Returning to Spain–4 years later

It’s not often in life you get to go backwards and relive a certain moment in time. Usually when you are done with one phase, like living in a certain apartment or house, you are done and move on and never return. This week marks a special week for our family because we do get to relive (at least partially) an experience we had four years ago. Today we returned to the house in Madrid where we did a house exchange with another family. They have moved out of their house for a week so we can stay in it. We’ll do the same for them when they come to California later this summer. Needless to say, being back in the same place four years later is a bit surreal.

We knew we were really heading back to Spain before we even arrived. The Iberian ticket counter at LAX had about 10 people staffing it but only one actually checking in passengers. Typical Spanish efficiency. After a lengthy wait, we were off to our 9-hour flight. The flight was uneventful except that when we arrived we discovered one of our bags hadn’t made it. More efficiency at work! We happened to run into another Berkeley family we know on the flight and they also lost luggage. We’ll be lucky to get it tomorrow between siesta time and closing time.

On the plus side, the Spanish are extremely hospitable and just like before, our exchange family graciously picked us up from the airport in their large SUV. Driving from Barajas Airport to the house, on the other side of the city, we saw things looked very much the same. We circled the M-40 highway and saw the dry brown fields, like California, on one side, and the industrial buildings lining the edge of the city on the other. We passed Playa de Madrid, a large public swimming pool where we spent some time four years ago to get relief from the intense summer heat. We also noted that the city had finally finished a public park in front of our old building and had somehow managed to evict the squatters who had erected temporary houses there. The neighborhood is a nice middle-class area on the city Metro line with lots of parks, restaurants and stores so the squatters definitely did not fit in. What is still around is the graffiti, lots of it. But this seems to be standard in large European cities. 

Back in our old building our exchange family gave us a quick tour and explanation of the myriad keys, applicances and car. When we arrived four years ago we were completely overwhelmed by the systems of the house. At the time the family had just completed a remodel of their apartment and every appliance was a sleek European high-tech model with many buttons (such as a touchscreen-controlled stove), plus there was a security system (which we don’t have), a system for entering and exiting the garage (we just park in our driveway), and a radiant heating/cooling system controlled via a touchpad (we don’t even have an air conditioner in California). We spent about 45 minutes learning the ins and outs of the house. This time the lessons were quicker and hopefully everything will come back. I successfully turned on the stovetop the first time today whereas last time I had to practice for about a week! Last time we also learned that Spanish construction isn’t that great. Just in the first few months of our stay the heater went out, the upstairs shower leaked and some tiles cracked. By the end of our year we just laughed when something went wrong. It seemed apropos today when an overhead pipe in the garage suddenly started spurting water right over their car. Who knows what kind of water was in that pipe. In any case, our exchange family said “no pasa nada,” they know the building superintendent personally so it will get fixed. 

The most important item we were looking for on our arrival was the jamon serrano. Many Spanish families buy a whole leg of jamon and slowly carve off thin pieces nightly for small tapas. We went through two whole legs while we were here for the year and it’s a delicacy that is only available in the U.S. for a very steep price ($1,000 or more), so we were eager for our fix. Fortunately our exchange family anticipated our desires and had a jamon leg waiting for us!

After getting settled in at the apartment, the exchange family left to go to their family’s apartment and although it was only 6:30 our boys promptly fell asleep. It had been a long day with little sleep. Peter and I decided to venture out and take a stroll around the neighbhorhood. Much to our surprise given the economic crisis here, we spotted three new stores, a gorgeous meat market (lined with jamon legs), a fresh fish market, and a stationary store. Sadly, one favorite restaurant had closed. Lots of Spanish families were strolling around and many were enjoying cañas (beers) and tapas at sidewalk cafes. This is one of my favorite parts of Madrid–the street life. My hypothesis is that people socialize more in bars and cafes because they live in small apartments and want to get out. Or perhaps it’s because the weather is warm, even at night (so unlike Berkeley). Whatever the case, there’s always a lively street scene in the evenings, with all ages, from toddlers to teens to grandparents enjoying life together. Peter and I enjoyed some of our favorites tapas, patatas bravas (fried potatoes with a tomato sauce) and croquetas (little fried footballs filled with cheese) as we watched a toddler learning to walk and a variety of dogs come and go. 

As the day ends, I listen to the quiet hum of the apartment building–the sound of the elevator going up and down, a TV in a distant apartment, and the neighbor’s cuckoo clock. Although it’s after 12 there is much life still going on here. We are really back in España!

A home of one’s own

Two years ago I embarked on a year-long house exchange with a total stranger halfway around the world—well, almost a total stranger. We met online through a house exchange web site in December of 2009, set up a Skype call to talk live the next week, and then I flew out to Madrid in March 2010 for a few days to see the apartment. The apartment was impressive. It had been recently renovated and was updated with the latest in European style…all sleek surfaces, lots of glass, stainless steel appliances and modern paint treatments on the walls. On top of that the second floor had a wrap-around patio with a view of downtown Madrid. It seemed like a good trade for our traditional Berkeley bungalow.

Living in someone else’s house took some time to get used to. The first week I felt like I was a guest intruding on someone’s private space….sleeping in their bed, using their fancy bathroom, and attempting to cook with their ultramodern European appliances–with little success. By the second week, though, I had settled in quite well and very soon became comfortable with the surroundings. I worked up the nerve to examine the book collection, pulling out a few to read, the CD collection and take a peek at the liquor cabinet. I noticed a stack of family photos on an upstairs shelf but I never cracked those open the whole year. That felt too intrusive. They (and we) had put away our personal photos along with our clothes and a few other valuables.

After my initial settling in, the smallest of things became my focus, much to my surprise. It wasn’t the style of the house, so different from mine, that drew my attention—in fact that was a thrill. It was that fact that there were no wastebaskets in any of the bathrooms. How do you live with that? They did have a maid that came every day, but still, where do you put garbage for even a few hours. And in the kids’ bedrooms there were no bedside reading lights. This was a necessity. Granted, their kids were younger than ours, but our kids have the habit of reading before going to sleep. Their whole nighttime ritual would be thrown off. Other small things bothered me. Where were the small knickknacks that one buys on vacation and places on a kitchen window sill? I knew they hadn’t put these away in storage because I hadn’t seen them when I visited the first time. And the kitchen was sorely lacking in many ways. Despite the high-tech touchscreen stove that beeped and lit up (and which took us no less than two weeks to understand), there was no measuring cup or measuring spoons. How can you cook without these things? I later learned that for one thing, Spainards don’t bake at home and for another thing they cook much more by feel. So I guess that explained that.

Needless to say, I became very familiar with the local ferreteria (hardware store) across the street. I bought tiny trash cans for the bathrooms, bedside reading lamps for the kids, measuring spoons and cups and a few other kitchen necessities. Unfortunately the ferreterria was always closed for the siesta so I became quite adept at visiting the store before 1 and after 4.

Knicknacks were a problem easily solved. Since we traveled much during the year, we amassed a large collection of small souvenirs and placed them on bookshelves and windowsills. I especially liked a particular long postcard of a medieval townscape and strung that along the living room shelf. Above all, those things, which cost next to nothing, made me feel at home.

My biggest addition to the house during the year was a Picasso poster I bought in Barcelona. It is a painting of a window looking out at the sea. I put that poster up in the stylish kitchen nook and it comforted me. You see, Madrid is landlocked. We had a wonderful view from the apartment of the downtown area, including the Royal Palace. But there was no sea, the only water in the city a pathetic little river that trickles around the old town. I missed the sea, the large expanse of water, the wind and the fog. I’ve only lived in three places other than Madrid in my life and they all were next to water. Some days walking around Madrid I felt like I was trapped in a gargantuan metropolis dry and cracking from lack of water. So my Picasso picture comforted me. I could look at it every time I ate my American cereal for breakfast or tried some new Spanish confection in my superfashionable kitchen.

At the end of the year it was time to pack up all our belongings we had accumulated. Ridiculously, I packed every trinket, every brochure from every excursion and even the small plastic toys the children had purchased. I knew I would throw much of it away but it seemed like a big part of me by then. The house looked sterile again once our bags were packed. I did leave the trash cans and reading lights of course. I wonder if they kept those things. As far as the measuring spoons I gave those plus my collection of Betty Crocker baking mixes to a friend who likes American baking.

When I arrived back at my Berkeley house I was initially surprised to see how cluttered it looked. I wondered how our house exchange family had lived with my knickknacks. I actually disliked the look of it and wondered if I should streamline things. I went to an open house one Sunday not long after returning and feel in love with the house– a brand new modern place free of clutter and with sleek, modern countertops and furniture. For a time I thought maybe I should change my style. Maybe I had grown to like the pared-down style afterall. I made a few changes to my own house. I rummaged around and threw a lot away, especially the junkier souvenirs from the trip. My family is still a little upset about some of the stuff I got rid of.

Now, another year later, my house looks pretty much the same as when I left for Spain. I have my knickknacks and I’ve even added more stuff, like an old pew I found at a rummage sale. I like to sit in the pew and watch neighbors walking by. I can’t see the sea from my house but I feel the fog rolling in and I know that I’m home.

 

 

 

The quality of light, healing and experiments with watermelons

Coming in from the bright October sun, the room seemed a bit dark but cozy. Just one window let light into the triangular space. I was surprised when I sat down and the priest sat across from me without turning on a light. Tell me your story, he said. For the next hour I recounted my life story, my faith journey and especially the story of my last year, my life in Spain and my mysterious illness. He listened with the kind eyes of someone who has heard many stories and absorbed much joy and pain. The dimness of the room somehow made the space more intimate, more sacred. I realized the dimness was intentional.

At the end of my account, Father Al suggested I read a book about healing. He told me the story of a faith healer he had once heard speak and who had written a book. It’s all about the light, he said.

We left the dark room and I followed him down to the foyer of the church and waited a minute. He returned with the book and with a rosary for me to borrow. It was made of thin strands of colorful rope, braided together by hand. It looked Latin American, maybe from Guatemala, a country I’ve been to twice.

I appreciated Father Al’s time and his gift for listening. At the same time I felt tired. It had been six months since I first started experiencing strange symptoms and I have had to tell my story to countless doctors. Some are empathetic and some are not. But six months with no clear answers and hard work of following a strict diet and undergoing tests has been frustrating and difficult. At least with Father Al I could experience the understanding of someone who believes in the same God.

I left the church and drove to Kaiser to pick up some medicine. Unfortunately, when I arrived I discovered there had been a mixup of some sort and the medicine wouldn’t be ready until Monday. These mixups or delays have happened many times with all sorts of things. I had to make four trips to the DMV to replace my driver’s license that was stolen in Madrid last year. Each time something went slightly wrong.

In any case, I knew the trip to Kaiser was still important for another reason. I had planned to stop and buy watermelons from a truck that is always parked near the hospital. I had stopped once before and met a friendly man who spoke Spanish. This time, though, I was buying 12 watermelons for my son’s birthday party and he was especially friendly. (I decided not to tell him that we were only planning to launch the watermelons off our deck for fun, not eat them.) As he lugged the 12 melons to my car, I found out he was from Guatemala and that he occasionally went to church. I told him I went to church. He looked at me, maybe at the strange rosary, and said, Cristiana? I said yes. In Guatemala there is a wide gulf between Protestants (Cristianas) and Catholics. Cristiana meant he was not Catholic. I told him my church would be a good place to learn English. He smiled. I added that there were young people there his age, maybe a girl. He smiled even more. I had made a friend.

I haven’t been back to see my friend with the watermelons, but I’d love to tell him they were a hit. Five 10- and 11-year-old boys launching watermelons off a deck is not a sight many people get to see. By the end of it my son and one other boy were slip-slidding on the plastic mat we had placed on the lawn to catch the rinds of the broken melons and melon juice. Finally they sat amidst all the chunks and began eating pieces. The effect looked like a living Jackson Pollack painting, gleaming in the afternoon sun. We had to wash their clothes. Everything smelled like watermelons.

I have seen Father Al once a week since our first meeting. He remains a gentle, guiding presence in the RCIA group I am part of. At some point I became aware that Father Al must be approaching 90. Somehow, with his sharp mind and keen interest in life I had thought he was younger. But when he mentioned fighting in World War II it occurred to me that he was older. Recently he told me he was afraid of earthquakes. Most people I know aren’t especially afraid of earthquakes. He says he’s not afraid of the quake but of the aftermath. He remembers the chaos of war and is afraid of the chaos that would follow an earthquake. Even he has fears, I thought. To be alive is to have a fear of some kind.

Father Al asks about my health and I can now tell him that mostly the mystery has been solved; at least I have ruled out the scarier possibilities and it seems to be simply a condition I’ve had to some extent all my life but got exacerbated by living abroad for a year. I continue my diet, my supplements, try to drink lots of water, avoid stress. Some days there are flare-ups of inflammation or fatigue and there is still an unknown edge. There is fear but I also remember Father Al’s words about the light: It’s all about the light. Now, more than ever, I want to remember those words.

In these darker, colder days of winter looking for light is imperative, an intentional act. And fortunately, light is not too hard to find. Christmas is just around the corner and holiday lights are starting to appear. I was in Chicago last week and was amazed to see some workers out late at night, in the biting cold, stringing lights up over Rush Street with long poles. It wasn’t even Thanksgiving! I’d rather see the sunlight, but these artificial lights can point us to hope. I’m glad that someone long ago decided to celebrate Jesus’ birthday in December, even though he was probably born in the spring. We all need more light, hope and love at this time of year.

 

 

 

 

 

Bienvenidos a mi blog! (for English version see next post)

Hola a todos. Estoy entrando en el mundo salvaje de los blogs! Voy a publicarlos de vez en cuando y espero que disfrutéis mis pensamientos y descubrimientos. Para inaugurar este espacio, me gustaría publicar este haiku hermoso de comenzar de nuevo:

ganjitsu ya
harete suzume no
monogatari

Día de Año Nuevo-
las nubes se han ido y los gorriones
están diciendo a cada uno de otros cuentos.

-Ransetsu (1653-1708)

A veces en la vida experimentamos coincidencias hermosas y uno de ellos es que mi buen amigo Leslie Wingender también puso en marcha un blog hace unos días! Leslie, muchas bendiciones mientras llenas su “casa rosa”: http://apinkhouse.com/. Me di cuenta que no tengo un nombre para mi blog aún: Si alguien tiene una sugerencia, estoy abierta!

También, muchas gracias a dos blogs fascinantes que he disfrutado recientemente y me han inspirado para dar el salto. Son http://www.kevindhendricks.com/ y http://ahuskofmeaning.com/. Ambos son lugares increíbles llenos de comentarios hermosos de todo, desde la espiritualidad del arte a la política.

Si alguien está leyendo esto hoy, domingo, 17 de julio 2011, tenga un maravilloso día de reposo! Estamos en lo que la iglesia dice que es “Tiempo Ordinario”, o tempus por año (el tiempo durante todo el año), el tiempo que queda fuera de los días santos de alta como Cuaresma, Pascua, Adviento y Navidad. Sin embargo, Tiempo Ordinario no es menos importante. Una persona escribe que el día del Tiempo Ordinario, especialmente los domingos, “están dedicados al misterio de Cristo en todos sus aspectos.” El color oficial del Tiempo Ordinario es el verde.

virtual fountain

Welcome to my blog

Hi everyone. I am entering the wild and wooly world of blogging! I will post occasional entries and hope you enjoy my random thoughts and discoveries. To inaugurate this space, I’d like to post this beautiful haiku about starting anew:

ganjitsu ya
harete suzume no
monogatari

New Year’s Day–
the clouds are gone and the sparrows
are telling each other tales.

–Ransetsu (1653-1708)

Sometimes in life we experience beautiful coincidences and one of those is that my good friend Leslie Wingender also started a blog a few days ago! Leslie, many blessings as you fill your “pink house”: http://apinkhouse.com/. I realized I don’t have a name for my blog yet: If anyone has a suggestion, I’m open!

Also, many thanks to two fascinating blogs that I’ve enjoyed recently and have inspired me to make the leap. They are http://www.kevindhendricks.com/ and http://ahuskofmeaning.com/. Both are incredible sites full of beautiful and insightful comments about everything from spirituality to art to politics.

If anyone is reading this today, Sunday, July 17, 2011, have a wonderful Sabbath! We are in what the church says is “Ordinary Time,” or Tempus Per Annum (time throughout the year), that time that falls outside of the high holy days such as Lent, Easter, Advent and Christmas. But Ordinary Time is not any less important. One person writes that the days of Ordinary Time, especially the Sundays, “are devoted to the mystery of Christ in all its aspects.” The official color for Ordinary Time is green.