Post-pandemic, as many of you know, cars available for rental are hard to find! And expensive! So I made the decision to buy a used car. They also are not in abundance currently, at least ones with automatic transmissions. Although I’ve driven manual cars before, I never owned one, so I’ve never become accustomed to it to the point that it’s second nature. The thought of taking on that task now (at my age!) might be a challenge I would take. I can’t turn down a good challenge. But there are a lot of hills here. Just recently I was behind a truck and a car and we were stopped at a stop sign at the top of a hill. The truck was having trouble and started slipping backwards. Finally the driver got it under control and drove off, but then the car in front of me began moving back towards me and came very very close to hitting me. I don’t want to be that person! I have nightmares of very angry people yelling at me in Spanish and waving their arms. No thanks.

I finally found a car with automatic transmission and not too many kilometers for not too much money. I felt so proud to have my car. I bought a car, I got Spanish car insurance, it all made me feel permanent! Then [cue scary music]…I had a little accident.

Just a few days after I got the car, I went to a celebration of the Queen’s Jubilee hosted by some of the British expats. It felt very strange to be there as an American. They sang “God Save our Queen” and toasted her with champagne. It would have been a lovely evening if it hadn’t included me hitting a small (invisible) concrete box-like thing on the side of the road leading to the parking area. I was trying to avoid the tree on one side and the drop-off on the other while navigating a hair-pin turn. And this was prior to any alcohol. What’s done is done, but such a bummer. We had three days!

Even though I really know next to nothing about cars, I am somewhat fascinated by them. Whenever I see a really unique one, I snap a photo. Some of these tiny cars look like they’re built out of Legos!

Then, there are the weird names of some cars here: Renault Trafic (with one “f”), Mercedes Marco Polo, Citroen Jumpy, Renault Scenic, Peugeot Tepee, Peugeot Bipper, Citroen Space Tourer.

This Monday was a holiday…another one…called “second Easter”. WHA? It’s the Pentecost. It is always celebrated on the fifth Sunday after the “first” Easter. According to Christian dogma, the holiday celebrates the appearance of the Holy Spirit to Christ’s disciples: the Bible says that fifty days after Jesus rose from the grave, the Holy Spirit appeared to his most trusted advisors in the form of tongues of flame, and directed them to evangelize, spreading the Christian gospel across the globe.  This is from an online source, Metropolitan Barcelona (https://www.barcelona-metropolitan.com/features/culture/segunda-pascua-the-second-easter/). It’s main popularity, I think, is that it is a long weekend just at the beginning of the summer season.

Actually, it’s not officially summer yet. I’ve been here for the change in seasons three times now, and it always seems to happen the same way. One day I’m wearing three layers, including a jacket, and the next day I’m in shorts.

With the change of temperature, of course, come the hordes of people from the city looking for fun, water activities, dining out, hiking, relaxation. This also means an entirely different look to the town. All the stores and restaurants are open and there’s a holiday air about the place. In the town, the dress code goes from “regular” clothes to resort wear – not so much for the men, but the female tourists are all in flowing patterned dresses, high wedge sandals, lots of linen, and lots of jewellery. I really like it better the other way.

Coinciding with the change of seasons was the annual television presentation of the Eurovision song contest. I’d heard of Eurovision since I first spent time here in the 70s, but this year I watched the show in its entirety, until 1:30 in the morning. And they say the Oscars are long.

This was Eurovision’s 66th year. The premise is that each participating country selects a song written and performed by a singer or group from its own country as its entry. Some of the most famous winners of Eurovision are “Volare” (Italy 1958) and “Waterloo” by Abba (Sweden 1974).

Spain has won the contest twice. Once was in 1968, when its chosen entry was “La, La, La” by Joan Manuel Serrat. But Serrat asked to sing it in his native Catalan, and the Spanish authorities would not agree. This was during Franco’s reign when the use of Catalan was forbidden to be used in public settings. Defiantly, Serrat refused to sing the Spanish-language version, and was hurriedly replaced by Massiel, who went on to win the contest with her Spanish-language interpretation.

Serrat is a national treasure in Spain and in Catalunya. His signature song “Mediterráneo” was selected as the most important song of the 20th century in Spain. In 1974, during a visit to Mexico, an arrest warrant was issued for Serrat in Spain after he criticised the death penalty and the “established and official violence” of the Dictatorship of General Franco. Serrat lived in exile for the remainder of the dictatorship, returning after the death of Franco in 1975. This year is his final tour and I have a ticket!!!

When I was talking with my neighbor about Eurovision, he mentioned casually that he had been a part of Spain’s entry (as one of the writers) in 2008 in Belgrade. What a story. He and some colleagues working at a Spanish TV station came up with the idea of writing the worst song ever. The intent was never that the song would be entered into Eurovision, but it was performed on the station’s late night show and became an instant hit. The Spanish people “wrote it in” to be the Eurovision entry for Spain that year. It lost, of course (watch the video here and you’ll see why), but that year’s Eurovision program had the highest viewership in Spain of any program ever up to that time, including the World Cup. The song was a farce and a parody, but all of Spain was in on the joke. Everyone in Spain remembers “Baila el Chiki Chiki.” Ridiculous and hilarious. https://youtu.be/wfeCIvOxXBo.

And this year, Spain came in third and everyone was pretty excited. There was some controversy over the song entered, as many in the country felt it did not deserve to be the nation’s entry, but in the end all of Spain was backing Chanel and her “SloMo.” https://youtu.be/4mYBiIO0pfY

The UK’s entry came in second, and Ukraine won the competition, in a sympathy vote. People living in the participating countries vote for their favorite song, but aren’t allowed to vote for the song from their own country. These votes are combined with the votes from a jury of five music industry professionals in each of the participating countries. I voted for Estonia. They came in 13th.

I was planning to post this a few days ago, but it didn’t feel right, and it really still doesn’t, being light-hearted after so many innocent children were killed at their school in Uvalde, Texas. I’ve tried to remain non-political in my posts (mainly), but I believe this issue transcends politics. Something must be done to control the totally inordinate number of killings and suicide by guns in the US. This does not happen in other countries. It’s horrific and shameful, and so, so frightening for parents. Living in Europe, highlights the contrast in the US gun culture versus cultures here. My friends and acquaintances who live here are appalled and incredulous. There has only ever been one school shooting in Spain. I would say that I hope it would change in the US, but at this point, I’ve lost hope for that happening…

A beautiful beach I found on a walk with the expats. It’s very near here, but I had no idea.

I went for a long walk with the expat group and took this photo of a field of rape, a plant that produces rapeseed oil. It’s grown all over Western Europe and when it’s flowering there are gorgeous fields of yellow stretching out forever… though I think the crops are nearing the end of this cycle now.

I’ve read that in the last few years there’s been a surge in artisanal, high-end “cold-pressed” rapeseed oils, which are marketed much like olive oils. It’s the rage in Britain, but in Spain, at least, it’s only used for animal feed or biodiesel. Little or none is sold for human consumption here though it is used in other European countries. One reason for this is a tragedy and scandal that happened in Spain in 1971 when 300 people died from consuming rapeseed oil that was adulterated and sold as cheap olive oil, principally in street markets. Ten thousand people were hospitalized and even more were diagnosed with what they called “toxic oil syndrome.” I guess it’s not sold here because it left a bad taste in their mouths. Sorry, not funny.

You can read more from a humorous article in The Guardian: https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/wordofmouth/2012/jun/12/rise-of-rapeseed-oil?CMP=share_btn_link.

Cassie is still a bad dog. At the dog sitter’s house, just as I was picking them up, Cassie headed into the woodpile and became very “active,” very active. The next thing we saw was the dead rat she dragged out of the pile. She had killed it and she had blood dripping from her mouth. The rat got in a bite or two and she was bleeding herself. I wrote the Vet who just suggested cleaning the wounds, which were not deep, with antiseptic spray. She never had any symptoms or distress, but I DID!! Gross!

On my latest sojourn, I saw the last of the end-of-season drooping tulips in Amsterdam.

And then I saw what might be a Russian oligarch’s yacht passing by my apartment. It’s hard to see in this photo, and if I magnify it, it’s even blurrier, but believe me, it was a HUGE yacht. And the small boat in front of it appeared to be some sort of guard ship or escort. Could be…

Of all the stupid things!! I felt like I was in an episode of I Love Lucy, and I was Lucy!

I don’t enjoy driving in Barcelona, so I usually take a train from Girona when I need to go into town for the day, such as this past week when I went to the hair salon. My appointment was later in the day, so I booked a 6:30 p.m. return. On the homeward-bound train, not too far out of town, I noticed that we were near the coast. I’d never seen that view before, even though I’d made this trip many times. I thought to myself that I must always have been sitting on the opposite side of the train and/or I was involved in my magazine or a word game on my phone and never noticed that we were near the Mediterranean at the beginning of the trip.

It’s only a 35 minute ride, so when it got close to the time of arrival, I noticed (second and MAJOR red flag), that nobody was rustling about getting their luggage down from the rack, putting on coats, pushing toward the door to wait to deboard. I explained that away to myself because I knew the train went on to other destinations after my stop, so I figured everyone in my car must be going farther. Then the time of arrival came and went. The train had departed on time, so this was not right. I finally swallowed my pride and asked the gentleman next to me, “where is this train going?” WRONG answer: Madrid.

Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! So I had a four hour train ride to Madrid. Arrival time at around 9:00 p.m. was too late for a train back to Girona. I had to buy a train ticket for the next day and find a hotel room for that night. Damn it! And the worst thing was that the dogs were shut up in the house alone! Luckily, I’d given my neighbor a key to my apartment after I locked myself out twice and he had to climb over a couple of balconies to let me back into my place.

I arrived too late and shaken to really enjoy anything about being in Madrid. Several of my first options for a hotel were booked, so I wound up staying at a kind of hip, sort of expensive place – the kind that provides terry-cloth robes and slippers and your name on the TV when you arrive. The next morning, though, I had time to stroll along the Paseo del Prado past the Prado Museum and the Thyssen-Bornemisza Museum and the gorgeous old former post office at Plaza de Cibeles.

When I got onto the train to come back, the man next to me asked where the train was going – he just wanted to check. I guess it happens!!

This was just a minor and somewhat expensive hiccup. I’ll be more careful in the future.

And I had another unbelievable sunrise last week. Sorry I keep posting these sunrise shots, but I can’t help it! They’re amazing. This one looked like a volcano erupting. This is from my bedroom window. No filter applied.

Today is Sant Jordi Day (Saint George in English language cultures). It’s known as Catalan’s version of Valentine’s Day, but it’s really more than that. George, a brave knight, is credited with slaying a dragon that was terrorizing a town and its princess. After plunging his sword into the dragon, red roses cascaded out, and George presented the fair princess with a rose. Over the years/centuries, the legend of St. George killing the dragon has grown, at some point melding with Sant Jordi, the Patron Saint of Catalonia, whose saints day is April 23. Rolled into the popular celebration is the tradition of giving books and roses. Typically, a man gives a woman a rose and a woman gives a man a book, but it has evolved from there and friends, family, and lovers share both. The streets of Barcelona and other towns and cities in Catalonia sport stalls selling roses, of all colors, each with a different meaning, and books.

Interestingly, one of Antoni Gaudí’s famous apartment buildings in Barcelona, Casa Battló, is an architectural homage to Sant Jordi, depicting the mythical legend on the facade. On the roof the  dragon’s back comes alive through the ceramic tiles in the form of scales and the back is pierced by the cross of four arms that evokes Saint George’s triumphant sword. On the top floor is a flower-shaped balcony alluding to the princess’s balcony. On the lower floors, the remains of the dragon’s victims are located on the balconies in the form of skulls and the pillars of the gallery that resemble the bones. And for Sant Jordi Day, it’s fully decorated with roses!

Besides roses and books being sold everywhere, I saw these cute toy dragons today in the grocery store.

Culture. It’s fascinating!

And after weeks of rainy, ho hum weather, I was treated to this beautiful sunrise.

Bon Sant Jordi!

My friends and even acquaintances know that I love to go to the grocery store. It’s something my father and I used to do together. It made my mother crazy because we’d be gone for a long time and come home with things she thought we didn’t need. But my father and I both loved food and we had fun picking it out! I still do. I love to go to grocery stores in foreign places and I even love to go to pretty much any grocery store at any time. I can always find something new or interesting, and just browse for a long time.

There are some things I have noticed in my chosen store. It’s big and has almost everything, except the kind of wine I’ve decided is my “go-to” and I have to go to a different store for it. The outlet of that store that is closest to my apartment keeps the wine I want on the top shelf. I can’t reach it. So, I either have to find an employee or “borrow” the step stool to get it myself – which comes with dual risk – falling or being admonished. I sometimes go to a farther outlet of that store just because they keep my wine at my eye level.

I’ve noticed that there are some items in US stores that rate a lot of shelf space that receive very limited shelf space here, and vice versa. I think I’ve mentioned the huge selection of chicken broth here. Also, the shelves with olives in my store take up at least half the aisle. And food storage bags, foil, Saran Wrap, etc.? — almost none. They also really like their chocolate. It has it’s own aisle separate from the rest of the “pedestrian” candy.

I’ve never understood milk here. Some of it is refrigerated and some is not. I think it has to do with pasteurization, but I’m not even sure what that is. I just know that I prefer buying milk in the cold section. It seems a little less gross than a room temperature box of milk. I hate milk, so anything that seems to make it grosser, I avoid. They don’t have any pint-sized bottles of milk. I can only find liters or liters and a half. One day, I found a bottle that seemed a little smaller. It was labeled whole milk and it said “Bio.” I don’t really know what that means either, but I bought it because it would take up less space in the fridge. I have an electric frother, and the frother wouldn’t make the Bio milk frothy. That should have been a red flag. One day, not long after I purchased the Bio milk, I tried frothing it again, and I guess it had gone bad, because it frothed itself into something that resembled (barf) cottage cheese! I guess I’m going to stick with the large cold bottles.

At Christmas, I decided to make some chocolate chip cookies for my neighbor and my dog-sitter friends. I could NOT find a cookie tin anywhere or even a cookie sheet. I found a pan that worked perfectly, but it was labeled for pizza. They do have some boxed cookies here, but I guess no one makes them at home.

The cleaning supplies are relatively similar. In fact, Mr. Clean products are sold here as “Don Limpio” and in France as “Mr. Propre.” A popular brand of dishwashing detergent is called “Fairy,” which I don’t think would be acceptable here.

Today, I played petanca (pétanque in French), which is a game something like Bocce Ball. I played with the expat people for the first time. Turns out, even though I can’t hit a ball with a bat or a racket, I can throw a ball not embarrassingly badly. My team lost two out of two games, but it was still fun. Everyone else was British and quite controlled when they threw a ball especially well or especially poorly. I was the only one cursing my (or my teammates’) bad throws and screaming and clapping when we got a good shot. I said something like “excuse me, but I’m an American” to which they all sort of grumbled. I guess I’m invited back because they gave me a set of petanca balls. YEAH!

This is not my group, but you get the idea.

In the past, I haven’t written much about my travels, but I think Galicia, the province in Spain’s northwestern corner just above Portugal, deserves a special mention.

Galicia is known for its landscapes of extensive green forests and valleys, wild beaches, and old lighthouses. Its beautiful coastline, which covers over 1,000 miles, is known as the Costa da Morte, Coast of Death in the Galician or Gallego language. It earned this name because of the frequent shipwrecks in the area.

Not far from the Portuguese border, in Baiona, Columbus made his triumphant return from America. There is a replica of the Pinta in the harbor of Baiona. The ship, though life-sized, is really really small!!

The area between Baiona and Fisterra is known as the Rias Baixas, or Low Rivers in Galician/Gallego. There is a confluance of rivers and estuaries with islands, in the shadow of mountains. It’s been compared to the fiords of Scandanavia. Fisterra (in Galician/Gallego) or Finisterre (in Spanish), before Christopher Columbus sailed the ocean blue, was thought to be the end of the earth. Nowadays, it is the end of the Camino — the Pilgrimage to Santiago de la Compostela. The Cathedral in Santiago is the official end, but most pilgrims go the distance to Fisterra. Maybe one day I’ll make the pilgrimmage myself (or part of it!), but until then, this was reward enough.

We saw such wonderful natural beauty!

Prehistoric Ruinas Castro de Barona

Dunas de Corrubedo

Buçaco National Forest

Rias Baixas

Below: the very best octopus EVER and on the right, Portuguese pastries that cannot be beat!

I may have mentioned that I was a little down in January – a little bored and a little lonely and missing the sun. So I decided to make a concerted effort to expand my friend circle past 7. I had 8 last year, but I lost one to divorce.

When I first came to Spain after retirement, I wanted to concentrate on making friends with Spanish and Catalan people. I didn’t have much interest in meeting English speakers. But, I’ve decided that I need to make concessions.

I found a group online called the U3A Group. The members are all retired expatriate English speakers. U3A stands for “University of the 3rd Age.” The idea of a university of the third age originated from legislation in France during the 1970’s which required universities to provide for lifelong education. The “Third Age” is described as “the period of time after the First Age of childhood dependence and the Second Age of full time employment and parental responsibility.” The movement spread, initially to French speaking countries, and then across the globe. Today, U3A is made up of locally-run interest groups that provide opportunities for those no longer in work to come together and learn for fun.

I joined and signed up for the Leisurely Walk group, the Medium Walk group and, of course, the Scrabble Group. I was really interested in the Local Interest Group and the History Group, but they’ve been inactive since COVID.

I went to my first event today, the Leisurely Walk + Lunch. I was right. They were all warm and welcoming and delightful! I enjoyed it so much more than I ever imagined. Most were from the UK, but a 95 year-old woman, who is a founding member of the Costa Brava group, is from Australia, and one couple is from Iceland. They’ve all been here on the Costa Brava much longer than I have and they have a lot of experience that I think could be useful to me. And they were very interesting.

We walked around the medieval town of Sant Marti d’Empuries. I’d never heard of of the town even though it’s only 30 or so minutes from my town. It was very charming! At lunch, the restaurant gave us a free appetizer of calçots, which are giant green onions that are in season now and are traditionally charred on the grill, stripped of the outer layer, and dipped in a romesco sauce. Today at the restaurant they were uncharacteristically fried in batter and served with the traditional sauce. They were so good I ate someone else’s at the table who didn’t want theirs. It does look a little anatomical, however.

The members of the group were so nice, they talked me into signing up to play Petanca and I don’t even know what it is! Supposedly, it’s like bocce ball and they don’t play very seriously, so hopefully it won’t matter how bad I am at it.

I also signed up for the Scrabble group, but this week’s game was cancelled because someone died. I hope that doesn’t happen a lot. I told the Scrabble group leader that I play by my own rules and she said I should fit right in.

I never really thought I would have the opportunity to get there! It was too overwhelming for me to attempt on my own and everyone I know here either had already climbed it and didn’t care to repeat it, or just didn’t want to at all. So, I was very fortunate that my French friend and guide from my yoga class took me on! I was terrified that I couldn’t keep up. She’s younger and in super good shape and I’m older and in moderately good shape at best. It wasn’t a walk in the park. I’d been told that it would be relatively easy to find the way. Ha! Parts of the way seemed to follow a worn path, but much of the way was just choosing which rock to put my weight on to heist myself forward. Luckily, I was able to follow in Sylvie’s footsteps. But still…there were lots of rocks, some slippery, some unstable. How many times did I think about Sylvie having to dial 112 (Spanish 911) for an ambulance? Thank God that didn’t happen and both hips and both knees are still in tact!

Once we got to the top, the views were just incredible towards the sea, the rice fields, the farms and villages.

After having a quick lunch on the walls of the castle atop the hill, Sylvie asked if I wanted to go down a different way that was MORE challenging. Oh sure!

I gotta say the goats were one of the best parts.

Random weird thing that happened:

A package was delivered from Amazon to one the apartments in my complex (of 12 ). I know the owners and they haven’t been around much this year and I doubt they were having a package delivered here, so I checked it out. It was addressed to a woman’s name (not their name) and at a different address on my street. I thought about trying to deliver it myself, but the houses aren’t really numbered, and NO ONE is here anyway. I called Amazon. They said I would be contacted by a delivery service to pick it up. A few days later I got an email from the delivery service to verify my address for pick up. Days went by, then a couple of weeks went by. I tried to give the package to the Amazon guy who showed up with a package I’d actually ordered, but he said he couldn’t take it. So, I decided that whatever was in the package was now mine. I opened it, and this is the weird part, it was a bag of dry dog food. It isn’t the brand I normally buy, but it is specifically for dogs with urinary problems, which Cassie has and I always buy the urinary-specific kind. Strange, huh?

That’s how they spell chef in Catalan.

I’ve been trying my hand at some traditional Catalan dishes. My masterpiece was Canelons, which Catalans traditionally eat on Sundays and holidays. I know why! It was a little complicated and I used every pot in my kitchen! It involves grinding together cooked chicken, pork, and beef to make the stuffing, cooking the pasta, assembling the cannellonis, and then making and covering them with bechamel sauce and finally with emmenthal cheese. I’d say it was worth it, though I won’t be making them again for a while! And I ate them for days…

Another traditional dish is trinxat. It’s a mash-up of cooked cabbage and potatoes with some sausage thrown in and bacon. I’ve never been a big fan of cabbage, but the combination of ingredients was quite good!

And I finally made my first Spanish tortilla (potato and onion omelette)! I had a little help, but it came out perfectly!

I also tried eating sea urchins for the first time. I was told that their flavor is very intense, sort of like eating the sea and that people either love them or hate them. I liked them. They tasted a bit like oysters with a similar slimy consistency, but with a stronger flavor. When in Rome!

I’m headed to Galicia next month, where the famous or infamous delicacy is goose barnacles. They look super gross, but I think I’ll try one for the hell of it. I’ll report back. Below is a photo of the goose barnacles, called percebes in Spain, and a link to an article if you’re interested.

Food of Galicia: Percebes (Goose Barnacles)