Travel Tips

16 July, 2014

One of the big benefits of living in Spain has been cheap travel to all the cool spots in Europe. Now that we are heading home, we felt the need to cram in as much travel as possible into the final six weeks of our time here. In addition, the Kjellgren family, my in-laws, like to travel every year to a different destination in Europe. This was a perfect storm.

The fruit is almost ripe (Look for the girls)

Firenze

A local belt maker. He cut the belts to size and gave the girls leather bookmarks as well.

Hangin' with Chairman Mao.

Here is our itinerary:

Naples and Amalfi Coast
Athens
Greek Islands cruise
Milan
Lucern
Bern
Florence and Tuscany
Cinque Terre
Rome
Sicily

As of today, we are in the middle of Florence and Tuscany. It ain't easy being me.

Here's my take on traveling, in case you're interested.

• Meet and Greet
• When traveling to any foreign destination, which includes something as mundane as the next town over, try to focus at least part of the trip on actually meeting and interacting with a local. Too often we treat people like they are just part of the scenery. I cannot recount the number of times I have seen and overheard travelers gawking and making disparaging comments about locals. Before I seem to righteous, I must admit to being something of a white-washed sepulchre. Perhaps this is why I am so attuned to the behavior. We always seem to notice our faults in others more than in ourselves.
• Get off Main Street
• If everybody in the restaurant or shop is speaking your language, leave. Today we walked through Florence with a true blue local. He took us to his house for a cooking class. As we walked away from the tourist areas, he began to point out shops run by true artisans--shoes, purses, metal-working, book-binding. We were the only English speakers around. We found better deals and interacted with true craftsmen.
• Eat Treats (or sometimes tricks)
• Ordering in a foreign country is easy. Either order the craziest thing on the menu or whatever is the special of the day. My theory is that restaurants only put things on the menu that taste good, since that is what generates a profit. Therefore, the risk in trying new things is fairly minimal. So go ahead and be a little adventurous. Even better is to shop in a local market and actually cook a meal. My ultimate goal is to meet a stranger and get invited to their house for dinner. It hasn't happened yet, but I just know that I am getting closer all the time.
• Beat feet
• I try to never come home the same way. If I get lost, it's a bonus. Many times I have found a special little restaurant, shop or vista. We tend to be so afraid of traveling off the beaten track, but it is most often without merit. Obviously it is not a good idea to walk down an alley, when you see a pimp or drug dealer hawking their wares.
• Speak
• Speaking the language is a balm. Even just a little phrase can change the attitude of a salesman in a shop or waiter in a restaurant. Really, we have no excuses anymore. With Google Translate, you can speak, or at least write, any language you want. I downloaded Italian, so that I can even speak when offline. 

Traveling is an incredible privilege. We should avail ourselves of every opportunity to interact with other cultures. Be aware, however, that merely visiting another place does not necessarily equate with actually interacting, anymore than visiting McDonald's makes you a Big Mac. Get out there and do something different.

United Nations In My Belly

6 May, 2014

Now it's no secret to those who know me that I love to eat. It is with great joy that I thank God above for endowing me with an unreasonably high metabolism, enabling me to burn off more than I consume. This allows me to eat at will. In addition, my palette is incredibly wide. I will eat anything. Spicy, gross, hot, cold. I even recycled a piece of chewing gum off a roller coaster. It was mint flavored.

You can only imagine my sentiments when we visited the Camden Lock Market and other sites around London. Each location was awash with culinary treats from around the globe. It was a meeting to make the United Nations jealous.

India made the first presentation, a fiery fusillade of flavors that promised to overpower other, weaker nations. Brazil provided some modicum of peace, proclaiming a meat and potatoes message to appeal to the "Everyman". Thailand created a bridge between the hot words of India and the sweet language of diplomacy emanating from the Italian gelato. Germany preferred to stay rather neutral with its fare, but promised to come back tomorrow with more excitement. The Turks soothed with their creamy words of consolation, without sacrificing the flavor of their offerings.

Everything moved along apace, until the countries met in narrow confines, without borders, deep in the bowels of diplomacy. The Indian contingent set fire to the whole structure, which caused a mass exodus of blazing chaos. Not to worry, however, as this only cleared the way for fresh negotiations with other countries. Vietnam and Peru kept asking for a conference, while China insisted on a private meeting in its own section of London.

After four days of intense negotiations, we arrived at an accord.

• All agreed that London was the perfect place to hold a conference of nations, since the English have nothing to offer as far as food is concerned. This allowed each nation to have an equal voice, without competing for attention with the host country. 
• India is only allowed one meeting per visit, due to heightened fire safety concerns.
• Smaller countries should receive the first meetings, to ensure they have a voice.
• As a matter of practice, we must have more negotiations and more often. 

Perhaps my calling is as a diplomat, a gustatory ambassador of goodwill. Move over Dennis Rodman. Korea is calling my name.

Art Appreciation

28 April, 2014

No great artist ever sees things as they really are. If he did, he would cease to be an artist.

Oscar Wilde

The purpose of art is washing the dust of daily life off our souls.

Pablo Picasso

Before moving to Spain, art held a pretty low priority for me. I put visiting a museum up there with kissing a goat. It might be an interesting experience, but not one that I would venture to try twice.

Living in Spain has opened my mind to trying new things. No, I have not attempted any relations with a goat, but I have grown in my appreciation for the arts. Over the past two weeks, we have visited four top-tier museums, and I can say that I enjoyed all of them.

It is helpful to me to divide the art world into two categories--classical and modern. Those lines blur a little at the edges, but they serve their purpose in general.

The Prado

The Prado in Madrid is a bastion of the classical world, comparable in style and collection to the Louvre in Paris. They have 2,000 year old sculptures and 600 year old paintings. Sculpture, especially of the human form, is almost magical to me. I cannot understand how somebody can transform a piece of hard marble into an object that looks so soft. My favorite at the Prado was Isabella II, Veiled, by Camillo Torreggiani. You can see a face behind a veil, all of which is carved out of one piece of stone. It appears to allow you to see through the stone veil.

I also had the unique opportunity to view Felipe IV, by Velázquez. This is the same painting that a friend of mine's aunt is hoping to restore for a museum in Australia, prior to their purchasing it. This was not my favorite Velázquez painting, but it had an interesting story for me. Las Minenas also became a favorite of our family after visiting the Picasso Museum in Barcelona. By viewing the Velázquez first, we were able to understand, not only Picasso's version of the same painting, but also a little bit of Picasso's cubist style. 

Reina Sofia

I must confess that modern art quite often looks to me like nothing more than random splotches of color or haphazard doodling. Some of it, however, even made sense to me, which will no doubt relieve any consternation on the part of modern artists everywhere. Some of the pieces, to be sure, were simplistic, childish and downright stupid, in my humble opinion. Placing a few sticks against a wall and sticking a label on it does not constitute art, unless you are a good enough huckster to get the curator of Reina Sofia to display it.

Seeing such absurd displays makes me wonder if the creative juices have run out of modern art and into other venues, such as the digital sphere. Perhaps we are simply between great periods. Another possibility is that I am totally clueless.

The one redeeming part of Reina Sofia is Guernica, by Picasso. He captured the truth of war by smashing his images into shards of horror, fear and destruction, painting in death-pale hues, leaving us hopeless and lost. You can read more about Picasso in my blog here.

Picasso

The Picasso museum presented us with a different view of the artist. He was classically trained and fully able to paint like the Masters. His genius lay in his ability to diverge from what was acceptable and known and to create a new language. As mentioned above, I have already written a blog about Picasso.

Guggenheim

The final stop on our Spring Break tour of Spain was in Bilbao. We were not prepared for the beauty of that fair city. It is difficult to weave antiquity and modernity in the same tapestry, but Bilbao has done it. Five hundred year old buildings provide the base fabric, while ultra-modern structures act as stylistic foils. The Guggenheim Museum is one of those splashes of color and style.

Sitting astride the river that runs through the city, the museum is home to some very avant-garde art, but they have accomplished the impossible by making it accessible to simple folks like myself. In a stroke of genius, the artists actually created their pieces unfinished without the interaction of an audience. In other words, the pieces are only complete when we interact with them. We literally became art. 

Ernesto Neto created sculptures, entitled The Body That Carries Me, out of netting and pantyhose material that took up entire rooms. You were allowed to crawl through, touch and even smell the exhibits. He filled several sacks with pepper, cloves and rice. It was something like an artistic jungle gym. His purpose was to make us think about our own bodies, and particularly our own skin, to help us see the beauty in the way it moves and functions.

Christian Marclay's The Clock is a fascinating 24 hour long video that captures time in real time. He has spliced thousands of films, each with references to time, that correspond to the exact time of day in which you are watching the film. It was fascinating to watch the movie unfold seamlessly along this unanticipated path. The next time you watch a movie, look for clocks. You will be amazed at the number of times you see time.

I learned a great deal about art on this trip, but even more importantly, I learned a great deal about myself. All art is intended to evoke a response. Whether you enjoy the response is not up to the artist, but to you. 

Street Performers

20 April, 2014

Our family is in Madrid on Spring Break. It's payment for the girls' hard work in school and also an opportunity to hang out with my mama, sister and niece. Our cup runneth over.

Over the past couple of days, I have noticed several street performers on Plaza Mayor. They have always fascinated me. You can separate them into a few categories:

• Musicians
• Contortionists
• Artists
• Hip Hop Dancers
• Magicians

The musicians seem to be driven more by passion than money. I am sure they are hoping to rake in a big haul, like everybody else, but quite often they don't even acknowledge the crowd. The musician just needs an outlet. I met a band yesterday. They were all young and sang 80's rock covers with a weird kind of Spanish/British accent. They drew a decent crowd every time, but didn't generate a lot of money. All the guys were friendly and excited about their upcoming CD. They told me their main purpose for being on the Plaza was to be close to the fans. If that's true, they succeeded.

The other day, we visited a street market in Madrid and I came upon a guy playing a set of wine glasses. I was excited to see him, because I had just demonstrated how to make that distinctive sound to Katherine on a wine glass at home. He was talented, but lacked an ability to engage the audience.

That same day we encountered a group of classical musicians that included a singer. He had a rich baritone, and possessed obvious talent. A crowd of 50 or so people gathered around. He captured all of us and held us in spellbound attention. Money flowed out of our pockets like water over the Niagara Falls. A little bit later, a woman joined the group and sang in a beautiful soprano. They were definitely professional singers.

Contortionists come in all shapes and sizes, literally. The big thing these days is levitation. Even Jesus got into the act.

The really good ones will generate €150/night. That's not bad for just hanging around. Francesca, the ghost bride, is an aspiring actress. She is new to the street performance business and only makes between €30-70/night for five nights a week. That's not a great living, but enough to pay the bills, and she has most of the day to hunt for other work.

Street Artists make those caricatures that everybody has somewhere in their closet or proudly hanging on the wall. Katherine had been begging for one, and we finally found one in Plaza Mayor. It was hard for Katherine to sit still while the guy was drawing her. She was dying to know what it looked like. I showed him some of Katherine's work, and he was really impressed. It's a great picture, and I think it will bolster Katherine's growing love of art. 

Hip Hop Dancers fascinate me. This is an art form that literally started in the streets. Perhaps it is the lovechild of Contortionists and Musicians. Michael Jackson supposedly first saw the "Moonwalk" on the street. As this art form ages, it has begun to attract and retain an older, read richer, audience. All the dancers have worked hard at smiling and engaging the crowds. Many times, they have a "plant" in the audience, usually a little kid, that they will "beg" to come inside the ring and dance a little bit. Of course the kid is a prodigy and the audience goes wild.

Magicians are definitely the top of the food chain. It makes sense, because illusions transcend language and culture and don't require a lot of props. All the successful magicians are great at involving the audience. They select an older guy, a good looking woman and a child, often reaching into the second or third tier for "volunteers". Rubén has been performing street magic for a couple of years now, and he makes about €200/night, four nights a week. That's about $55,000 per year. Not bad for a 20 hour work week. He also performs for private parties, and I am sure he practices ad nauseum to hone his skills and work on his delivery. His whole performance was with a set of magic ropes that got longer and shorter, while twin brother passed the hat.

All the acts work hard for their money. It's not easy performing in front of a big crowd that is constantly looking for other diversions. Quite often we watch with amusement and then saunter off to the next thing, without ever dropping a coin in the hat. I would suggest you support the arts, in whatever form and location you find it. One day you may find yourself on the street and need a little magic yourself.

Pablo Picasso

22 April, 2014

Today we toured more of Barcelona, as part of our Tour of Spain, over the Easter holidays. The highlight for me was the Picasso Museum, which showcased some of his earlier works.

Pablo Picasso's father was a painter and started training him at age 3. He was a child star, the Michael Jackson of painting. By the time he was 12, young Pablo was being compared to the classic painters of antiquity. He said of himself, "It took me four years to paint like Raphael, but a lifetime to paint like a child."

Science and Charity--Picasso Age 15, Picasso Barcelona

Prior to studying some of his work, I had never appreciated Picasso's paintings, due mostly to my vast ignorance of art. He's still not my favorite, but I do have a much deeper respect for his talent.

Picasso's cubist style allowed him to take apart a picture and reassemble it, transforming people and things into shapes and colors. Once deconstructed, he could play around with the images like pieces of a puzzle. One of my favorite exhibits was Las Ménines. This was actually a Velázquez painting from 1656, which we saw at the Prado in Madrid. Picasso disassembled it and changed the colors several times. Each version took your eye to a different focal point, which was fascinating. Velázquez, as a realist, wanted to create an image that closely approximated life. Picasso, as a cubist, wanted to give the picture a life of its own, separate from the original figures.

Les Ménines--Velázquez, Prado Madrid

Les Ménines-Picasso, Picasso Museum Barcelona

We also saw Guernica at the Reina Sofia in Madrid, which depicts the horrors of war. Germany practiced blitzkrieg in April, 1937 on several Spanish towns as part of the Spanish Civil War. Guernica was one of the unfortunate targets of death and destruction. The painting was unveiled at the Paris World's Fair in 1937 and caused an instant sensation. Rich in symbolism, Picasso used his cubist technique to throw together several disjointed images into one collage of Hell. Everyone and everything suffers during war. The painting is massive, over 28 feet long and 11 feet high, commanding your attention. You cannot escape. The color and light reflect misery and pain, while the images convey true horror. I have not read anything about the name of the painting, but guerra means "war" in Spanish, so maybe there is a cruel irony in the fact that the Germans chose that city to bomb. Picasso dictated in his will that the painting would not reside on Spanish soil until democracy returned to the nation. The painting finally arrived home in Madrid in 1981, just in time to celebrate what would have been Picasso's 100th birthday.

Guernica--Reina Sofia, Madrid

Pablo Picasso used his art as a voice to speak about a variety of subjects. The true beauty of his art is that it still speaks today, even to a simple Redneck in Europe.

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.

Field Trip to Antequera, aka Middle of NOWHERE

29 January, 14

There ain't nothing here but a hole in the ground.

DISCLAIMER:

Before I get myself into a world of hurt, I must say that I actually enjoy our little junkets to places unknown. Susan works pretty hard to uncover these little gems, so my descriptions are in no way a poor reflection on her, even if she thinks they are. (I hope this works.)

After driving three hours west from our home, we finally made it to our appointed destination. We have taken in much of what Spain has to offer in terms of tourist attractions. Madrid, Barcelona and Northern Spain are on the docket for this summer. Now we are at that awkward middle ground, where we are not sure which way to turn next.

Awhile back, Katherine's history book showed some pictures of an ancient burial cave that was located in Spain, dating sometime around 3000BC, just before Madonna hit it big with her first single, Holiday. You just dated yourself.

Antequera was the town closest to the cave, so we put a few more liters in the Micra and took off for another puente, or long weekend, since the kids did not have school on Monday.

If you remember my recent blog post about another field trip, you realize that the journey is more important than the destination, an aphorism for which we are eternally grateful, lest we spend endless hours in empty pursuit.

We were pleasantly surprised to find Antequera to be a pretty little town, with ivy-covered rails running along cobblestone streets. They even had a tourist information center. It was located in the parking garage. The tourist packet was free, but you could only get information if you actually parked in the garage.

We wandered aimlessly about town for about an hour, then struck off toward the cathedral at the top of the hill. The monks of antiquity must have been shrewd land developers. They always picked the best spots for a cathedral. You never find one in the bad section of town, even after 500 years. This particular cathedral overlooked the city below, like a great stone watchtower. You could see for miles in every direction.

Our next stop was the dolmens de Menga y del Romeral, or ancient megalithic burial tombs. The largest one, Dolmen de Menga, contained several hundred persons. One of the stones weighs more than 180 tons. It is incredible to even consider how people conceived of such a structure, much less built it. They date to 3000 BC, around the same time as the pyramids of Egypt. Evidently this was a busy time for construction.

Even though the actual construction demonstrated a mastery of engineering, it still was just a big hole in the ground, at least for my kids. They were underwhelmed. The fact that three of them lined up with a mountain that looked like a sleeping woman's face and also ran along an axis that lines up with the solstice and equinox didn't phase them much either. You can't blame them for not appreciating such abstract concepts. They can't even imagine life before cell phones and microwaves, much less electricity and the wheel.
Even though the sites were not all that exciting, we still had great fun. Our girls are great travelers, and we have enjoyed each other's company over the miles. That makes it all worthwhile.

After we left the burial mounds, we still had a pretty a lot of time in our day, so we headed back to Granada for a little impromptu trip into the city. You can read about that adventure on another post.

 

Basketball is an American Sport

21 January, 14

I used to play basketball everyday of my life, whether it was in the backyard by myself, or with friends down at Prestwood, or over at Noog Crowley's house. That's exactly what every other kid in America did, too. We all played basketball, even if you were short, uncoordinated and wore Coke-bottle glasses with rebar frames. I was so good that I could dribble with my left hand, three or four times, before it bounced away off my knee or foot.

As I got into high school and started to fill out a little bit, my game was actually competitive enough to not be picked last anymore. Second to last is still not last, so don't go raining on my parade. Prestwood Country Club unwittingly played host to games that made the NBA and NCAA Finals look like tiddlywinks tournaments. This was war.

I played like Kurt Rambis or Dennis Rodman;

solid defender, fearless rebounder and odd-looking athlete, something akin to the duck-billed platypus of the basketball court.

Kurt Rambis, my hero

Greg was the star. He shot the "J" from downtown, he drove the lane like a boss, he tossed no-look passes with surgical precision. Greg was the only white player on our high school basketball team. Hartsville High stunk so bad, that we would grade the other teams' dunks. We would chant from the stands, "Put in Token! Put in Token!", which would guarantee that Greg never played. He was so good, however, that he got a scholarship to play at a Division-II college, which was the only scholarship offered for the entire team. No scholarship was forthcoming for me, however. My only hope for basketball stardom was to be a walk-on at Clemson, which didn't seem very likely. Big time ACC universities, and Clemson, just don't appreciate the scrappy platypus kind of player.

This scene could be played over and over all across America. South Carolina shares a basketball heritage with the rest of the country. Baseball is "America's Pastime"; Football is "America's Spectator Sport"; but Basketball is the "Universal Game". Okay, "Universal" is a little bit of an American overreach, but work with me. I freely admit the possibility of sports on other planets.

Baloncesto, or basketball, in Spain is a big deal, too, but not even close to futbol. While I have grown to appreciate and even enjoy futbol, it has not grabbed my heart like basketball.

Before Christmas, one of our new friends, Amanda, told us that her boyfriend, Unai, had connections with the local professional basketball team, UCAM Murcia. She said she could get us free tickets to a game. Butter my butt and call me a biscuit. As a professional mooch, I am always ready, willing and able to accept invitations to free stuff.

We finally made it to a game last Sunday, where UCAM played worse than Hartsville High School would have played against the Lakers. It was a desastre, disaster. The other team won by 40 points, and UCAM's coach was fired on Monday. I still had a great time, however. After the game, we waited for the players to come out. Unai is a good friend of several of the players, so we had plans to eat dinner with the team afterwards. As it turns out, one of the Americans on the team, Scott Wood, is a friend of a friend. Scott attended NC State, and one of his friends cheered with one of my friends. We saw him outside the locker room and struck up a conversation.

Scott has been in Spain, alone, since September. He was starved for some American contact, so we had a great time at lunch talking about our mutual experiences. The girls peppered him with questions, and we all traded stories about the strange foods and unusual customs in Spain. Scott is only 23, so we are old enough, just barely, to be his parents. Susan and I felt like adopting him.

The rest of the team gathered at the other end of the table, as there is a culture and language divide, but I plan to bridge that gap on subsequent visits. We have an open invitation and free tickets to the games, so this promises to be fun.

With a little practice and the right shoes, I might even be able to make the team...

Looking for a Fiesta

18 January, 14

Susan got a wild hair up her butt and wanted to find a local fiesta. After a little Internet scouting, she found two that were in roughly the same area, near Caravaca de la Cruz, which literally means "cow face on the cross". You can't make this stuff up.

We juiced up the Micra and headed out for an adventure. After about an hour, we got out into the boonies. I mean out there, like they could have filmed the moon landings and NOBODY would know. We finally got to the first town, and started looking for the big party. And looking. And looking. Nothing but old NASA trailers.

Susan swears she saw at least five or six people around one corner, but we could not independently verify this information. After driving all the way through town, which took at least 15 seconds, the family reached a consensus that turning around and going back could invite some guy to start playing a banjo. I was in no mood to start squealing like a pig.

We got out of that fiesta-less armpit of Murcia and struck out in search of the second town on Susan's list. Along the way we saw a field full of sticks. They looked almost ready to harvest. I am not joking. They were all in rows, standing up like so many brooms-to-be. We were in the Sticks.

Who knew? We also found an old rusted out swing set that carried the child/victim out over the road, and a rope swing for dummies. With so much entertainment in one place, I started to understand why nobody ever leaves. How could your life ever get better? What would they do, if they knew about electricity and running water? The Internet would be pure magic, for which I am sure they would happily sacrifice a bundle of those fine sticks that were out growing in the field, to use as kindling at the witch burning. Nothing creates a festive atmosphere more than a good fire.

We did finally come across another town that was obviously in fiesta mode. They had a bouncy house and a six foot folding table full of knick knacks. The entire town showed up. Of course we did not even attempt to count, but a conservative estimate put the crowd well over 10 people, and one lady appeared to have all of her teeth. Again I didn't count, but she was holding them in both hands.

Of course, we arrived at the festivities too late to partake in any of the fiesta food, which undoubtedly consisted of some goat blood concoction over rice. Madre mia! We found the only bar in town. What do you get when you have two Spaniards in town? A bar and futbol club. They recruit the players from other countries. We ate some pretty decent lomo de la plancha, which is grilled pork tenderloin on little toasted bread.

After a gratifying round of fiestas, we took the road less traveled and ended up in the middle of a field. Turn around, you say? HECK NO! We're in this for the adventure. Soldier on. After about ten minutes of driving through the lunar landscape, we got back on the hard track, heading to points unknown.

This "road" is called "Old House Street". See if you can figure out why.

We finally got to a decent sized town, called Cehegin, which evidently means,  "Empty". Either we just missed the zombie invasion or Jesus came back, and we were not on His "A" List. We drove through block after block. Shuttered storefronts, closed homes and empty streets painted a pretty bleak scene, so we drove on to yet another town, called Bullas. Now this town is pretty important, but not for any particular Spanish thing. The "u" is always long in Spanish, like "oo". When you see the "ll" in Spanish, it is pronounced as "yuh".  We entered the town and saw some semblance of life, including more than 10 people. We were so excited at once again arriving safely in some vestige of humanity, that we all said in unrehearsed unison, "BOO-YAH!" You just never know where these words begin.

Modern transportation for the handicapped.

While we didn't find anything approximating a fiesta, we did discover that we had a lot to celebrate as a family. A fancy smart-box with a plethora of apps is not required for us to have fun. Sometimes all we need to do is get lost, in order to find ourselves. Score one for Susan and Spanish fiestas. Ole!

Bert the Immigrant

30 September, 13

Susan's family teems with immigrants: 50% Swedish, 25% German and 25% Polish. I am 100% Mutt. Her dad, Bert, immigrated to the USA when he was a boy, way back in the 19-Teens. He was old as dirt. In fact, he was older than my mother-in-law's mother. Weird.

Bert was in his 80's when I first met him. He was not as spry as he had been in his old days, but he was still sharp. I remember studying before making a visit to his Palm Beach, Florida home, in preparation for the onslaught of questions. I could not even get in the house before he was grilling me about interest rates and depreciation schedules on our rental properties. 1,001 questions.

“What's the vacancy rate on your mini-storage?”

“When are you going to refinance?”

“What’s the product mix on your storage units?”

“How long will it take to build another one?”

It was like drinking from a fire hose, and I loved it.

Bert was an incredible encourager for me. He always pushed me to take risks, while at the same time, coaching me on potential pitfalls. When I stepped on the inevitable financial land mine, he was always ready with an anecdote from his past about one of his failures. Bert was like a second daddy to me.

He was Swedish, and about Elizabeth's age, when he came to the USA. This was back when we welcomed immigrants with open arms:

The New Colossus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,

With conquering limbs astride from land to land;

Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand

A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame

Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name

Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand

Glows worldwide welcome; her mild eyes command

The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she

with silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!” 

(Emma Lazarus, 1883)

His family came with nothing more than Swedish farmers from Varmland could be expected to bring. Bert finished high school and never attended college. One day he told me that was the best thing that ever happened to him, because if he had attended college, he would have ended up in a Corporate America cubicle.

Instead, he struck out on his own, going door to door, to sell new roofs, in the 1920's. One day he hit it big and came into a lady's tea party. He sold five jobs on the spot. Bert went on to build a big construction business in New York City and Long Island. He retired at 55 and moved to Palm Beach to raise his family. 

Bert recognized something vital. People are more important than things. He had plenty of things, nice things, but they were merely trinkets. His great joy was his wife and kids, to which he devoted all his time and energy.

Bert died 12 years ago, but I still have conversations with him in my head. He pushes me forward and provides guardrails as I go. Without Bert, there would be no Spain. 

Te quiero mi amigo!