There and back again

Book title, album title, song title, cafe name, satellite launch mission(!) title, blog title - lots of adventures and ventures sharing the same, lovely name.

 

For me, February brought me to SLC and back to Sitges again, to Barcelona and back to Sitges again, and to Vilanova and back to Sitges again. So many kilometers stuffed inside a short, little month.

 

Started the month with a week spent in SLC for an all-hands company meeting.

 

Highlight: finally meeting in-person every member of my team. Terrific individuals online and even more wonderful in real life.

 

Low-light: ordering delivery from my favorite pizza and wings place and the food never arriving because their system was down. Next trip! 

 

Spent the week getting up, getting ready, going to an office, working and interacting, coming back to the hotel and repeating. Not terribly original to say at this point but it's still the truth that it's hard to come to grips with the idea that as tiring and unusual as it felt, this was normalcy for the overwhelming majority of my working life. Making the adjustment in real-time to a remote work culture was all encompassing and then it was just - normal - and living a vivid reminder of what used to be normal reinforced how adaptable we can be, how much we might forget (good and bad), how remembering can be good, and what feels right, wrong, normal, hard, unusual, etc. now might have been unimaginable in the past and very possibly might evolve or not be that way in the future. All we have is now.

 

Lost a weekend to lost luggage and jet lag on the return trip, both more an annoyance than a problem. The luggage arrived on the last flight that same day from Paris, and we were reunited after a very long wait in the Barcelona baggage claim area. I was delayed a couple of hours at CdG which gave me extra time to find a baguette sandwich and a pastry which I enjoyed tremendously.

 

The week after I returned, I had to go to Barcelona for a doctor's appointment. The lead to the story being I had to purchase private insurance as part of my visa application and now I am using it. I booked the appointment with the necessary specialist via an app in English, I selected one who spoke English, and upon arriving at the clinic I checked in on-line and received on-line directions to the examination room and went and waited without bothering anyone. Private indeed. 

 

I also remembered once again that Barcelona is only 40 minutes away and I should go more often, and every time I go, I seem to walk by a different cafe or restaurant that looks like it could be the coolest cafe or restaurant I've been to yet. And the novelty will never wear off that one of Gaudi's iconic houses is the landmark for where to catch my return train. But it must be the right one because I went to the other one this time and there wasn't an option for a regional train headed south anywhere to be found.

So then this week roughly forty-five days have passed since I applied for my foreigner's ID card (TIE) and my lawyer let me know my "lote" had come up and she had secured an appointment for me to go back again and pick it up. Back on the train, six minutes south to Vilanova, fifteen minute walk to the station, five minute wait, two fingerprints, and now I have a Spanish ID card. I can stay. At least until October. Good enough for now. All we have is now.

The things you'll see

Word from los estados unidos (EE.UU) is that it's officially the biggest snow season in 20 years. I haven't skied in the past three seasons so I can't claim to be missing anything, but it feels like I'm missing something.

Not so much a writer's block as a writer's blasé. I've been reading and reading and reading. The five book Jackson Brodie series "Case Histories" by Kate Atkinson was outstanding. All fiction. "Novels gave you a completely false idea about life, they told lies and they implied there were endings when in reality there were no endings, everything just went on and on and on." I wish some of the novels I've read recently went on and on and on.

Christmas came and went. Then New Year's. Then Three Kings/Epiphany. And then the holidays were over and the rush, noise and thrum of everything restarting and starting back up again cranked in and in about ten days I'll be on a plane back to Utah for a week for work and then February is half over and that's basically the year done. Christmas is overshadowed by Epiphany and so it was quiet. I had Christmas lunch by the sea in the sun and a yule log for dessert. All of it? Perhaps. There was a delightful dinner at friends of friends for New Years featuring pad thai and cava. A loud parade and Three Kings cake for the last of the three.

Went to Barcelona between New Year's and Three Kings Day and the Epiphany is the bigger of those big three and the street lights were beautiful, and the city was bursting and all of us were walking and shopping and drinking and talking and my oh my there were a lot of us all trying to find our place in the same shared space. We had lunch at a British feeling pub serving breakfast. I went in one sportswear store and the ninth floor was a lovely, empty cafe with views of the city and the eight floors below were shoes, shirts, pants, shoes, bikes, shoes, shirts, hats, people, people, people. Upupupupupupdowndowndowndown on escalators. Ineedsomeairnow! And a coffee.

I got my first haircut last month from a Polish man named Emil. He works out of his flat which is next door to a very nice brewery. I tried a couple of the brewery's beers at a beer and cheese festival. I enjoyed their West Coast IPA which they were rightly proud of until they heard I was from the west coast and then they turned a bit shy. But no need. It's great. At a festival or at a bar. We share the same Spanish teacher. Emil and I, not the brewery and me. But I don't think my Spanish teach and I share them same barber. I need another haircut, but I haven't heard back from Emil. 

One Sunday back in December I went for a walk and strolled by the Bad Burro. It's a bar. The Bad Burro Bar = a bad ass bar. Tada! When I walked past I noticed the bartender drinking a pint and that's just the kind of bar I like so in I went. The bar is smaller than my living room and owned by a group of friends, all from England. As I drank my first, just me and the bartender, the place started filling up with a continent's worth of relocated folks who all seemed to know each other and definitely didn't know me. Italy. Scotland. England. Portugal. Spain. Ireland. Brazil. All represented. All there for Sunday Roast and somehow I was judged an acceptable sort and assumed to be staying to eat. We were more than a dozen for dinner, it arrived a couple hours late, served one plate at a time from a kitchen at a secret location, but we had empty stomachs, a bar, stories and grudges to tied us over. Dinner was delicious and allegedly they were all friends but the closer we got to dinner and the further we got from kicking off with pre-dinner drinks the more past grievances were aired. Terrific times.

I've begun Spanish lessons. There are two different "to be" verbs. My long dormant Italian is ascendant. Italian is not Spanish. The overlap helps a bit with memorizing and patterns but not at all with pronunciation or like speaking actual Spanish. I meet with my teacher Monday mornings in person at her apartment along with another student, a retired American. And then we meet one on one for an hour over zoom on Wednesdays. On Mondays I go early to a cafe, have breakfast and do my homework and studying last minute. Just like real school. On Wednesdays I spend an hour immersed in another language and immediately after it ends I start work. I'm so confused. I haven't decided yet if I'm going to be good at this.

I found a food delivery app. I work nights. I can't go out for dinner during the week. But dinner can go out for me. It's great. There's a minimal delivery fee and I tip the delivery guy. It's always a guy. That's it. No service fees. No convenience fees. And the food is always delivered a couple minutes ahead of the expected time. I love it. I'm going to order Thai food tonight.

I found molten chocolate cakes at the supermarket. Two of them for two euros. Ten minutes in the oven. Melty and molten. That's neat. I eat them with gelato. That's helado in Spanish.

I'm going to Utah for work in early February. Technically, that's my first trip but I'm not counting it. So, I booked my first trip. To explore. To be a tourist. End of March. Malaga. Costa del Sol. Andalusia. Andalusia is reputed to be Spain's hidden gem. Less crowded. Better food. Less expensive. Says who? What do I know though? I thought it was an island. I wonder if I'll be able to Africa if I squint?

Get out there

"It's time to really live; to fully inhabit the situation you happen to be in now."

 I've been trying to make sense of what living here is making me feel.

I'm proud, satisfied that I made it through the process and moved here. I'm happy, excited that I live here, although those don't feel quite big enough. Those are the labels of accomplishment. Goals achieved. To-dos crossed off a list. I've had far less difficulty labeling the sensations related to wanting to move to and live in Spain than the emotions related to the being here. Labeling those has proved far more elusive which has been surprising and unsettling.

 I, wrongly it would seem, assumed I would be awash in the excitement, the thrill, the thrall of "being in Europe." But it occurred to me Sunday afternoon, when I was absent-mindedly staring out my bedroom window with no plans, means to make plans beyond myself, or any definitive desire to do anything specific that this too was what it was like to be in Europe. And not an altogether uncommon state.

On the one hand, that's a pretty common state. Life isn't all racing laps. A lot of it is on pit lane, in the garage or under caution.

On the other hand, if it's not all racing laps, then, having made this move, am I wasting laps? Do this! Do that? Go here? Go there! Try! Explore! Experience! Get out there! It's a trap of my own creation. It's the same options as anywhere isn't it? Only the vocabulary has changed? And the furniture. As I said, it's a trap I fashion myself. Oh, everything's amazing. I went to Barcelona yesterday. I'm headed to Paris for a long weekend. I had this incredible dinner last night. I'm possessed with dumbfounded disbelief if the paragraphs aren't full of these sentences. I live an IG life in my head.

Which when solving the equation of recent thoughts equals disoriented being my state of being. And it's fatiguing. Trying. Bemusing. Natural. Nestled within a conversation with a woman I met recently was the admonition to really feel the emotion. Settle deeply with it. Let it promote change and growth. Distracted by the wine and her accent, I missed the message in the moment, but it surfaced in the sobriety and solitude of a rainy afternoon. Withdraw or stretch out? Protect or be vulnerable to experience?

"We suffer more often in imagination than in reality."     

Café — Voló

Post-ride Breakfast at Voló: Shakshuka and coffee

 

 

What's the tweet cliché? "Shakshuka. That's it. That's the post."
 

Fraud

In the process of opening my bank account and finalizing the lease for my apartment I've signed multiple documents attesting that my accounts, the funds in them and the rental payments are not and will not be for the purpose of laundering money. First the obvious. If I was intent on laundering money, would signing a document deter me? "I've piles of dirty money desperate for cleaning, but now I've signed this I guess it's back to smuggling it about in my shampoo bottles like everyone else." 

Nonetheless, my honest face, pure intentions and shaky signature apparently weren't sufficient to keep my first international wire from being flagged for fraud. My American self sent my Spanish self my American money last Wednesday as my Spanish self needed European money before Monday as it had to be in the management company's account before I could sign the lease, with the signing schedule for Monday afternoon.

With no sign of the funds in my account Friday morning, and a politely panicked agent asking if I could send payment confirmation or they'd simply have to move the appointment, I set about locating my missing shampoo bottles. I could either call my bank's Toll Free number (only good in the U.S.) or call collect (only good if I could figure out how to ring an English speaking Spanish operator and request an international collect call). 

I have Google Voice for exactly this contingency! All the expat blogs helpfully advised porting a U.S. number to GV before switching to local phone service. I did that! I was quite pleased with myself! I've been receiving regular texts to my U.S. number from other U.S. numbers. I haven't made or received any calls, and upon dialing the Toll Free number I realized I wouldn't be making one now. Many, many help articles, Reddit threads and YouTube videos later I located the very (to me) obscure setting in the GV app to allow calls on WiFi instead of a cellular carrier. Never have I been happier to interact with an automated message AI and then placed on extended hold.

Not too much later I'm being told my account has indeed been locked and my wire held on suspicion of fraud and did I happen to receive an email from XXXX? I did receive that email. It looked like a phishing email - it came from an address with no mention of my bank. Included no mention of my bank in the email or footer. And cheerfully invited me to open an attachment or click on a link. Hahaha! I'm no phish. Classic phishing email! I'm much too smart to fall for that. Except it wasn't and when I didn't they didn't. I might be no phish. But I am a dummy. We worked through verifying that I am me and once done, my funds were released via an immediate transfer and before I could say thank you I received a notification that my Spanish self was looking just a bit more well off. And a few minutes after that my Spanish self was feeling just a bit less well off.

But as of yesterday, Monday morning, payments have been made. Rents have been paid. Contracts have been signed. The utility bills are in my name. Internet is being setup on Friday morning. I receive the keys and move in Saturday afternoon.

Just a couple stepping stones to go to cross the residency river. Securing my padrón and registering with the police to apply for my Residency/Foreigner's ID/TIE card. I register my address using my official lease at the Sitges Town Hall (my padrón) on 12 December. As previously recounted, I register with the police on 28 December, submit fingerprints and proof of insurance and, having already met with the attorney who is handling this process, the other necessary forms and instructions that she's prepared on my behalf. Just about all that's left are those appointments and to pay the bills and I'll be an official, long-term resident of Spain in good standing.

With all this going on, one might (incorrectly as it turns out) think I've missed Thanksgiving dinner. No! I'd boarded the bus, fumbled my way through buying a ticket and was anxiously riding the route (I hoped) to S P Ribes. As the minutes passed, the bus followed a familiar and expected route and it soon became astonishingly clear I was going to arrive where and when I'd planned. Brilliant! (I knew it all along. Ain't no thing.)

I stopped in a store on the way to my friends' house for wine (to share) and a couple bags of Nutella biscuits (for hoarding and personal consumption). I know less than nothing about Spanish wines. So, my foolproof approach, a bottle of each color, of the most populous varietal, in the middle of the price range of what's on offer, with a "classy" label and a DO designation.

American Thanksgiving was beautifully, satisfyingly international - the food, the folks, the festivities. Four couples including the hosts, five children, one dog, me. A Spanish couple, he a race car driving instructor, she a graduate student in orthodontics. A Dutch/Puerto Rican couple - she a professor at a university in Barcelona, he the Southern Europe GM for Tony's Chocolates (they, recent 11-year residents of Portland living just a handful of blocks from where my brother currently lives). A French/Spanish couple - she a yoga instructor, he doing business development in Spain for an American company based in Buffalo. Their daughter a 3-year old marvel. Mom speaks to her in French. Or English. Dad speaks to her in Spanish. Or English. She replies in English. Or Spanish. Or French. At various points during the evening there was Spanish, French and English being spoken around the table concurrently. Even a brief moment of Italian.

Spanish snacks to start (olives, cured meats, cheese), a delay to the roast being finished (no turkey, no problem, and the meat taking longer to cook than planned, traditional), round the table with what we're thankful for - beautiful, competitive, poignant - before eating, and then a table heaving with food familiar, comforting and delicious: roast beef, glazed carrots, roasted sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, dressing, THE GREEN BEAN CASSEROLE, kale salad, a pasta course and then pies, pumpkin, pecan, apple. Too full to accept the generous offer to take something home and still full but filled with regret at the not accepting the next morning.

The stranger in the group, I spent far too much time answering questions about myself. I learned I share a birthday with Peter and we've plans to meet for dinner to celebrate ourselves when everyone else forgets.

Holiday week

Sorry I haven't written lately, but there's been so much going on it's hard to squeeze in a moment to think, much less keep up with correspondences.

I've been reading a lot. There's only so much Spanish "I recognize the film or format but don't understand much of anything" TV I can watch before my attention span wanes and it's either time for bed or a new distraction. I could probably watch Netflix in Spanish with English subtitles. Or in English with Spanish subtitles? Which one would help? On the recommendation of a pop culture blog which after these titles I now trust implicitly, I've been reading the Duncan Kincaid series by Deborah Crombie, Min Jin Lee - Pachinko, Sally Rooney - Beautiful World Where Are You, Claire North - Touch. The Libby app is liberating.

A couple hours this morning of the first rain. Along with lots of wind. It blew over the plants on the balcony. They're fake, but full of real soil to be swept up but not of the edge lest the dogs leaving their messes below receive a surprise from above as unpleasant as the ones they deposit.

The long, last, brief, wild dash to the new year has begun with last week's first holiday week. A shortened week of work with wandering focus and then back to regular weeks while still the focus wanders, thoughts scatter until the final couple of empty weeks pregnant with expectation and meaning. I think about what celebrating in my new home will look like. How will I choose to mark the moments? Will I? Stripped bare of the standard, treasured options for gathering with family or friends, does those missing increase the poignancy? If the obligations and traditions are absent, does the meaning shine through?

My HM invited me to join their Thanksgiving to be celebrated on Friday as all the other guests would be working Thursday and Friday. So Thursday we Americans went for drinks and sushi. 

(I forgot how unmoored it can feel here on these American holidays. Everyone going about the typical routine whilst I wander freely, not competing with everyone else over the same groceries or space.) 

They knew where to go for sushi and it turned out I'd seen a place for drinks that they hadn't so street cred tipped in my favor. The drinks place is two full walls of retail wines with a lengthy, broad communal table down the center for drinks and talks. Dark, elegant, comfortable. The sushi was familiar - rolls, edamame - and kept bringing up thoughts of the dinner in "A Christmas Story". All of it walkable. All of it - good food, good friends, overindulgence, thankfulness - Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving Friday, sunny, chilly, quintessentially fall. I started the day with a holiday appetite priming ride past castles, vineyards with rusted gold leaves and ongoing incredulity that I call this my local loop. Oh the places you'll go. Having seen the first turning of leaves in Utah and now hearing stories of snow covered canyons I feel the frequent but never often enough sensation of awe for the roads I am gifted to ride and rue the all to frequent resistant attitude to get out there. 

Showered and fed (volo's coffee, avocado, egg and blistered tomatoes on toast, a slice of carrot cake, holiday-level moderation), I made a visit to my future apartment and its current resident to talk about furnishings. He's South African and semi-retired and moving to Valencia after two years in Sitges. He has a lot of household items he doesn't want to bring and I have no household items to bring. We're a perfect pair. We talked about moving countries, proper care for the plants he's leaving and I'm inevitably going to kill, and settled on a price for a furnished flat. I don't know exactly what will be there when I arrive though. I've started filling an Ikea cart and hopefully will be able to empty most of it.

Visit, social and practical, complete, I walked back home intent on lounging, feeling a bit bereft realizing I hadn't had any chips or football yet. Is this Thanksgiving or heresy? Back at my apartment I realized I was due at my host's house in St Pere de Ribes, too far to walk. So, another adventure - the bus! All the local buses start their runs from in front of the train station. I knew the number, L2, the departure time, 16.10 and I thought I knew where I'd find the bus. Standing in the area, a bus arrives at the right time but it's a 72. A popular 72. I've seen the L2 around town. Like the L1 and L3 it's small and blue. I've seen these as well. It's big and white. I don't know the difference. But this one isn't small and blue. It's big and white. Everyone in the area begins to board. It's a few minutes yet until I expect my blue L2 so I stand back. It's time for my L2 but 72 is in the way. Taking a longer look at the stops flashing by on the front of the bus I see "S P Ribes" spin by. This is my bus! Probably! It's beyond my ability to check. But that's my destination and this is my time. So I board. What could go wrong! I wave my phone across the payment scanner and a big red X flashes. That went wrong. Flustered. The driver says something that I don't understand. I think I see a passenger point at a scanner behind me. Of course, wrong scanner. Duh! I flash my phone across this one and a big red X flashes. That went wrong. Flusterederer. The driver says something more that I don't understand buy I think I hear "efectivo" which I know means "cash". And he's pointing at a tray next to his driving booth. I have to pay with cash! I brought cash just for this purpose! He points at an icon that shows a ticket and 2.40euros. I have that! I put 3.00euros on the tray. He prints the ticket but doesn't hand it to me. He points at the 2.40 and says something. Probably says it very slowly and clearly. I have no idea. Flustererest. Since he's not handing me the ticket or change I assume he's saying exact change only. I don't have exact change. I tell him that, hoping he'll just give me the ticket and keep the difference. By now, the passengers already on the bus are throwing fruit at me and starting to light torches because I'm making them late. (They aren't. This is all in my flustered, anxious, silly mind.) The bus driver points at the total again and then at my coins. My two 1.00euro coins. I'm .40cents short. I add another euro. He hands me my ticket and change and we set off on time.

Living in the future

Yesterday, 17 November, was my friend's birthday. She lives in Utah. The birthday is about a month before mine. We're the same age except when we're not. Most years they spend the month reminding me to respect my elders, listen to the wisdom of my elders, bossing me around and I spend the month asking what it's like to be so OLD. This year, I woke up around 7 and I realized, it was already their birthday but it wasn't. Having already arrived in the future I realized I could let them know I'd seen the future and it was safe, bright and waiting patiently for them to arrive and thrive.

I'm living just a little bit in the future of my friends. This is amazing. Like the rider first in the paceline I must point out the potholes, the obstacles, the bumps. Like the hiker first on the trail I clear the cobwebs, scare the beasts away and see the vistas first that lie at the top of the hill and just around the corner.

I started finding my strength and endurance on the bike this week. I started finding new roads this week. I climbed an 8% 2km hill to Castell d'Olèrdola, became lost on the gravel roads around Olivella, admitted the coffee at my post-ride cafe wasn't that good, mistakenly, and possibly illegally, rode on a highway trying to figure out how to ride to another cafe, discovered the direct, local route after deciding this cafe would be my new cafe for post-ride coffee.

Is this burying the lede? I have a Spanish bank account with a Spanish bancomat card with my name on it. And a Spanish apartment with a signed form promising not to launder money. And a WhatsApp number for a Spanish tutor. Is there anything I can't do!?! 

(I can do none of these things. Christelle, Enric, Natalja, Merche did it all.)

Christelle made an appointment Monday morning at the bank. We had to wait for a bit for our appointment. There are apparently so many Americans in this town that when two Americans wandered in before I arrived, our contact assumed they were his Americans and took them into his office. I was his American. These two were innocent interlopers. When he realized he'd been duped he threw them, quite rightly, out on their American ears, offered us a coffee, and thirty pleasant minutes later I had an account, two banking apps, a PIN, a quote for renter's insurance and the contact information for my own personal banker. Today, I received a notification that I could pick-up my bancomat card so I walked over to the branch and ten pleasant minutes later I had another card to store in my wallet. The branch is a ten minute walk from my current, temporary apartment. Convenient! Wait! It's a one minute walk from ... my new apartment!

(How's that for a transition sentence?)

Late last week we submitted our interest in one of the apartments we'd visited. Submitting my interest included providing copies of my passport, visa, employment contract (I didn't know I had one, but I do have one and my work HR (actual HR not Spain HR) manifested it, three months of pay stubs and a personal essay (seriously) introducing myself to my potential future landlord. If someone sent me all of that, I'd take it as bible that they were interested. Naive. That was merely the start of the flirtation. A mere batting of the unibrow. If I wanted to be the sole suitor. Exclusive. I'd have to show a bit of skin. M-O-N-E-Y. The first action my sparkly new bank account was to send a "reservation fee" (a serious one) to the apartment's agent. Now the lights are low, there's heat and color in the cheeks, the wine is sweating in the ice bucket and I've laughed just a bit too long and loudly at something or other. We're waiting for the final contract to be translated into English (required by law in Spain apparently), then I send another gob of money and I move the first weekend in December.

And we all know what that means, right? I'll have a Spanish lease agreement and address which means my lawyer can finalize my application for my Foreigner's ID card for my appointment at the end of December.

There is joy in this journey.

Making progress is progress

 Don't sweat the small stuff they say. But what is small and what is big? It all feels big these days, so I spent the week sweating. Maybe because it was in the 70s and I finally had the energy and momentum to ride. And also because maybe the stuff just wasn't getting done.

And then today I realized it was. And it's not a checklist to battle. Or a list of chores to cross off. It's adjusting. It's a call-back to when I moved to Italy. I forgot how big of an adjustment that was. Culture shock. Uncertain in nearly every situation and encounter. Self-created anxiety. Internally rehearing how to ask for more water or a croissant. I'm not wired to do these things with aplomb. It feels more like a-bomb. Can I rewire my tendencies? Little bits, little steps. It's making a new life. As my HM said it's uncomfortable outside your comfort zone. But growing pains are only uncomfortable until a moment comes when you realize you don't ache and you're taller and can reach the cookies on the high shelf and no one can stop you. I'm reaching for the cookies.

I'm slipping into my routine working nights to align with mountain time back in the States. Spend the day sweating and the nights swearing. And Zooming. It's an exercise in learning to let go knowing some things will inevitably crop up in the wee (whee?) hours after I've signed off, but it's also accepting that delay isn't catastrophic and I'm far less essential than my ego would like me to believe.

Riding is ecstatic. Fitness is non-existent. Stamina is a mirage. Smooth, playful roads. Sane, courteous cars. The occasional castle. Delightfully absurd. I'm still recovering enough strength to string together days of riding. Ride one day. Maybe two. Feel wiped out for a day. Try again. Patience. Acceptance. Is this a small thing? It's certainly not the only thing. That I found a cafe near my apartment with sublime coffee and a charming patio and a server with enthusiastic English who already recognizes me is the buttercream frosting on my sheet cake.

Two successes. Progress. Auto-pay setup for my phone contract. Don't have to think about that. A recurring $10 ticket with Renfe, the train company, for unlimited rides in the Barcelona area through the end of the year. One round trip is $12 so everything after that first one is courtesy of my new hosts. What a generous deal.

What about the big stuff? Making progress. Feeling relieved.

Clementine, my relocation specialist, arranged appointments to start viewing rental apartments. We looked at five options today. For now, my feet are my primary method of transportation so that reduces the potential geography and increases the cost as I want to be within a "reasonable" distance from the train station, shops, etcetera. Because Sitges is a popular tourist destination, most apartments are short-term rentals so they can maximize prices and revenue during the summer season. But Clementine refuses to be deterred and her positive enthusiasm is delightful. Of the five, one is a candidate for me. Two (2) terraces. Minutes from the center but in a calmer zone. Incredible light. We begin negotiations while contemplating any new options next week.

Remember, a lease agreement is one of the key blocks to assembling all the required information for my Foreigner's ID application. And the other?

A bank account.

And I have an appointment for Monday to open one. At a branch minutes from my door.

The blocks coming together. Pieces of a new life taking shape. Let's start learning some Spanish though, shall we?

Last Lost Week

After I made the decision to move to Spain, I spent a lot of time thinking about what life would be like. I spent much more time thinking about what specifically I had to accomplish to be able to move, but occasionally, when a hurdle was hurdled or a milestone passed, I would think about the actual living. I never thought I'd spend the first week largely in bed, sick, horribly, miserably, stupidly sick. But that's how it went.

The pharmacy was finally open on Wednesday after a long (long) weekend closed for Tuesday's All Saint's Day national holiday. Medicine, sleep, jet lag, sleep, reading (Claire North: The First Fifteen Lives of Harry August, outstanding), medicine. I finally left my apartment today for more than a quick trip for groceries. Visited a bakery for impulse buying a sandwich (have to get my strength back) and pastries, and a cursory exploration of the neighborhood. Tonight I try for a pizza. Unless, by the time restaurants open at 8, I'm at the end of my strength reserves. And then it's toast and tea for me.

It wasn't a completely lost week though. I bought a new SIM and now have a Spanish number and service. What I get for what I pay here is incredible compared to the absurdity that was my ATT plan. Additionally, I am blessed with an incredible Helpful Mentor (HM) who lives nearby and they have been helping me organize and believe I can accomplish the convoluted list of resettling tasks adventures(!) I'll need to do to settle in here. In Italy, I had an employer who handled most things on my behalf (lucky) and an office full of splendid coworkers eager to fill in the gap as I floundered. Here, I have me (shockingly useless) and my HM. HM introduced me to a lawyer to facilitate my Residency Card/Foreigner's ID/TIE and a relocation specialist to help me find an apartment. 

The lawyer has already secured an appointment with the police (allegedly frustratingly hard to get), visited them in person to confirm the appointment and required forms, initiated the forms, and sent me a very reasonable invoice. She's incredible. She is also helping me with opening a Spanish bank account. This is KEY. It seems the bank account is the essential variable for acquiring my ID, apartment and over the long-term, pizza.

You see, to sign a lease, I need a Spanish bank account. Because I don't have my national ID yet, I have to first open a non-resident's account. With that, I can sign a lease for a permanent address. With THAT, I can switch to a resident's account. And with THOSE, my lawyer can complete the required forms so I can get my ID and stay in the country, use my healthcare, and I'm sure, do many other necessary things. And you think I'd be able to figure ANY of that out myself?

So, next week, I start looking at apartments with my relocation specialist, meet with a banker to open a bank account, and perhaps more importantly, RIDE MY BIKE, start looking for a cafe to be a regular in until I move, eat someone's cooking besides my own, and find a Spanish teacher.

#ALLOFIT

I started this blog originally to document my experiences living abroad for two years in Italy. In the mid-2000s. Or the late OOs, aughts, zeroes. And then I moved back to the States. To Portland. And I kept moving. First to Park City, Utah. Then Salt Lake City, Utah. Back to Europe for holiday a few times. And then, for the past year, the Moaning Groaning Early 2020s in rapid succession Boston, spring in Europe, Asheville, North Carolina, Bentonville, Arkansas, Boulder, Albuquerque, Salt Lake, Silver City, Moab.

As of yesterday, 27 October 2022, a Thursday, 10.05 Central European Time, UTC +2, I live in Spain.

Sitges. 

Once again, I don't speak the language.

This time though, I'm old.

I came to Sitges in April for a biking holiday at le bike stop, more riding in Nice, to revisit friends in Ancona (now with kids, so many kids who are uniformly bewildered by this adult who can't understand their simple Italian and endlessly entertained by his responses), and even more riding in Mallorca. Before I boarded my flight back to the US, I knew I wanted my stay to be temporary and my return to Europe, as soon as possible.

Stories about visa applications, red tape, consular visits, bureaucracy and miracles never cease to entertain so I'll write about all that in more depth, so much more depth, a bit later. But, a handful of short (interminably long feeling, anxiety ridden) months later, visa in hand, I'm back, with my same suitcases, different shoes, a new toothbrush, a BIKE, and no definitive idea about how long I'll stay.

I booked a flat for my first month here to give me time to find a long-term rental. It's located near the city center. There are three other similar sized apartment buildings, that along with mine, are grouped around a small open-space. A plaza. A square, courtyard-like communal area. Just on the opposite side of the plaza, behind two of the buildings, is a small church.

These two places, spaces, form the foundation of my initial sensations living here again. Background sensations. Poignant when noticed.

Early evening, the sounds begin: children, dogs, conversation, shouts all building on top of the never ending noise of rushing scooters. It's a collective chorus of catching up, laughing, gathering for a couple hours until abruptly, it ends. I'm two floors up with a patio door slid open hearing but not listening until from time to time I catch myself listening and realize I thought I understood but I really don't understand any of it. Because I'm in Spain and I have to, get to, learn to understand it all all over again.

And tonight in the church, a choir singing for a couple hours, not loudly, a practice?, applauded regularly, not loudly, full-bodied though, a concert? And of course the bells, chiming out the hour, the half-hour, other increments of time, the increment likely known only by its holy audience. This singing forming the soundtrack creating an unintentional welcome.

I bought a SIM card. I successfully ordered coffee while unsuccessfully remembering how to respond "nothing else" when asked "anything else?" I tentatively ordered a kebab. With no onions! So much material.

The blog returns. Cataloging and recording the litany of everyday, ordinary, mundane tasks, errands and adventures constructing a new period of learning and exploration. It's starts again. #ALLOFIT

Paura e Ripugnanza in Perugia

I don’t really enjoy Halloween, I don’t think that comes as a surprise to any of you either, maybe I’m not actually white, but these past two Halloweens in Italy have been figo. No pressure to come up with a costume. (Seriously, I was “camouflage man” one year and I was pretty proud of myself for coming up with that one. Lame!) No pressure to attend a party in a lame costume. (“Camouflage man”? For real?) All the trick-or-treat candy for myself. It’s great. For the most part, those few that do dress-up put on a pointy witch hat and call it good. So when Valentina asked if I wanted to come with to Perugia last weekend to see the Gomma Gommas’ concert Halloween night I was a bit worried. But we had a three day holiday, I’ve wanted to see Perugia for a while and she promised that no one would be wearing a costume so it sounded perfect.

Before leaving on Sunday though, I went to Fano, which is about an hour or so north up the coast on Saturday night for dinner with Raimondo who was back in Italy for the first time since moving to Spain. About fifteen of us drove from Ancona and met him for a pizza there. The restaurant, called Bella Napoli was named Italy’s 56th best pizzeria at some point in time. Considering the vast number of pizza places in this country (being the 56th best pizzeria in Ancona would be pretty remarkable), I thought that was something, something indeed. The pizza was delicious. Wood fired, a bit thicker crust than is typical for this region, and more chewy than crispy. Francesca, my friend who happens to be from Napoli, said Napolitano pizza is still better so I’m still desperate to go there before this AnconaAnventure™ ends.

We didn’t order until after 10 and I was feeling a bit peckish by then so I ended up having two pizzas (first time for everything), one with sausage and mushroom and another with buffala, prosciutto, and sliced, hard-boiled egg (not my first time for that). It was fantastic to catch-up with Raimondo (he’s doing great in Seville for those of you who are wondering), and to experience the night life in a different city with the guidance of our friend Stefania who lives and works in Fano. We didn’t get back to Ancona until nearly 4 in the morning but fortunately, I didn’t have to leave for Perugia until 2 Sunday afternoon.

For the two hour drive to Perugia it was me and four WAGs packed into a Punto.


I drove.
We arrived with a few hours to pass before meeting the band at the club for dinner so we headed to the town center for a look around. Much shopping was done, people were watched, coffee was consumed and the time passed.


They took an image of this building...

...and put it on the side of this tiramisu. Mmmm, historic dessert.
Later, we met the band back at the club, stole their beer, listened to their sound check and then went to dinner. Dinner was a frenzy – we over-ordered everything and then over-ate – french fries, fried mozzarella, olive ascolane, cheese, cured meat, bruschetta, pizza, grigliata, vegetable gratin, pasta – for the love of Pete stop passing me food!


Vampires are all the rage right now, so Pipo dressed-up as the French Fry vampire.

A plate of pasta...

...and my very own pizza pie. Oh my!
The restaurant’s Halloween theme was Batman and they did an amazing job with it. Our waiter was a Joker, and not just because he was funny. (Get it?!) Jokers, Catwomen, Bats and Penguins everywhere. The tour manager kept telling us to get a move-on because we were late, but the talent will be ready when the talent is ready, right? Besides, when did a concert ever start on time? Ever? In Italy? After a DJ-set to get the crowd moving, the show finally started at around 1AM. They played in front of a couple thousand people for a good two hours and got called back out for a couple encores. It was pretty amazing. And sweaty.



By the time all the kit was packed and everyone had had enough and we had checked-in at the hotel, it was almost 5 in the morning. As tired as I was, this still did not look inviting.


The Gramercy Park Hotel this isn't.
The alarm sounded at 8 because Giordano forget to reset it. I was half-dressed and had my teeth brushed before Giordano bothered to tell me we still had two hours before we had to check-out at 10. The rain and the holiday traffic going back to Ancona didn’t help the mood or the pounding head, but we stopped for lunch at a restaurant where most of the group are weekly regulars and are known by name. About five minutes after sitting down, two platters of pasta arrived, unordered and unexpected, like the stray puppy you weren’t expecting but that you fall in love with instantly. And then devour. Like that.

And then lunch was on. Three pasta courses. Three main dish courses. Salad. (Whaa? Huh? Who ordered salad? Shoot them. Then take their tortellini and give them to me.) Dessert – cantucci con vin santo – this was new to me and totally different. Vin santo is Saint Wine, the wine they use at mass on special occasions. And cantucci are little almond cookies that you dip in the wine. And then when you finally run out of cookies, you drink the wine. But not the crumbs. Delicious.


Three hours after it all started, it was all over and there was nothing to do but say goodbye, take a long, glorious nap and dream about going back to work on Tuesday.

Too old to rock 'n' roll

Festivals. Every town seems to have at least one celebrated annually, and many have more than one. The more popular festivals are anticipated with the same excitement as a holiday. Most last for a weekend starting Friday night, some last for a week or more and a few are over in the blink of one day. Stilt racing, religious, music, fried food, fish, historical event, cherry wine, cheese, chocolate, communism: they always have a theme. Festivals bring everyone together,, from the town, from the province or sometimes, from the entire region. They are the perfect excuse (as if one was needed) to socialize, eat food “typical of the region”, drink, dance and shop for prodotti tipici e artigianali con i produttori locali.

Last Friday night, we left after work to go Ostra, a small town about 40 km from Ancona for La Notte degli Sprevengoli a Ostra.


According to local folklore, Sprevengoli are goblins that torment people while they sleep by jumping up and down on their stomachs and stealing their breath (just like cats!) so you wake up in the morning unrested and out of breath. Ostra hosts this festival so the joy, good food and fun will chase away the Sprevengoli. As their slogan said: “The party that casts out fear…even that of the [economic] crisis!” The party lasted well into the night and cast out most fear, except the fear of the price I was going to pay when I woke-up the next morning (ehrm, afternoon).


Downtown Ostra by night.

Massi and Lorenza deciding on where to eat dinner.

And the search continues.
Saturday, I woke-up feeling like a shoal (congregation, troop, drove, swarm, clutch?) of Sprevengoli had spent the night doing the samba on my stomach. By the evening I had scraped together enough will to live to join Valentina for the drive to San Paolo di Jesì, a commune about 35 km from Ancona, where the Festa del vi’ de visciola was going on.


This is a wine festival for the latest bottling of visciola, a meditation wine made from cherries typical to the Le Marche region. The Gomma Gommas were headlining that night and by the time we arrived, they had already set-up and then heavily sampled the viciousness.


For dinner, we joined the very long line to order from the community cassa. Just as we placed our order, the power went out for about 20 minutes, including to the receipt printer. They had our money but we had no receipt. No receipt, no food. Panic! Eventually, with the power restored and anarchy avoided, we found a seat in one of the large dining areas set-up around the piazza. When your food is ready, a waiter wanders around until food and table are matched which means whenever you see a waiter with a tray of food you signal frantically in hopes that it’s yours.

I had stinco (plural: stinci) because the opportunity to order a plate of something called stinco or stinci for dinner should not be missed, and it's delicious, and because it came with mashed potatoes which you rarely see.


The vicious power of the visciola launched the Gomma Gommas to never before reached artistic heights and between post-concert tear down, a DJ in the piazza and the generous offerings of wine from the band’s hosts, we didn’t leave until near four in the morning.


This "petrol" station on wheels keeps the party fueled, dispensing visciola from the pumps to the willing crowds.

Downtown dance party.

The brains behind the Gomma Gomma revolution?
I am living a rock and roll lifestyle. And I feel like a pensioner.


This weekend is a long-weekend because Monday is All Saints Day, a national holiday so we are going to Perugia for a couple days. Perugia is home to a couple massive universities and I’ve been told has a fantastic historic center in the middle of a warren of tiny streets where visitors can’t help but become hopelessly lost. I can’t wait.

Istanbul: The spice must flow!

A picture of a turkey. Taken in Turkey. Get it?
We saw everything, and I mean everything. Including wild cats and dogs. Not something you expect to see in a modern city, but there you have it. The dogs roam in mangy packs, napping on curbs, startling unsuspecting tourists and scrounging through the piles of trash. The cats are always watching but not as visible, until you sit down to eat. Then they join your party of two to make an awkward threesome. Making their presence known, begging pitifully and insolently dodging the kicks of the hustling waiters.


I can haz Ottoman clay pot dinner now?


On the last day we didn't know what to do so we pulled up one of those ”Top 10” lists on the Internet. After checking out some amazing bikini models we finally got around to a list on Istanbul. Did most of those our first day. "Top 15". Done. (Ok, we skipped the museums but that’s because we’re uncouth, uncultured louts, and we didn’t do a Turkish Bath because we already had our showers for the month.) "Top 25"? Ah, there's one we haven't done. So off we went to a cemetary.

A revelation came to me during the trip. By no means original, but new for me. There is this idea that everyone seems to have when traveling. They have to get off the beaten track in order to have the “best” experience. Escape the crowds. Blend in with the locals. Avoid tourist traps. And that approach has value and can lead to extraordinary moments. Christopher Columbus' cruise comes to mind. But sometimes, once in a while, it's worth it to stay on the path. Think about it. There’s a reason there’s a path. Not always a good reason, but sometimes, once in a while. it's because where the path goes is really cool. Like the Galata Bridge. Gaudy. Lit-up. The trappiest of tourist traps. But imagine one of Portland’s bridges with a lower deck that is all restaurants and shops and pedestrian walkways. The traffic goes by overhead but underneath you walk just above the river or sit and have a beer in a bean bag chair and watch the river and the ferries and the people stroll by. Tourist Moment 101. But totally cool.



What else did we do? We visited the mosques, we climbed the Galata Tower, we skulked through the Grand Bizarre (den of iniquity, cheap souvenirs and unconvincing knock-offs) and the Spice Market (why do people who never drink apple tea or cook with saffron suddenly feel compelled to buy so much of it here?), ducked underground to explore the Basilica Cistern, and we took a six hour tour down the Bosphorus Strait. We left the pier in Europe in the morning...


Europe in the rear view mirror.

One of two Golden Gate-esque bridges connecting the two continents.
Had lunch in Asia in the afternoon...


The Black Sea in the distance.

Luncheon in Asia.

Asia in the rear view mirror.
...and were back in Europe for dinner. Kind of a neat trick of geography that.


Pulling back into Europe.

So much to see and experience.










Bewildering and beguiling city. It's incredible how much ground we covered.


That's a lot of ground covered.
Mostly we just did a lot of walking. And avoiding. After a while you develop this ability to see everything and nothing. It feels like a super-power but it’s not. It’s a survival-power. No matter where you go someone is trying to sell you something. Anything. Everything. It’s all for sale. And it's all negotiable. At some point you just want someone to tell you a price, pay it, and be done with it. It's two Turkish lira to one Euro so I'd get to the point where I was haggling over five lira and realize we were talking about two euro and just be done with it.

It all looks authentic and it's all a fake (one guy admitted the jeans were fakes, but they weren’t fakes made in China, they were fakes made right there in Turkey!). Whatever. You can't stop to look at anything or you get swarmed. They start them young with boys who look no older than 8 or 9 manning the stalls or walking the streets with product, already masters of the come-on lines in multiple languages and unafraid to hear a “no” and totally convincing. As the Italians say: "pesante" which doesn't mean peasant although there are a lot of poor people. It means heavy. As in tiring. Wearing down. Constant stimuli (stimuluses?)


In front of one of the many gates into the Grand Bizarre.

Spices, get your sitting out in the open day after day spices!

Note the sign in the bottom, center of the picture.
The food was interesting. Very heavily spiced, but with a spice market that big I guess it has to be. The bread was amazing. Flat bread but not really pita but also large loaf French style bread. Served with every meal. Bottled water came automatically with every meal (in a cool mesh basket like the tee-totalers version of chianti), but so did a charge for it. Fish featured prominently but coming from Ancona, I wasn’t that interested in eating more fish. Lots of lamb and chicken in dark, rich sauces. And of course, kebab. Everywhere, anywhere, at any time of day or night, kebab. Cheap, expensive, wrapped, between bread, terrible, delicious, spicy, plain, lamb, chicken kebab.

Our first meal there, Sean tried to order some humus and pronounced it in the American way, "hoomus" and the waiter said they didn't have any. They brought the English speaking waiter and Sean carefully repeated his request along with the requisite hand signals. (Who knew there were hand signals for humus? Apparently there are.) Moments later a plate of butter arrived. We tried again the next day and again they didn’t know what we were asking for. I saw it on the menu so I pointed at it and the waiter smiled and said "humus" with the guttural, throat clearing sound on the first syllable like I used to hear in Africa. Pronouncing it that way the rest of the trip, we were set. One meal we had the Ottoman clay pot stew where they cook everything in a sealed clay pot and then break it open at your table to serve it. Ours had lamb, mushrooms, eggplant, and onions in a gravy over rice.


Don't be fooled. That's not our meal. It's just a picture I took from the internet. But it's a lot better than the one I managed to take.


Our waiter breaking our pot. Who was it that said, "You have to break a few pots to make Ottoman clay pot stew?

After a year of Italian food though, it was all pretty rough on my stomach. All Italian all the time makes for a wussy digestive track.

One of the best parts of the trip was the exchange rate. It’s basically 2:1 with the Euro so the whole time I felt like I was getting a 50% discount on everything. Irrelevant that the starting price was often close to double what it would cost in Italy so the discount just got me back to equal cost; it still felt good and in many cases it made things feel downright inexpensive.

So I lost another camera in Istanbul. Can you believe it? I really have a problem holding onto them. My first camera was stolen in Courchevel and then I lose its replacement in Turkey. At least I'm in exciting places when it happens. I think it slipped out of my pocket while we were having dinner in a bar one night. At some point, I come back from the bathroom and realize my right pocket is empty. My camera pocket. We look all over around the table but come up empty. Go back to the hotel at the end of the night thinking maybe I didn't bring it (but I know I did, I always do) and search everything. Nothing. Zero. No luck. Sean says maybe someone found it at the bar and turned it in. I say maybe but I’m feeling surly and starting to sulk and I think, “We've been getting ripped off by everybody since we arrived so what are the odds that if it was found it was returned?” Oh well, might as well go ask. Walk back to the bar, angry at myself and ranting the whole way about how unfair life is and why does this have to happen to poor old me. Quite pitiful actually.

Get back to the bar. "Bartender," says I, "perchance was a camera turned in this evening?"

"Maybe. What kind?"

"Black Lumix. It will have pictures of the Bosphorus Strait on it."

Some digging around in a drawer behind the bar with a goofy grin on his face and I start to think, "No way! He's got my camera!" He pulls it out and asks if it's the one. Yeah it's the one. Yahoo! Big thanks and hearty handshakes all around. Grinning like an idiot. No tip. I am an idiot.


My Heroes!
So, funny detail. Early in the night, I noticed a waiter taking goofy pictures of the bartenders and thought, “That’s weird,” but maybe it's for their website or Facebook or something. Looking at my camera later, I see those pictures. The waiter picked it up and turned it into the bar and I saw it happen but I didn't make the connection at that point. Ok, maybe I was drunk. Not my fault. Efes Beer, Turkey’s beer, is wondrous. I think it’s the same stuff that got Noah in all that trouble all those years ago. Without overstating matters, it’s one of the easiest drinking beers I’ve ever had.

So I got the camera back. Istanbul. I saw Ya and I'll be back. Maybe. It's all negotiable.