Wiser Today than Yesterday

"No matter how one may think himself accomplished, when he sets out to learn a new language, science, or the bicycle, he has entered a new realm as truly as if he were a child newly born into the world."  ~Frances Willard, How I Learned to Ride the Bicycle

Wake up, take a shower, make coffee, get dressed, go to work, eat lunch, call the bank, call the school, stop at the grocery store, go home, cook dinner, go to bed.  Rinse and repeat. 

As natives in a modern country, we often move through our daily routines on autopilot.  We’re busy thinking about all those important things – how annoyed we are at the man who cut us off, what to wear to the dinner on Friday, who will be our new boss.  But the little things -- our daily survival routines – play on in the background without conscious thought.  Until we lose our words. 

In previous entries, I have shared some of the challenges of shopping in Spain with limited Spanish skills.  Although I am sure the battle is not over, today, I achieved several small victories in my quest to speak Spanish.

First, Yonella, the landlady’s housekeeper, appeared on the terrace. She thanked me for taking last week’s laundry downstairs for her, and I explained that it had gotten windy, and I did not want the family’s laundry floating down the street.  She smiled and we laughed at that image (She may have also been laughing at my gestures since I did not know how to say “floating”). I asked where the landlady has been, and she shared that Virginia has been in Germany visiting her fourteen year old son who goes to school there but that she was returning either today or tomorrow.  As she was leaving, I asked if I could borrow the vacuum cleaner when she was done with it, and she agreed that would be no problem.  Later in the morning, she brought it up stairs to me, and I asked her to show me where to return it.  She showed me the closet on the main floor of the villa.  I asked her for the word for the room (storeroom) where the cleaning supplies were kept.  She did not know the word either.  Yonella is Romanian;  Spanish is her second language, too.  But, since she speaks no English and I no Romanian, Spanish is our common ground – as are the challenges of living in a new culture.

Leaving the apartment later in the day, I stopped at the Estanco (tobacco store) to buy a bus pass for AJ.  I learned that the Estanco lady can renew bus passes but can’t issue the initial pass.  I asked the same question at the kiosk and learned that bus passes cannot be bought anywhere in our neighborhood and that I had to go to the Prado San Sebastian.  That didn’t sound too hard; I had seen it before, and I had a vague idea that it was near the cathedral.  (Of course, I never did find it.) 

On my search, however, I realized I was near Calle Franco where I had been told I could find knitting needles.  After several false turns, I asked at another kiosk and learned that it was the next street over.  Sure enough, tucked in between bars, shops, and apartments:  Calle Franco.  I need to work on my “a” sounds.  I definitely said “Ki-yay Frank-o”  like an American.  But, the woman understood me, and my Birkenstocks now trod the ancient bricks of Calle Frahnco.  

Cool spools, but no yarn

Amazingly, I found a shop with lots of spools of stuff – string, wire, thread, who knows what.  Like most Spanish shops, the good stuff is behind the counter.  Ha-ha to those who thought they could find what they needed and carry it mutely to the cash register.  Silly! This is Spain where one must be assisted by the shop keeper – always.  My fear of looking like a tourist left me several weeks ago, so I dug out my pocket dictionary and explained to the lady that I needed double pointed needles for knitting.  “Aguja de teger.  Doble punta.” Of course, I would have to use both "j" and "g" -- more sounds I struggle to make in Spanish.   Thinking of the many English phrases that don’t translate well (imagine shouting “Duck!” to a non-English speaker at a baseball game), I am always hesitant to string dictionary words together like this, but between my poor pronunciation and my theatrical gesturing, she seemed to get the idea.  Sadly, she didn’t carry the needles, but said I could get them at the “merceria” on the corner.  Ah!  Bells sounded in my head.  The first woman who suggested Calle Frahnco has said “merceria” too.  Dictionary says “merceria” is a haberdashery.  Lord. Wasn’t that definition helpful? 

Wouldn't I like to touch it???

Happy happy day, indeed, the merceria was on the corner. Although the word ”merceria” appeared nowhere, the yarn and fabric in the window promised I was in the right place. There, I found the needles I needed, and I oogled the yarn --mostly cotton, but some lovely colors, lots of lightweight cotton for baby things.  (Another entry coming soon for the Spaniards and their baby outfits!)  Of course, all the yarn beckoned from behind the counter, denying this tactile knitter the opportunity to touch, but my needles were right there on a rack within reach! And of course, I flubbed the system by taking the needles from the rack and walking directly to the “cajero” (cashier).  He gave me the “dumb American” look and called one of the clerks, to whom he handed the needles.  “Lo siento” I say (sorry), and he smiles, waves away the apology and gives me my favorite Spanish, “No importa.”  I pay, and the clerk brings me the needles in a bag, and hands the cajero a handwritten “ticket”.  Who knew?

OMG.  The Giralda!

Thrilled to have negotiated that simple transaction, I wander out of the merceria, birkies barely touching the ground.  I stopped once to realize that, right there, at the end of the street, stood the awesome Girlada.  This is an amazing city.  

My last stop was a cheese kiosk in the market.  I have yet to find Parmesan cheese.  I’ve found good substitutes (queso grana padano works well and grates nicely) but I keep thinking I should be able to find a lovely hunk of the real stuff.  So, I asked the cheese man, but his cheese only comes from Northern Spain.  He showed me that he had Manchego cheese (LOVE IT) in special wrapping so I could take it on the airplane.  (Oh dear.  I guess it’s obvious that I am not from Sevilla!)  I assured him that although I am American, I am living in Sevilla.  He thought that was cool.  I said my Spanish was not very good, and he said his English was worse!  We decided we could both learn if we talked to each other!  Maybe I will have an inter-cambio with the cheese man!  

This exciting morning took much longer to live than to read or write. But, I did it all in Spanish! I am left thinking that America must seem so socially "cold" to Spaniards. In America, I could have completed this entire expedition without saying a word.

Game Night

Men stand  two deep at the bar, two to four sit  at each  table along the opposite wall.  Most hold a beer or a class of wine.  Few speak or even look at the companeros at the bar, but the room tenses and sighs as one being. 

"Gol!" for the other side.  Sevilla Betis down 1-0.
 
I know men watch sports on TVs in bars all over America, but somehow, like most things in Sevilla, this is different.

 Maybe it's the clothes.  The most casually dressed is the goal keeper who stopped in after his own team event -- goalie gloves in hand and practice jersey still damp from the neighborhood rivalry, I suppose.  Even in the heat of the evening, several older men sit and stand in full Sevillian business attire -- dress pants, white shirt, suspenders, tie, and jacket.  A younger man perches on a bar stool in black suit, shiny black shoes, his not-quite-shoulder length hair slicked back in tendy waves.  Others sport the "Archie Bunker" look of dress pants and white shirt with loosened tie.  But man, . . . Archie never looked this good.  Something there is about the Sevillan man. 

Maybe it's the quiet.  No yelling and cursing jolts me from my observations  (of course, I am not sure I would recognize Sevillan cursing!);  in fact, as the game progresses, the fans in the bar make little comment.  A goal scored for either team elicits a certain excitement or disappointment, but this is hardly a raucous American sports bar.  This is a neighborhood spo where young people stroll in to check the score and parents bring their children for an evening "tapita."  And the TV's sound is turned down.  Color commentary certainly does exist on Spanish TV, but the bars tend to keep the sound down -- so conversations can continue during the game. 

Maybe it's the unhurried air.  Even as the game intensifies, no one rushes about. The waiters move calmly among the clientele, pouring more wine in response to a nod here or bringing another beer in response to a raised glass there.  The men occasionally acknowledge new comer who stroll in to check the score, a few nibble on montaditos (small sandwiches) or slices of aged cheese, chorizo, or salomillo.  But the game is the focus -- not the food, the company, or the drink.  The waiters seem to accept that these men are here for the duration.  And when the game ends, they will depart en masse.  In the meantime, the tables and the places at the bar are taken -- period.
 
I am not a bar-hopping sort, and I avoid public places during sporting events --the crowds, the noise, the drunken parties just don't do a thing for me. But we have come to look forward to game nights, and we delight in finding a local spot like this one where friendly, well-mannered Sevillianos share the highs and lows of futbol with their fellow aficionados.

Shopping in Sevilla

Yes, shopping does deserve its own entry – maybe more than one. 

 

No matter the country, I wake up every morning with the same query.  In America, I wonder what to cook for dinner. In Spain, almuerzo is the challenge.  Of course, yesterday’s lunch used up whatever meat the refrigerator held.  We haven’t a veggie in the house. But we have eggs and rice;  therefore,  el menú del día:  Fried Rice.  This brilliant decision reminds me for the 100^th time of the meaning of “staples” and of the wondrous treasure trove that is my Elgin kitchen, stocked with spices, sauces, pasta, and rice; my garden of fresh zucchini, basil, and tomatoes; and my refrigerator/freezer  ridiculously full of cheese, meat, and soup stock.  

On the other hand, just outside my door another treasure trove awaits – a culinary, linguistic, and shopping adventure unlike any I will experience in America.  So, list, shopping bag, and Euros in hand, I venture out with my sticky-note list – hago las compras!  

•  Soy sauce
•   Shower caddy
•   Carrots
•    Ham
•    Tin foil
•     Peas
•     Sewing needle
•     Blue and grey thread

Come on, how hard can that be? 

Fruteria Man

First stop is my favorite: the Fruteria.  The man who works there is starting to forgive me, I think, for touching the produce.  When we first arrived and I found this much-anticipated stall close to our apartment, I immediately acted like an American and picked up a peach – to check for freshness, to smell it, to determine its ripeness – right?  Imagine my surprise when the man behind the counter screeched – “No toca!”  (Don’t touch!).  Seriously?  Repentant, I entered the little store, where he abruptly demanded what I wanted.  Shaking in fear, I asked for three peaches.  Whether I wanted them or not – at that point, peaches I was going to get!  I quickly handed over my Euros and escaped with my little paper cone of peaches, but since that time, I have returned almost daily, and I think the harder I try to understand and function in Spanish, the more he forgives me my American ways.  

Today, I buy four carrots: and try to pay the  55 euro “cents” with 1, 70 Euros.  Bless his little heart, he says, “no,” and then types “,55” into the cash register.  I shuffle my coins – I still have to read each one to know its value – and hand him 70 cents.  He glowers and pushes back the three “pennies.”  Oops.  They are five cents each – not pennies!  Oy vay.  “Lo siento” I mumble, and then, the sun shines through as he asks me how we say it in English.  And I understand him.  And I respond.  And he says, “Bueno.  A luego!” 

 

Supermercado

Next:  In my neighborhood, I haven’t found a real “carneceria” – and when I do, I pray I will have more command of my Spanish as cuts of meat were not part of my Spanish 101 lessons!  So, for the “ham,” I cross the street to the supermercado. Now don’t get your American hearts jumping –  “super” is relative. Our “Super Sol” reminds me of an IGA in Thompson Falls, Montana.  I can probably find ham, tin foil, and peas there.  But soy sauce is doubtful.  Finding ham earns no bonus points in Spain, but deciding among the many Spanish versions of “jamón” requires some guessing.    The peas present a new challenge.  Frozen peas I find – but will they really stay frozen in my dorm-sized fridge?  Not wanting to risk it, I gamble on a tiny can ( the size of a tomato paste can).  I nostalgically remember canned peas from my childhood and hope AJ won’t notice much difference.  The cash register at the supermercado is easy – 3,25.  Now that I know the little ones are 5 cents, I get 100% on that test!   

Soy sauce and shower caddy send me to the “Bazaar Ting Ting” I love this place:  think dollar store. The owners are Asian and seem to understand that I don’t understand.  We don’t speak the same language, but we share the extranjero experience.    A cute orange basket with a hook suffices for the shower caddy, and needles and thread hide near the gift wrap.  But soy sauce eludes me.  Now, I must talk.  Oy.  A big breath. I can do this.  I ask the nice girl for . . . dear lord in heaven . . . another word not covered in Spanish 101.  Soy sauce?????  “Salsa de soy?  Por favor?”  

Bingo! I get a big smile and “Aqui!” as she leads me toward the back of the store.  She rattles off a question to which I promptly answer, “No sé,” hoping she can show me what I don’t gather from her words.  Indeed she can.  She points at one ceramic cruet and one of glass.  No no no.  “I need the sauce,”  I carefully explain with gestures evoking Annie Sullivan and Helen Keller.  By this point, I seem to have lost all ability to speak in Spanish, but my helper has no such difficulty.  I finally try “sauce for fried rice” which seems to get some reaction.  She leads me back to the front of the store and pulls aside a customer to whom she rattles off my request. They consult and smilingly advise me “super Mercado.”

 “ No no no.  No hay en el supermercado!”  

 Having searched that store top to bottom, I know there’s no soy sauce there. I try to remember the word for Chinese, and fail.  But finally, I say something that rings true for the two ladies, and they laugh and shake their heads. I don’t know what I asked for, but apparently it wasn’t soy sauce!  The customer, a well-dressed Sevillian señora, walks me out the front door – I am still holding my unpurchased shower caddy and thread – as she rattles off directions.  Pointing and smiling, she tells me, I think, that there’s another store further down, past the next cross street, that sells soy sauce. Bueno. 

Bazaar with Soy Sauce

I pay and the young clerk and I share a moment – he knows that learning Spanish takes time. They have been here only six years.  I share that I am slow, but I have only been here two weeks.  Walking happily on that common ground, I head down the street and do, in fact, find the little store and the soy sauce. It’s another Bazaar, but this one has more food than the other. 

 

At last, my list accomplished, I head for home feeling just a little bit proud that I passed those trials.  Oops. Forgot the tin foil.  Oh well, tomorrow is another day, another meal, and a new set of shopping challenges!

Waking up in Sevilla

Terraza from bedroom window

She wakes to dusky dawn and moonlight barely tinting the windows to the terraza at 6:30 am.  Walking across the still-warm tile floors, she opens doors and windows to the coolness of the morning, letting in the distinctively Sevillian perfume – strong florals (honeysuckle?) generously mixed with city – exhaust, dust, and grilled onions.  From the 3^rd floor terraza, she looks down on the quiet barrio; the street lamps still glow brightly, and windows in neighboring apartments and villas remain dark and shuttered allowing their residents the requisite four hours of nightly rest.  A lone man strolls calmly down the center of the street dressed in pressed chinos and a white polo.  Dogs bark behind the walls of their patios. 

Kitchen

From the tiny kitchen, she hears the boy’s alarm ring and steps in to turn on his light.  “Good morning, chico,” she calls to the almost man-sized form sprawled on the single bed.  She grimaces at the boy-paraphernalia spread across the room – backpack, Euros, soccer ball, shoes, socks, earbuds. How quickly a temporary residence becomes a hovel for a teenage boy.  Filling the bottom of the Moka pot with water, she eyes last night’s sink full of dishes and wonders when (or if) the man-child will realize the cost of procrastination.  She hears distinctive “chip, chip, chip” from the adjoining room.  

 “Off the computer, AJ,” she calls.  “Shower.”  She lights the stove burner and places the Moka pot to do its magic.  

“Oh, yeah,” mumbles that scratchy, still-changing voice.  A fully- clothed teen emerges from the bedroom and stumbles to the shower.  Her eye rolling in the kitchen parallels his from the bathroom – “shower” and “necessary” being operative terms in both heads – one in the negative, one positive.  

Opening the tiny refrigerator under her kitchen sink, she removes the aseptic milk carton and pours a generous serving into her cup.   She frees the outlet of the computer to make room for the microwave and warms the milk.  The Moka pot burbles its most welcome “coffee is done” song just as the boy emerges from the bathroom.  From the kitchen window, she hears the sounds of Sevilla coming to life.  The mourning doves and people have begun their morning – cars, motorcycles, and scooters rumble past on neighboring streets, more work-ready Sevillians walk along the sidewalks.  Dogs escape their patios to walk beside humans who carry but don’t attach leases.  Dogs happily “hacen caca” (poop) in the tree banks.

Sevilla from the terraza

By 8:00, the city is fully and noisily awake, and the boy is off to school – quick breakfast of yogurt and peaches devoured through the sleepy fog of morning.  She spends a few quiet minutes on the terrace, reading the news online, drinking her strong coffee, and checking lesson plans.  She makes lunch – a Spanish tortilla with potatoes for today – and leaves the microwave- ready meal in the refrigerator.  After a quick shower (Water on for wetting, then off.  Soap overall.  Water on for rinsing.  Shower done!), she dresses in the lightest skirt and blouse she can find, walks through the tiny apartment pulling curtains and siesta shades against the heat of the day.  With the apartment cool and dark, she heads down the three flights of stairs and walks the short route to her office around the corner.

A New Home

Sunday, September 11, 2011

From my rooftop terrace (!) these past two mornings,  I have watched the sky turn from a dusty grey to pink, to an "oh thank God" cloud-mottled blue.  Morning doves coo and fly from roof top to roof top, and smaller birds call from trees.  A tiny red-breasted wren lands on the potted lime tree (!) next to my chair, then flits away -- startled to find someone invading his morning, I am sure.  At 7:30 am on Saturday, the Sevillan streets were quiet, but by 8:30, the first madres and abuelas rattled along with their rolling shopping bags. By 10:30, the streets were alive with the sounds of footsteps on the cobblestone street, car doors slamming as people headed out for the day or the weekend, and voices carrying across the terraces. Sunday seems to be a quieter day.  By 8:50, I sill had not seen any human activity.  On both mornings, and well into the afternoon, the air remained fairly cool.  I opened all the windows as soon as I woke up, and I reveled in my privacy after three days as a guest in a stranger's home. 

Our apartment is tiny -- my bedroom doubles as the living area, and our kitchen will struggle to fit the two of us, but windows let in light and air at every turn, the furnishings are simple and clean, and we are beginning to feel at home.  Even the Sevillans have been grateful for air conditioning this past week, and AJ and I felt so blessed to turn on the air and sleep in comfort for the first night since our flight landed.  To make up for the spartan space inside, we have a roof top terrace of prodigious proportions.  Wooden beams and some sort of netting shade one large area so we can escape the sun, and another area, just as large, is open to the sun and gives us a lovely view of the street and our surroundings.  Tiny steep stairs can take us to a less finished roof top area with an even better view of the Porvenir area.   Looking across the buildings, I can see the tall trees of Parque de Maria Luisa and can look across to the pristine terraces of the villas down the street.

We went  grocery shopping for the first time Friday night-- interesting to discover how little one can buy when one is both shopper and transporter!  We purchased a shopping bag at the Bazaar Ting-Ting, and that, in addition to our two backpacks, provided us with sufficient space for bread, lettuce, carrots, yogurt, juice, some dried beans, salad dressing, a microwave pizza, and a bottle of wine.  As an aficionado of fresh, homemade food, I generally shudder at frozen pizza in any form -- a microwave pizza adds insult to injury.  However, in the gathering dusk of our terrace,  that soggy and undercooked pizza on melmac plates accompanied by a glass of wine and my 13 year old world traveler left me with more memories than any four star cuisine.  

After dinner, we took our paseo to Maria Luis Park to see the Plaza de Espana lit for the evening. The clatter of horse-drawn carriages, the murmured conversations of couples walking hand in hand, and the sparkling reflection of tiled bridges in the ponds created a magical bubble -- a soothing counterpoint to the riotous sights and sounds of teenage revelry outside the park's gates.  Apparently,  the great Sevillan teenage meet-and-greet happens at the Plaza de Espana. The park is closed to automobiles in the evening, but cars and kids gathered at the gates.  A group of boys carried trumpets from which they brought forth tones to make a band director shudder. Many also carried bottles of wine and other harder liquors some covered with plastic shopping bags, but some open to view.  We have often heard that, for European kids, alcohol holds less mystery and therefore less danger.  What we saw last night bears witness for me that adolescent hormones and inhibition-decreasing substances create a volatile and unpleasant cocktail, regardless of the culture. 

Was the evening ruined and did we leave the park never to return?  Certainly not.  The walk in the park has become a nightly routine for us, and every night we walk past the teens and their partying with little comment.  We have been fortunate to receive directions and assistance from many very wonderful Sevillans who have been kindness itself.  I am sure, for every over-indulging teenager in the park, another non-inebriated teen leads a perfectly healthy lifestyle.  The partying teens and cockroaches serve as healthy reminders that this is not paradise, just Spain -- another modern country full of regular people -- good, bad, and in between. 

Casualidad vs. Causalidad

9/6/2011   

Calle Colombia 8, Edificio 3, Derecha 1

8:20 PM

Casualidad -- things that happen casually or by accident

Causalidad – things that happen by cause or for a reason.

Following our ignominious retreat from La Casa de las Cucarachas (LCdlC), the landlord was unable to attend to the many-legged invaders, and the college has found us an alternative residence.   We have been granted temporary asylum with one of the “Home-Stay” families.  Although Clara (our home-stay mom) usually houses two students from the International College, she is not doing so this semester, and, since our stay will only be three days, she has welcomed us into her home until our new apartment can be made ready. 

We’re in El Porvenir, another charming barrio of Seville. Both the college where I will teach and the apartment we will soon move to are in this neighborhood.   We were sorry to leave the Alameda de Hercules, and I am sure we will revisit that area for all its charm, but our retreat has given us new opportunities to grow and experience this culture.

Alison's Room at Clara's

During our first 24 hours in Spain, we found that if we could not say what we needed to say in Spanish, someone was around whose English provided sufficient rope to save us from drowning in our ignorance.  For the next three days, it’s a sink or swim world.  Clara is a grandmother.  And she speaks no English.  Nada.  She speaks Spanish.  Fast.  And if we don’t understand her, she talks louder.  Period.  About half of what she says, I can “get the gist,” and the other half, we guess.  When we guess wrong, we look like complete idiots, but sometimes, we guess correctly. 

AJ's room at Clara's

Clara Ready for Dancing

Sometimes, I just smile and nod, and say,”Si, si, si. Claro. ”   I mean, really, bless her heart.  She has given us a place to stay, and she will cook our meals for the next three days; she’s not going to tell us to do anything important.  Right?  What can she be saying?  “Take out the trash.” . . .  “Don’t leave the lights on.” . . . “Pick up your socks”?  I have been saying those things to my kids for years . They clearly haven’t understood a word I said, and the polar ice caps aren’t melting or anything are they? 

Oh?   . . .  Really? 

Well, as AJ says, “Whatever.”

The Longest Day: Part 2

11:30 PM, Santa Ana Hotel, Sevilla

Indeed.  Hotel.  The Road of Trials involves many interesting twists and turns.

AJ and I arrived in Seville according to schedule, but our luggage was not so lucky. Not a crisis.  After a tour of the apartment and a stroll through the barrio, by 8:30 pm, AJ and I surveyed our barrio from the vantage point of a sidewalk table at a local tapas cafe and bar. Feeling a bit travel worn and surely smelling less fresh than we had 40 hours previous (when we had last gotten out of bed!), we both still felt pretty thrilled with our situation.  A half moon threw warm light on the Alameda De Hercules, and Sevillans roamed the streets, chatted at the tables around us, and generally filled the Monday night air with a sense of late summer holiday.  A big screen TV -- outside -- played the Brazil-Ghana soccer match.  Sorry, Dr. Sam, the Brazilians won. 

Tapas Bar outside La Casa de las Cucarachas

Surfeited with una media de queso Manchego and Iberian Ham (given lack of sleep, I skipped cerveza or vino), we returned to our apartment at 10:30 to find we had roommates.

Several.
Three to four inches long.
Brown.
FAST.
Las cucarachas.
Say it slowly in Enlish. Cockroaches.
 
One -- right there, running across the bathroom floor.  Eek.  Another one, running across AJ's bedroom.  Too fast to stomp.  Ooops.  One ran under Alison's bed. CRAP.

Picture one thirteen year old and one . . . . significantly older . . .  mother standing in the middle of the living room -- screaming. Turning on all the lights.  Stomping on throw rugs, scanning the walls and floors.  Wishing for an uzi -- or one of those cool flame throwers.

DAMN -- another one by the terrace door.  Picture one thirteen year old trying to be the man, fighting back terror, disgust, jet lag -- and losing.   There are times when a mom just has to be a mom.  Take charge.  Hold the nightmares at bay . . .I looked in the kitchen cupboards for a solution. (????).  I spun around in circles.  I looked down the dark stairs to the gated entry below us -- (??).  Did some more circles.

 I take pride in the fact that I did not actually scream.
 
Not very loudly, anyway.

After the 10th crunchy, brown thing skittered past us -- one falling from AJ's backpack when he shook it  (how many times have we told them not to leave things on the floor?) --I made the executive decision.  We grabbed our bags -- that is, AJ's backpack and my purse -- and headed for the nearest hotel.  Imagine the registration clerk's surprise and confusion when I asked her for a room sin las cucarachas.  She let us inspect the room before we took it.  Two twin beds pused together in the middle of a small room.  No windows.  89 Euros.  Clean.  Nothing moving. Priceless. 
She needed my passport.  The one I left in my room with my computer bag and carry-on.  A quick glance at AJ told me he was NOT going back to that room before the exterminators had cleared it.  So, leaving him at the hotel, I walked back. Opened the outside door to the building, then the inner gate, then the apartment door (three flights up).  Tiptoed through the apartment.  Grabbed my bags (shook them carefully), searched the apartment for the second set of keys.  Grabbed AJ's ipod and headphones off the bed, bit my lip and held back the screams.  Locked all the apartment doors and windows.  Hurried back down the stairs and out the gate and gratefully out the front door.  Ugh. 

AJ fell asleep at about 11:30.  I showered, typed an email to the woman in charge of housing, and went to sleep. 

Okay.  I typed an email and lay in the dark while visions of bugs danced in my head.  I thought about the luggage that had not yet been delivered and the cockroaches that are thankfully not in our clothes.  Wished for a beer.  Turned off the lights.  Worried.  Wished for a beer.  Turned on the lights.  Worried.  Read the map of Sevilla.  Wished for a beer.  Finally fell asleep with the lights on. 

Tomorrow is another day.

The Longest Day: Part 1

AJ:  Ready for Departure!

3:00 Sunday 9/4/11.  Chicago O'Hare International Airport

As the clock ticked past 11:30 last night, my eyes grew heavy, and I turned off my beside light -- only to jolt into sleep-chasing panic by the bright dawning of awareness -- "YIKES!  My last night in my own bed .  . . my last night in Elgin. . .  how will I find my Sevilla bed?  Will I be able to sleep? Will the pillows be too hard, the sheets too rough, the Spanish nightlife too loud? . . . " Oy vay, the trivial concerns that assayed the walls of my sleep.

 But, as I have found throughout these pre-journey months, mid-life may interupt my sleep, but journey-related worries fail vanguish my general well being.  Despite the challenges we have faced (and ignoring previously documented moments of complete hysteria),  I have been blessed with a sense that "It will be fine," and now,  standing on the brink of the unknown, I find that I am more excited than nervous, more confident than afraid.  I remain convinced that the challenges we have faced  and will face are all part of the journey -- and all part of something AJ and I are  supposed to do.  That is not to say AJ's emotional state has followed the same route.  Over the past year of planning, while I fretted through endless VISA details, crammed Spanish vocabulary, and crunched the budget numbers, my confident teen has shrugged in ignorant bliss -- until Saturday afternoon. Suddenly, reality hit him like a penalty kick to the solar plexus.  His excited cry that "We're going to SPAIN," took on  desperate tone, his grip on my shoulders a painful intensity.  Egad.  My  unflappable little one was nervous!  Deep and intentional breathing has gotten us through life-altering challenges in the past seven years;  it has served us equally well in the past 24 hours. 

At 3:00 this afternoon, we sit at O'Hare airport, our selves and our carry-ons safely passed through security, our "equipaje" safely checked, and  "no tenemos ni problemas."  AJ's panic has subsided (aided by strange games he plays on his i-pod), and the predictable routine of the airport gates lulls us into lemming-like docility. 

9:00 am, Monday, 05/09/11 Madrid International Airport

What a strange feeling to open this document to see "at 3:00 this afternoon."  Seems like days have passed since we sat at O'Hare. Through a comfortable but interminable international flight, neither of us could sleep, but now, it's 9:00 in the morning in Madrid, and we have just had our lovely pastries -- apple for AJ and butter croissant for me-- and our refrescos.  Let's just say that Coca-Cola in Spain is not the same as Coca-Cola in America.  In fact, Diet Coke is "Coke Light" here!  And it tastes funny.
I am truly at an interesting threshold -- I thrill to hear Spanish spoken next to me and perk up to see if I can understand.  I am slow to realize that everyone is speaking Spanish. AJ and I were excited that we understood most of the instructions on the plane even before the English repetition.  We're still thinking in English of course, and yet, as I type,  I often have to stop myself midway into a Spanish word.  Our spoken language is already similarly peppered with Spanish-- Language is contagious!  On the other hand, because I don't speak the language fluently, I find that I can "tune out" much more easily.  An unusual opportunity to hear my own thoughts may be one benefit of my modest language skill! 

As I observe the comings and goings, waiting for our next flight, the European men deserve a word or two.  If men in America dressed like European men, one gender would call most of them "gay" and the other would call most of them" hot".  Holy Moly. Lovely suits -- flashy ties, shiny black shoes even  with jeans, long hair on some, edgy short hair on others. Mmm-hmm.   The poorly dressed men -- with elastic waisted pants and striped polo shirts? I kid you not -- they all speak American English!

Sigh.