No, not tan cat, tancat!  I’ve not learned much yet in my Catalan class, but I know this word because it means closed.

At the end of September it started — a restaurant here or there would be closed.  Then, my favorite restaurant closed until April; stores stopped opening in the afternoon or opening at all.  The most convenient parking garage in town stopped opening in the evening.  Recently, they took all of the recycle bins at the stop near me away completely!

There are pro’s and con’s to living in a resort town in the winter.  There are fewer choices for dinner, but those of us who are left are the locals, and I feel like there’s a certain camaraderie developing.

I hate the word tancat now, but I know it will be exciting in the spring when all the signs begin to say obert!

My dogs at “camp:”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Addendum:  This is an addendum to my post of November 2018.

Can you believe it?  I had another freaking flat tire today when I ventured out to take my trash to the recycling.  The garbage men were there emptying the bins.  One of them noticed my tire was flat.  It was pretty flat.  I can’t believe I hadn’t felt it when I was driving.  Then, they changed it for me!  One of them jokingly made a gesture of showing his muscles and said “see, men come in handy sometimes!”  to which I said “YES!  sometimes!”  That was sooo nice of them and they certainly didn’t have to do it.  I made them each take 5 euros and said to please have a couple of beers.  Thank God.  Now I just have to get a new tire.  They told me car repair shops are essential, so, I’ll need to do that.

After I wrote the post below, I had another flat tire in June 2019.  That was an ordeal.  They didn’t have my tire in stock anywhere in town and it took two days to get one, all while I had guests in Barcelona waiting for me.  

November 2018:

The second day in Spain in my new car, I hit a curb on a curve going faster than I should have on a dark, narrow and winding road, and punctured the tire.  It entailed an expensive cab ride home from town and a trip to the repair shop the next day.  Peugeot, the lessor of my car, will reimburse me for the tire, but I must return the original tire when I return the car.  I’m storing the tire in the storage closet at my apartments.

Last week, in Barcelona, multiple people on the street, drivers, and motorcycle drivers let me know that I had a flat tire.  I called Peugeot and the guy they sent to change the tire told me the tire had been deliberately slashed by a knife.  He said that it is common that a motorcyclist will puncture your tire with a knife and then indicate that he will help you if you follow him.  I was too busy negotiating traffic to pay attention to what he was trying to say, so fortunately, I avoided being robbed!  The tire store where I replaced the tire confirmed that is what happened.

I am starting a collection of tires in my storage closet!

 

 

 

 

 

 

What a delightful and unexpected surprise to meet my daughter in Hamburg for three days in October!  Trip Advisor ranked the Miniatur Wunderland the top attraction in the city — miniature scenes of Venice, Rome, Switzerland, the Arctic, Las Vegas, etc., each created in great detail with people, trains, swimming dolphins, and even a working airport.

The other attraction I wanted to see was the recently completed ultra modern concert hall on the river.  Coincidentally, that evening the hall was hosting a concert by a famous flamenco singer, Diego El Cigala.  It was quite a show in a beautiful setting!  Here’s a nice clip of him https://youtu.be/K8HGzhsUuiY.

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Another must-do was an early morning visit to the fish market where vendors hawk their catch to the highest bidder while visitors drank beer, ate fish sandwiches, and danced to a classic rock band singing in English with a thick German accent.

Sausages, sauerkraut, and beer…what could be better?

 

 

Although I’m on the water, if I go down to the sea from my apartment, it’s just rocks, really big rocks.  There are several beaches in the vicinity, within about ten minutes’ drive, which you’ll see when you come visit me!

The closest beach to me is Sa Tuna, a small rocky beach like the French Riviera.  The next closest is Sa Riera, a nice wide sandy beach.  Aiguablava is a very popular beach with good beach restaurants.  The beach at Pals is huge.  I don’t know if there are ever enough tourists to fill it up, at least not in September!

In contrast, I visited the Costa el Sol in October and it was insane.  Tourists of every persuasion were swarming everywhere.  When I lived there in 1976, there were a series of towns between Malaga west to Marbella.  Now, it is one continuous strip of shops, hotels, restaurants, and all businesses catering to the foreign masses.

I know now that I made a very good life-style choice in coming to the Costa Brava versus the more familiar Costa del Sol.  It would have been easier and probably better weather-wise, but I feel like I live in a town that tourists visit versus a tourist destination.

Good move!

Sa Riera

The beach at Pals

Sa Tuna

Aiguablava

Yeah, that is the question.  This may be rambling and self-indulgent, but being alone in a country not your own makes you think about stuff like learning to just be, not for anyone else, not for pay, not for anything in return, but just being one’s self alone.

It takes time and getting used to.  Probably many retirees have contemplated the question of just who they are without a job, a title, or duties.

It will take more time yet.  Maybe I never will have an answer or have it figured out, but it is nice as the end of life approaches to be at peace with one’s self — the failures and the successes, and of course, the regrets.

The remoteness of my apartment and the absence of friends and neighbors at least for the moment, is affording me the time to contemplate these questions.  And being surrounded by infinite nature compounds the questions.

I’ll let you know if I figure it out!  But for the time being, I’m happy.  Cheers!

Not long after I spoke with my landlady about the washing machine, I was flushing my toilet (only toilet) and the handle came off in my hand.  Immediately, the rod attached to the handle sank into the bowels (ha ha) of the toilet.  It is still flushable — see ingenious McGuyver-like flushing apparatus — but, not optimal.  I was and still am embarrassed to tell her something else has broken!  This one was definitely not my fault. I have the names of two plumbers, so hopefully it will be fixed by the time YOU come to visit me!

Fingers crossed everything else remains operational!

I think I may finally have conquered it (the new one), but it’s been a battle of wills!

First, it overflowed.  So I looked up the manual online, and I thought I figured out the problem.  Then, it overflowed again.  That time after I mopped up all the water, I slipped on the marble floor and BUSTED my ass big time.  BIG bruises. Still hurts!

The water didn’t drain out…ever.  So, I called my landlady.  I told her that I suspected it was due to operator error, but she insisted that it was an old machine and needed to be replaced.  She obviously doesn’t know me…if there is a machine and it isn’t working according to plan, I start punching buttons…and that’s what I did.  I tried to get her to send her maid over to see what I was doing wrong, but she insisted on buying a new machine.

Two weeks later, this one arrived.  With high hopes, I loaded the first of what may be a dozen loads of laundry (each load can only be about 5 articles) ….  It ran for over an hour and a half and then I started punching buttons again, and guess what happened!  It started filling up with suds.  It felt like an I Love Lucy episode I remember!

I was ready to give up and just start taking my laundry to the Book Store, where people leave their laundry to be picked up and taken to a service a couple of towns over.  Drop off and pick up is Friday and Monday and if you miss it, well that’s another week.

But then, I started chatting with an expert on an appliance help line, and I think I’ve conquered the beast!  The normal cycle for cottons is TWO AND A HALF HOURS!  No wonder I got frustrated !  Who knew??

So much laundry… and there’s no dryer.  Everyone dries their clothes outside!  Even the well-off Barcelonans who have their weekend places here.   Maybe I should open a Kenmore distributorship.

So, right off the bat when I arrived, one of my neighbors knocked on the door to inform me that first, the dogs are not allowed on the grass (WHAT??? dogs not allowed on grass??) and second, that if the gate to the driveway is closed when I arrive, I need to close it after entering.  Never mind that other tenants do not do so!

Unfortunately, Cassie does not like to pee or poop anywhere except on grass.  She’s adapted to some extent – she will pee on weeds growing out of the sidewalk, but it’s not easy for her, or me.  Plus, at night, when it is super dark and there are hippies parked on the street, I don’t want to hike all over getting them to do their business.  The other full-time tenants and I have reached an understanding that at night, I will use the “garden” — otherwise known as grass — for this purpose.

The other one that cracked my ass is that if you are laying on a towel by the pool on the grass, it needs to be moved every two hours.  Set your alarm! What is it with these people and the bloody grass?

The next day, I was walking the dogs and there was a house with grass and their gate was open.  It looked like no one was home, so I let my dogs walk in.  Soon, a woman came out screaming — “es privado, eh!” loudly and with feeling.  I didn’t dream walking dogs would be so difficult.

There are lots of other societal rules I am just beginning to appreciate…such as not sitting on the floor ANYWHERE, including in a train station or the airport…maybe a future blog post.

 

I remember this now from prior extended stays in Spain…they know where I am.  When I was in school at the University of Madrid, I was assigned to a huge dormitory — 700 or so students — and I was the sole American, or la Americana.  I got in trouble there too for not cleaning my room and not participating in sports, but that’s another story… When my mother wrote me a letter to my address in Fuengirola (3 years later), it was forwarded to my dorm.  They know EXACTLY who I am…

When I went to the Ayuntamiento, the local governmental office to obtain my empadronamiento in order to register for my foreign residency card, the official there showed me a google photo of my exact apartment.  WHA?  He wanted to know if I was on the first floor or the second floor.  Man, these people keep track…

The first day Oz and I sat by the pool, a drone flew over us.  I’m convinced they’re tracking me.  As long as I keep following the rules, I should be ok, no?

So, after Az and Ron left, reality set in a little.  Cassie, Cam, and I were on our own.  Driving back from the Barcelona airport was especially scary — all who know me know that my sense of direction isn’t the best — and with that crazy bitch on my GPS, whom I do not trust — what’s a girl to do?  My best and I eventually got home.  It was a wonderful feeling to get back to the Baix Embordà, where I knew my way around and everything looked familiar and CALM.  The freeway in Barcelona doesn’t hold a candle to 610, so it’s ok, but it would help if I could read the signs in Catalán!

My apartment complex has 12 apartments.  When I arrived, almost all were full, but as the summer wanes, there are usually only two apartments inhabited — mine and the young couple two doors down.  I was extremely excited to meet them by the pool, although I immediately forgot both of their names (CRS syndrome).  The guy is from this area and his parents own the apartment where they’re staying.  The woman is Colombian and they met in Mexico City.  They were recently married and moved here to pass some time while they look for a place to live in Barcelona.  I’m relieved to have humans nearby as it is VERY dark here at night.  Someone will hear me scream!  I hope.  They also have a dog, whose name is Janice, for you know who.

Marcela, she had to tell me her name again, is hoping to be an actress, so she needs to learn to speak Catalán.  She told me about a course to be offered soon and I signed up too.  I’d like to be able to read traffic signs and menus and exchange pleasantries at least.

I generally feel very safe here in Spain, but my apartment’s location is somewhat remote and there is an informal campground next door with rotating hippies.  I’m sure they’re harmless — weren’t we? but slightly unsettling.

The apartment faces northeast, so every morning I’m treated to the most beautiful sunrises!  I think I may buy a camera.  The photos on my phone don’t capture all the shades of pink I see.