled, whether it was across town or across the globe, I have always looked for a Mama. This does not arise from sappy sentimentality or from fear of the dark. It is cold-blooded pragmatism. Mama means food.

All the girls I dated in high school, all both of them, only had sisters. This presented a magnificent opportunity for me. The first thing I did, the first time I walked into my girlfriend's house, was to raid the refrigerator. In no time at all, the mama's had added me to their grocery shopping list. If you want to win a Mama's heart, start eating.

Not all women are Mama's. This designation is reserved for those women who enjoy feeding others. They are the ones that bring the most food to the church potluck. They are the ones who all the kids in the neighborhood run to for snacktime. They just keep shoveling food onto your plate, until you cry "Uncle". Fortunately for me, I was blessed with an incredibly high metabolism, allowing me to ingest twice my body weight at every sitting.

One of my highest aspirations regarding world travel is to be invited into somebody's home to eat. I firmly believe that you cannot truly know somebody until you have broken bread together. Plenty of people have opened their homes to us here in La Alberca, and we have enjoyed some great food and fellowship. What I really wanted, however, was to be invited by a family that had no connection to Julio or his extensive family tree.

Last Sunday I hit the mother lode, or maybe I should say Mama Lode. Sorry. Couldn't resist. Vicky and Pedro are friends of Katherine and Elizabeth, respectively. Elizabeth hangs out at the park with Pedro and a cadre of other teenagers. Katherine plays futbol with Vicky, who is very competitive. One day she came to practice wearing a shark tooth necklace, similar to what you might find at Eagle's in Myrtle Beach. I started calling her tiburona, which means shark. Every time she makes a good shot or pass, I yell out "Tiburona!" Her parents started doing it too. They were very friendly towards us and always made an effort to speak during the games, which is not typical.

Over the summer, I would escort Katherine to practice and try to take a different route home, as a means of learning the town. One one particular day, I stumbled into Plaza Victoria and walked into the restaurant in the middle of the plaza, named Restaurante Victoria. Very creative. I was surprised to find Vicky's mother, Antonia, working there. It was months later before I understood enough Spanish to realize that her family owned the restaurant, and her mother's name is Victoria. Susan and I have visited this restaurant several times now and really love the food.  It is obvious that both Victoria and Pedro, the owners, love what they do.

Last Sunday we got invited to eat at Victoria and Pedro's house. I thought it was going to be our family, and a four or five other people. It was more like a family reunion. The first thing I did was to find the kitchen. I was not disappointed. There was an old kitchen table in the center of the room with food piled up on it. Homemade salchicha, fresh vegetables drizzled in olive oil, salt-cured dorado, and a big bottle of vino. Standing around the table were a handful of septuagenarians, scarfing down the appetizers, like the apocalypse was approaching. I bellied right up and commenced to munching. And Mama was happy, happy, happy. Victoria kept bringing food out to the kitchen table, but I knew this was just appetizers.

After about an hour of eating in the kitchen, we retired to the dining room for the meal. I actually got a little nervous, because I wanted to leave room for the main course. Their dining room table seated about 25 people. That was the most raucous group of folks I have ever encountered. The jubilates, or retired people, were whupping up on the young punks, questioning their manhood. One of the jubilates made all the salchicha. I told him I wanted to help the next time he was making some. That started a whole litany against the youngsters, because they never asked to help.

All the while Mama was beaming. She would have cooked all night long, if we had let her.

The Redneck Ambassador

11 February, 2014

I recently shared a blog post about the variety of views we have, without realizing that others have different views. It taught me a great deal about myself and my cloistered upbringing in the Deep South. To be clear, I lived a blissful, happy life in South Carolina. It just didn't have many windows to the outside world. My first encounter with unsweetened tea, bagels and real Yankees was in college. I still don't understand unsweetened tea. Why bother?

Recently in my Spanish class, my teacher called me el ombligo del mundo, which literally means the "belly button of the world." Her point was that I always put myself first, like an infant in the womb. 

In my defense, I have a predilection toward making jokes among new groups of people, as a way to break the ice. It is also a self-defense mechanism I acquired in elementary school and junior high, to protect me from getting picked on. I know that sounds weird, but I quickly learned to deflect criticism of my diminutive, nerdy side to other places that were not so fragile and could withstand ridicule. Now it is an automatic part of my psyche that I use to break down barriers. My crutch became a superpower. Most of the time.

When I poke fun at other people, it is never meant to disparage, but to incorporate them into my little safe bubble. Sometimes, I go too far, or make comments about the wrong subjects, not realizing how sensitive they are to things that have no effect at all on me. My green kryptonite is just another rock to other people and vice versa.

And that's where the "ombligo" comment arose. I stepped in a pile of poo and came out stinking. Again. 

Since that time, I have back-peddled somewhat, while also piling on the self-deprecating humor. It is working. 

Then I brought out the big guns.

Nobody can resist Susan. She is the sweet to my tart. As people begin to realize this, they inevitably wonder how such a woman could marry such a man. I ponder that myself quite often. 

It didn't hurt things when she made brownies for the class. Our teacher is a chocoholic, so they are kindred spirits. 

When the walls come tumblin' down
When the walls come crumblin' crumblin'
When the walls come tumblin' tumblin'
Tumblin' tumblin'
(Crumblin' Down. John Mellencamp & George Green)

Chocolate is the universal instrument of peace, unity and brotherly love. My work here is done.

Continents and Such

10 February, 14

It's a pretty innocuous question. How many continents are there on Earth? Of course, there are seven:

1. North America
2. South America
3. Europe
4. Africa
5. Australia
6. Asia
7. Antarctica 

It's clear and easy, unless you are from Spain or Brazil or China, like my teacher and classmates. They were shocked that I thought there were more than five. In fact, they were even a little perturbed at my obvious North American superiority bias. The next day I sent a link from Wikipedia dealing with continents, and the answers were all over the place, from four to seven.

It is very difficult to overcome your own preconceived notions of reality. It is even more difficult to accept contrary views. This particular question is fairly harmless. Nobody is going to die, if we maintain or change our opinions about the number of continents. What would we do if the question dealt with education, or water rights, or religion, or honoring borders? 

All of the students, as well as the teacher, are amicable and have a healthy sense of humor. What would happen if our class consisted of warring parties, opposing tribes, or ancient enemies? 

My daddy always told me, "Boy, you just open your mouth to switch feet." The big takeaway for me is that I need to be careful and humble with my opinions, not exactly a part of my genetic makeup.

Another interesting lesson for me was the fact that none of us had any idea that other people held opinions different from ours. We were all surprised by the variety of answers. We never seem able to see the holes and flaws in our own belief systems, yet we can quickly identify the problems in others' beliefs. 

Evidently learning Spanish will be more comprehensive than I thought. I am learning a new language, as well as a new way to see the world around me. By the way, the correct answer is six continents.

USA Bobsled Team

7 February, 14

We come from the land of the ice and snow,
From the midnight sun where the hot springs flow.
The hammer of the gods will drive our ships to new lands,
To fight the horde, singing and crying: Valhalla, I am coming!
(Led Zeppelin, Immigrant Song)

Last week, we took a trip to Sierra Nevada, for a little snow time. Now I realize the grander scheme was to prepare for the Sochi Olympics. We are going to be the first family bobsled team in history.

All the pieces are coming together in my mind. Susan's Nordic Viking warrior heritage and my Irish fighting lineage combined to make some crazy bobsled girls. Deciding to bag an olive oil factory tour, we took in a second day of sledding up on the mountain. The first day was fun, but the snow composition created a little drag. The second day was warmer, so the snow had a chance to melt and refreeze, creating a surface that was slicker than eel s#*+. I also learned from the previous day to look for the sled with good runners on the bottom. Over time the little plastic pieces get worn out, which slows you down.

Our previous Olympic bobsled training occurred in Pinehurst, where we found a little hill on the golf course. In comparison, the Sierra Nevada slope was like a dash down the Himalayas. Each run required a 10 minute trek up the mountain. Actually it was about 5 minutes, but then I needed to catch my breath for another 5 minutes, so I am counting it all together. 

As we took turns hurtling to our doom, it was important to choose a lane. Other sledders dotted the landscape, providing ample opportunities to meet and greet on the way down. Most of the conversations were of the, "AHHHH! I can't control this thing, so get out of the way!" variety, but it was a cultural interchange, nonetheless. We learned some new words as well. Evidently cuidado is their version of the same thing. Very efficient.

The Spanish are not as concerned about public safety and liability issues as their American counterparts. It's a little more casual here. At the bottom of the slope was the parking lot and bobsled rental area. To create a little buffer, somebody had taken the snow from the parking lot and created a little berm between the ice run and the asphalt. The previous day the berm was a great way to stop any sleds. On this day, with more ice than snow, it functioned like a ramp, from which to launch a rider into traffic or parked cars, depending on the lane. I cannot describe the thrill of approaching a parking lot full of cars on a tiny little piece of plastic with nothing more than hope for steering controls. The whole thing provided some great teaching moments for our girls on how to make quick decisions, such as:

• Hmmm. Should I ditch to the right or the left?
• Which of those innocent bystanders would get the least irritated, when I run into them?

You just don't get that kind of training back home, at least not on ice and snow. We are gearing up for the 2018 Winter Olympics in Pyeong Chang, South Korea. Watch out world. Here we come!

Spanish Class Views on America

23 January, 14

Do you remember when you were in junior high, and a juicy bit of gossip circulated the school with something approaching Warp Four? Nothing would stop this tidbit tidal wave from flooding the banks of every corner of every room in the school. The worst part was most of it wasn't true, but truth has never been an important pursuit in junior high.

Bad news quickly congeals from liquid opinion to solid fact. Only time and exposure can erode the new crystalline structure, or sometimes it is shattered by the truth.

For the Spanish the public face of Spain is her government, futbol, festivities and food. Charity, foreign relations and international affairs of almost all types get funneled through the official channels. Futbol, festivities and food form the blanket on which the Spanish society rests, but you would never experience the beauty and complexity of that blanket, unless you actually traveled to Spain. So what we see from America is a sleepy little country with a few strange customs, like running down a street with a bunch of angry bulls.

When the Spanish people look at America, they see the federal government, sports, television and movies. What kind of picture does that paint? It's a little scary, regardless of your political affiliations or beliefs.

• The government does not care about its people, because we don't provide health care. Spaniards think people are dying in the streets, as seen on TV.
• The whole country is filled with obese hoarders, as seen on TV.
• If we don't like you, we will invade your country and take over. More dying in the streets, as seen on TV.
• Our cities are all dangerous, gang-infested, drug-riddled, poverty-filled cesspools of corruption, as seen on TV.
• The Kardashians and Honey Boo Boo are normal, everyday Americans, as seen on TV. They don't even know about Duck Dynasty yet.
• Everybody has a gun, as seen on TV. Actually I have reinforced this one, just in case they get a wild idea to invade us.

We know nothing about Spain, because we don't visit.

Spaniards don't want to visit the USA, because they think they already know everything about us, based on what we broadcast to the world.

It is a difficult cultural divide to cross, and the bridges are easily damaged or broken. President Obama suffers bouts of insomnia, knowing our family is here to represent the United States.

That sets the scene for Susan and me attending Spanish language classes. At church we met a guy who works for a private Spanish language school. It is expensive, but very good. After only three weeks, Susan and I have absorbed a great deal of information. We can already understand people on the street much better than before. It's a good thing we waited six months to start learning the language, don't you think?

The class is composed of five students and the teacher. For two weeks, we also had a teacher-in-training. The other classmates hail from Brazil, China and Germany, which makes the whole thing very interesting. Both of our teachers are from Murcia, but the trainee is from Cartagena, which gave me an opportunity to make a little joke. In a previous blog, I shared how people from the capital make fun of people from Cartagena and vice versa. Every time I encounter a Cartagenero, I feel obliged to use my insider knowledge and call them aladroques, a pejorative term deriving from a type of useless fish. David, the trainee, did not take the bait so well, based on facial expressions, but not to worry. He was a trainee and couldn't really say anything. Another great cultural exchange. You're welcome, America.

Princess Lizzy

5 February, 14

Today is Elizabeth's 15th birthday. If we were in America right now, she would be taking driver's ed classes. God has a way of intervening on behalf of humanity, when He sees they are in trouble. A world with Elizabeth Askins on the roads is a world that needs saving.

From the start, Elizabeth was unique. She entered the world unconventionally and a month ahead of schedule, weighing in a 5 pounds, our little bag of sugar. As a newborn, she pretty much maintained a tight fetal ball until she was one month old, almost as if her preemie body knew it was finally okay to relax. We would wrap her up in a blanket papoose as tight as we could, and she would flash this angelic smile at us, in recognition of our efforts. That same smile captiv

ates us to this day. Last night Elizabeth wore her new head-to-toe mouse pajamas, still loving to snuggle.

At the tender age of 2, Elizabeth encountered Honey in their first real interaction. Honey is Susan's sister, Jennifer. Elizabeth could not pronounce her name. It came out Honey, and since Elizabeth was the first Kjellgren grandchild, she got naming rights. Honey was, and is, a diva. I mean that in the absolute best sense of the word. Jennifer wants the best of everything-clothes, jewelry, experiences. And makeup.

One day, Honey sat down with Elizabeth in the bathroom and told her to lay her hands flat on the floor. She then painted all of Elizabeth's tiny little nails. Although we cannot prove anything, we are quite certain that Honey either cast a spell or placed Elizabeth under some prolonged hypnotic trance. After that fateful day, Elizabeth was never the same. We bear witness to the christening of Lizzy Zimbabwe.

At three years old, while attending Sandhills Alliance Developmental Preschool, Elizabeth noticed one of the teachers walking down the hall. It was not one of her teachers, mind you. She exclaimed with joy at having found a kindred spirit: "You changed your nail polish!"

Since birth, we have purchased about five outfits for Elizabeth, the rest of her extensive wardrobe being amply supplied by Bema, the yin of Honey's yang. Susan's mother, Joyce, is a professional shopper. Macy's and Bloomingdales send her a personal car for outings. Old Navy has a "Bema Bin", dedicated in honor of their most prolific customer. After 18 years of marriage, I have not purchased one pair of underwear. Before moving to Spain, I gave away half of them, hoping a six month supply would be adequate.

Bema kept Elizabeth, and all of us, in good fashion trim. As our daughters grew out of clothes, Susan would assemble big plastic totes, labelled by month (0-3, 3-6, etc.), to give to friends, some clothes still with tags. As their kids grew out of them, they would return the clothes, and Susan would give them to some other family. Each Old Navy heart-print jersey dress with a ruffled bottom would wend it's way through our circle of lucky little girls. On any given Sunday, we might see four or five outfits scattered throughout the church. Play dates became a Mother's Collective to glean smocks and socks.

We reserved the makeup for daily use until she turned 13, but she got some regular doses as a child dancer and during playtime. Honey was the star of Elizabeth's fourth birthday party, an event that girls and parents still discuss with a mixture of awe and envy. We converted our basement into an extreme makeover salon. All the girls moved from one station to another, as they received makeup, fingernail polish, hair styles and even fancy clothes for dress-up. Honey applied the makeup. Even I got snookered into it. I was painted up liked a Vegas showgirl.

Elizabeth has never known a world without fashion or style or beauty. She cannot conceive of the notion of simplicity. The very word is lost on her. We take responsibility for that, but we also plead understanding and empathy.

Today, Elizabeth is 15 and feeling so mature. I am incredibly proud of her. She speaks Spanish fairly well and understands even better. It gives her great pleasure to correct my Spanish errors, for which she has myriad opportunities. She is learning how to navigate the complicated and dangerous waters of teen girls, who change allegiances faster than Dale Earnhardt changed lanes at Daytona. She is an "O Negative" friend, which means Elizabeth has the unique ability to be anybody's friend, a universal donor. She does not make heavy demands on her friends. They are free to go and come, enter and exit, without restrictions or recriminations. She makes no alliances against anyone. As a 15 year old, this trait comes in handy. Elizabeth is like Switzerland, a friend to all, an enemy to none. Sometimes, however, that makes her the perfect place for a turf war, as competing factions fight for territory and teenage supremacy.

Elizabeth continues to grow and develop as a person. We have absolutely no idea where she will end up, but I think she inherited the part of my nature that always makes things work out for the best. If we can just add a little dose of the Kjellgren common sense, Elizabeth will be unstoppable.

We love you Lizzy Zimbabwe.