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.