Wow – what a difference a week makes!  Oh my God, are they back!  There are strangers’ cars in my parking lot and dozens of motor boats, sailboats, and jet skis going by all day long.  Jet skis in Spanish are called water motorcycles.  Just like motorcycles, they make so much noise!  And taking a walk now, although still relaxing, means greeting a dozen or so fellow walkers instead of one or two.

They say we have to move forward, but do we?  Certainly, I don’t want people to die, but it was so much nicer here when everyone was confined in their places — the good old days of the Pandemic.  It’s not funny, but true.

You’ve probably seen the headlines:  EU May Ban Americans as Borders Reopen

I have purposefully remained apolitical in my posts, because I know some of my friends and readers have views different from mine.  I respect them and I do not wish to jeopardize those friendships.  And politics is not the point of my blog about my adventures here.  But I’m having a hard time right now not attributing my “stuck” situation directly to missteps by the US government.  I believe that if the virus had been taken more seriously sooner, if there had been a strict policy like the one in Spain which was national in scope, but which maintained some leniency based on regional differences in population, and if there had been a clear message of concrete steps to take, reasonable ones, to keep the population safe, it could have made a difference, and I would be coming home this summer.  I don’t know for certain that another administration would have handled the crisis more competently, but I strongly suspect it.  It’s not just the President, there’s more blame to spread around.  But I’m pissed.

I had to get that off my chest.

After reading the article on Wednesday about the EU, I did what I always do when stressed…I shopped online (at Anthropologie UK).  Ha ha.  And then, when I went out and bought a roasted chicken, I did something I never do, I added French fries!  That did the trick, for now…

Morning walk:

Back by popular demand…the story of how my family was separated boarding a train from Monaco to Rome.

On my family’s first trip to Europe, my mother had arranged for us to take a bus tour from Nice, France to Monaco, and rather than return to Nice with the tour group, we would exit the tour in Monaco and catch a train to Rome.  My mother had arranged everything and we had the train tickets in hand when we got off the bus at the train station.

My dad had one rule:  everyone must be able to carry his/her own suitcase (before rolling bags).  Our tickets were for a certain car of the train (say car 8, for instance).  When the train pulled into the station, we were lugging our suitcases down the platform towards our appointed car.  As this was our first train trip in Europe, my parents did not know that the train would only remain in the station for three (3!!) minutes.

As I was struggling with my suitcase, I looked up at a window of the train and there was a group of boys about my age (14 at the time) waving at me.  I was so excited and flattered!!  Imagine!!  But then, I realized that they were waving at me because the train was leaving the station!  It was so embarrassing.

My mother, my father, and my brother all started running and jumped onto the train.  I was running as best as I could with my suitcase, and all of a sudden one of my lime green papagallo flats came off, and I was down.  My father was standing at the door of the train, so he jumped off to help me.  My brother saw that my father jumped off, so he jumped off too.  My mother was about to jump, but some of the people on the train held her back because by then the train was going faster and she was wearing high heels (it was the mid-60’s!).  Helpful passengers on the train threw off all four pieces of our luggage.

My father was the loveliest, kindest man, but slightly incompetent in some of the ways of the world.  My mother had made all of the arrangements.  My mother knew words and phrases in several languages.  My mother was accustomed to wrangling children.

Fortunately, a Cook’s tours operator saw what had transpired and took pity on my father instructing him to get us into a cab and catch the train at the next stop.  I’d never seen my father so flummoxed.  His face was red and all the veins were standing out on his neck.  My brother, who was 10 at the time, was crying.  I found it all pretty amusing.

The Italian cabby took us on a wild ride on the narrow, curving, mountainous road that is probably a 6-lane highway now.  At a certain point, the cabby looked around at my father and said “pasaportes,” to which my father said “no pasaportes,” because my mother was carrying all four passports in her purse on the train.

The cabby threw his hands in the air and began yelling then muttering in Italian.  He took his foot off the gas.  What was the point in rushing?  The next stop of the train was in Italy, and the cabby said we wouldn’t be able to cross the border without passports.  Of course not!  But my father was in adrenaline-induced emergency mode and waved the cabby to continue and to hurry.

We arrived at the border crossing and my father got out of the cab to talk to the border patrol officer.  He told him in English, of course, what had occurred, and miraculously, they let us pass through the border into Italy!!  This would NEVER happen today and was pretty unbelievable even then.

So we caught the train, boarded the train, and ha ha! my mother had gotten off of the train in Menton, a stop in between Monaco and this stop at Ventimiglia.  Oh the Gods were laughing!  and I was laughing, but my brother was still crying!

Fortunately, my mother had prepared a type-written itinerary for the trip which included all of the details, including the name and address of our hotel in Rome where we arrived to have a day of pre-arranged sightseeing (now without my mother), and wait for her to catch up with us the next day.

In Rome, my dad had all four pieces of luggage, no passports, and no money.  We got by somehow.  My mother, who had gone back to the hotel we had just left in Nice, had all the passports, all the money, and no suitcase.  She did however have a lovely day on the beach in Nice all alone without children or husband.  I think a Frenchman even flirted with her!

My Mom flew to meet us in Rome the next day.

After our adventure, my dad made a new rule:  everyone must wear tie-up shoes.

 

 

 

 

I guess technically, I’m not in self-isolation any more.  We’re going into the final phase of of the de-escalation and the State of Alarm ends as of this coming Sunday.

It’s already starting – more cars, more people, movement.  Everyone who’s been in Begur these past three months is feeling wary and a little frightened.  I don’t think we’re frightened about the virus, which has declined steadily and consistently in Catalunya, but about sharing our precious, private paradise.  At times the isolation has made me feel sad or lonely, but it was also a beautiful blessing.  On to the next phase!

Regarding my return, no news is…no news.

News from the United States, however, seems grim.  From the very beginning of our confinement, this was my fear — things would improve in Spain and when I was ready to return to the US, it would be bad there.  Hmm.  Self-fulfilling prophesy?  Not really, but seems to be happening.

Still no word from the Spanish government on when US citizens may enter the country.

Addendum to Gift Horse/Trojan Horse in week 11.  I was moving the coffee maker on the counter to plug in a different appliance when I saw (without glasses) something orange and sparkly in the corner.  On closer look it was the top of the exploded sparkling wine bottle…, cork still in place.  Wow.

 

A lot of you know this story, and if so, you can tune out…

It all started when my father was a medical resident in Houston and he contracted tuberculosis, probably from a patient.  Back in the day, contracting tuberculosis meant a lot of bed rest.  My father was instructed by an occupational therapist to choose something he could study or do from his bed.  He had an interest in art – he painted a little – and somehow, someway, he became interested in the art of Francisco Goya, Spanish painter (1746 – 1828).

When I was 14, a wealthy aunt gave my parents a gift of some money to go to Europe so my father could see the paintings of Goya he’d always wanted to see in person.  My aunt was horrified that my parents planned to take me and my brother with them, but it was a fortuitous thing that changed my life.

I loved Europe immediately, everything about it, especially the boys who seemed more openly interested in me than any back home.  Maybe I’ll do another post on our dramatic family separation when we were boarding a train in Monaco bound for Rome.

My next year in school, 9th grade, was the year when we made our “four-year plans” and chose a major.  Sounds kind of ridiculous now that a 14-year old would have any idea what to choose for a major.   At that time, I looked back over my report cards, and although I always had A’s and B’s, the class in which I consistently made A’s, no B’s, was Spanish.  Voila, the deed was done.

At some point during high school I learned that colleges offer programs abroad for junior-year students.  I knew that was for me.  I could go back to Spain!  I went through the huge index book of US colleges and looked at only those with JYA programs.  Tulane seemed to fit the bill all the way around – in a city, not too far from Houston, but definitely far enough from home, and the drinking age was 18.  What’s not to like?

The year I spent in Madrid in college was, as we often sarcastically called it, “the most God damned wonderful experience” of my life.  We called it that because, although we had a ton of fun, there were challenges all along the way in being a young American in a foreign country where you didn’t know how to do anything.  Heck, we barely knew how to do anything in the US.  But, I knew when the school year was over that all I wanted to do was go back.

I finished college and took a job as a media buyer at McCann Erickson and saved money for a year and a half.  I had some savings too.  I talked my bestie, Ellen, into going with me.  Because I was very very afraid of flying at that time (I’m not much better now) and I’d heard about freighters carrying passengers to Europe, Ellen and I set sail for Italy, a 17-day sea voyage.  My $3,000 dollars bought me a round trip freighter ticket and provided enough living money for 10 months in Spain.  We lived in Fuengirola and became fast friends with the owners, cooks, and waiters at the O Mamma Mia Pizzeria, whom we met on our first night in town.  I’m still friends with a couple of them!  We all would go dancing at the disco when the Pizzeria closed around 1:00 a.m., dance till dawn, eat breakfast, sleep, sunbathe, then do it all again.

I returned to Spain when I was getting my Master’s in Spanish from the University of Houston.  It was only a six-week course in Madrid, but it gave me a “fix.”

Then, life happened – husband, job, home, children.  I never forgot about Spain – I talked about it pretty constantly to the annoyance of some – and listened to Spanish pop music in the car all the time, also to the annoyance of some.  And I made a few “vacation” trips back over the years.

During the trip to Spain in 2013, it hit me.  Contrary to what I’d always believed, I DID want to retire.  I wanted to retire and live in Spain.

I guess I’m still a little mixed up because I can’t quite bring myself to leave the US and all my special friends behind long-term.  So far, it’s working out that I have the best of both worlds.

And all because my dad got tuberculosis.  Ain’t life crazy?

I read an article published in the Daily Mail that Spain would be opening to Americans as of August 1, 2020.  It would be good news, except  I have not found any confirmation of that date by the US or Spanish Embassy websites and the airlines haven’t a clue.

The Spanish state of alarm will officially end on June 21, 2020.  On July 1, 2020, citizens of other EU countries will be allowed to enter Spain.  No mention of Americans.  Sanchez, the Prime Minister, did say Spain will only be open to tourists from “safe destinations… who don’t bring the Covid-19 virus with them to Spain and create a risk for the local population.”  He said Spain would be “working on safe origins and destinations…” I fear, with reason, that the US may be an un-safe origin, especially because there seems to be a massive disregard there for the use of masks and distancing, which has been well publicized abroad, and the number of cases is rising, ditto.  Because of this I don’t know if and when Americans will be allowed to come here, specifically someone to come here to accompany me and my precious pups home.

So, I’m just in the waiting mode and feeling a little down about it – the unknown end date.  If they just said August 1, September 1, or even October 1, I would know.  I guess we’re all in this state of not knowing, not understanding, unsure or what/who to believe.

I’m hopeful that when the state of alarm ends, or at least by July 1, the Spanish government will make some sort of announcement about the “other” tourists, the ones from the un-safe places.

Until then, carrying on with a smile enjoying my slice of paradise…

 

I’ve always loved good food and loved to eat, so it’s no surprise that I look forward to each meal more than ever – it’s satisfying, entertaining, challenging, delicious, and something to do!

At home in the US, I spent many if not most nights eating out with friends.  It was all about finding  great meals at exciting restaurants.  I’ve enjoyed cooking for myself these past months (to a point!) and I’ve made some really good meals, at least for me.  I’m sure some of you have made fancier gourmet meals.  Share them!!

Instead of just taking photos of my food at a restaurant, which I have been known to do when it’s exceptional, I’ve been taking photos of my home-cooked meals.   Self-indulging again, here’s a taste:

And then there are the wonderful things I ate here (pre-pandemic)!

 

YUM!  Let’s eat!

 

 

 

 

 

Week 12 — how did this happen?  How did my three-month retirement version II turn into a four-month (so far) navel-gazing experiment in self analysis and self-enter-tainment?  We all know how it happened, but we don’t know how it will end, if ever.

I’ve been expending psychic energy over how and when I will get back to the US.  Update to taking dogs in the hold:  they won’t accept them in the summer.  That’s because although the hold is temperature controlled during flight, the pets may sit in the hold for quite a while prior to takeoff.  So, I’m back to square one waiting to find out if and when Americans can come here so I can get an escort back home with both dogs.  All of my MULTIPLE leads on finding a travel companion who is already in Spain have led to dead ends, though I am most appreciative to everyone who has tried to help!!  I still have one potential iron in the fire.

It dawned on me yesterday, that while I have begun to think of Begur as a second home where I might spend some months each year, when I leave this time, who knows when I’ll be able to return, or feel comfortable returning.  Carpe fucking diem, I tell myself!

The thing that keeps me here, wanting to stay here and wanting to return is so simple.  When I go for my walk, I pass other walkers and bikers on the street or path and we say “Hola, bon dia” in Catalan — that just makes my day right there.  Interacting with Catalans, Spaniards, and who-knows-what other nationalities with those same words of salutation in a language that is not my native one hits me – I’m living here.  “We’re” all in this together.  We’re all on the Costa Brava because we were born here or we adopted it and we love it.  And when life returns to “normal,” I’ll get to speak Spanish and a few words of Catalan to shopkeepers and waiters and townsfolk!!

Today’s excitement has been that while I was out walking, my dogs decided to knock a box full of green packing peanuts off of a chair.  When I returned, Cam had one dangling from his “beard”  and they were all over the floor.  Who knows how many they ate!  I took the peanuts and other trash to the recycle bins and when I got back (spoiler alert – I should have done this FIRST!), I looked up on the internet to see how dangerous it was for dogs to eat packing peanuts.  It said there are different kinds.  If the peanuts dissolve when put in water, they’re relatively safe.  But if they do not dissolve, they could cause a blockage because they are not digestible.  So, I headed back to the recycle bins to retrieve a peanut to test.  Yeah, you guessed it – the trash had been taken away.  It had only been 10 minutes.   I looked up pictures of the different kinds.  I think the ones I had were good, but I’ll be monitoring… Jeez.

What if I had waited a year to retire?  Oh, man!  I am sooo lucky!  or smart!  September 2018 through June 2019 was just about the best time ever, save when I was young and totally carefree and living in Spain!  But, that’s another story.

Last year I entertained nearly every close friend and family member I have and was able to show them Spain, in many cases, and travel to other parts unknown!  I’m sooo grateful!  After spending some days here together, or longer, I feel like I really got to know them in another, closer way (just one bathroom!).  It was grand and very fun and satisfying.  What if all of those plans had been for 2020?

There must be so many people who were looking forward to something in 2020 – a wedding (my daughter’s), a graduation celebration, some touchstone event that was abandoned or delayed.  I know that doesn’t compare to losing a loved one or being out of work, or hungry, but it still hurts I’m sure.

What a wonderful pleasure it will be when we are able to share meaningful experiences again and everyday ones in person!

Life is coming back around me whether I like it or engage in it or not.  The pleasure craft usage on the Med has shot up.  Again there are kayaks, paddle boards, jet skis, sail boats, and motor boats going by all day.  Last week there were NONE.  The hikers are back and the van-life people on the cul-de-sac are probably not far behind.  It’s reassuring and yet frightening.  Of course the folks on the ocean are not threatening to me, but what they represent is —  people, possibly infected people, are proliferating.  I’m normally a risk-taker to a degree and a germ non-believer (per my physician father), but this one’s got me believing and spooked.

In all the time I’ve spent at this apartment I’ve lamented not being able to see the sunset from my balcony, even though I have a fabulous sunrise vista.  It took me a while (duh), but I finally figured out that I could get a view of the sunset from the Mirador (lookout) on the next hill just above me.  I’d already taken a long hike yesterday, so I decided to drive to the top.  Just as I turned on the road, wouldn’t you know it, a cop pulled behind me and followed me all the way up.  When we arrived, one of the policemen came to my car.  I thought since restaurant terraces are opening and stores, why wouldn’t an outdoor lookout point away from everything be “open”??  Well, again, rules are rules.  According to the policeman, I could have walked there because it’s about 1 kilometer from my apartment and that is supposed to be the maximum you can walk for exercise.  Or, I could wait until next Monday when we go into the next phase of reopening.  He kind of gave me a wink, not literally, but letting me know that he thought it was ridiculous too, but that I needed to move on.  I guess I’ll find out about the sunset on Monday.

Re the babies next door, it’s the weekend and I’m starting to want to kill them.

 

I was going to write something different today, but then THIS happened.  First it was the toothpaste (harmless), then the champagne (not harmless)!

I’ve avoided going to the grocery store or anywhere in the public realm since March 14, except when I had to get a new tire.  I decided to go on Tuesday wearing mask and gloves and I intended, and I hope I achieved, buying enough food to last me until July, so I don’t have to go back again, maybe at all, depending on when I leave.  The liquor store opened on Monday, so I placed an order for pick-up and I made sure to get enough wine and Aperol to last until July.  I guess it was a “substantive” order because they threw in for free eight bottles of Cinzano spumante – I guess you’d call it a sparkling wine.

Eight bottles!  I asked my neighbors (pleaded) if they wanted some, but they declined.  I put a bottle in the fridge for a while and then tasted it.  It’s fine, but I just don’t think I’ll drink it.

Then suddenly, while I was minding my own business, luckily in my “spot” on the couch with all of my devices, there was an explosion – really loud – so loud the neighbors came running to see if I was all right.  One of those bottles of Cinzano spumante EXPLODED.  There was glass and sparkling wine everywhere in my kitchen.  Luckily !!! I wasn’t in the kitchen when it happened.  I’m taking the eff’ing spumante to the dump tomorrow.  I don’t want it in my house!

The worst part was I had to mop the kitchen floor.  And I don’t mop.  I’ve always depended on the kindness of roommates, husband, maid to take care of the mopping.  Yes, I’m spoiled, but I’m also terrible at it!  And my kitchen still smells like booze!

Another bullet dodged.

I looked up on the internet and “experts” seem to agree that bottles of champagne rarely explode anymore:  “Even though I’ve heard stories of bottles of Champagne exploding, those stories are rare now that glass bottles are machine-made—thick and quite structurally sound.”  Well, not so rare.  I took the remaining six bottles to the recycling center.  As I dropped each bottle in, it made the now familiar sound of a glass bottle hitting other glass bottles and shattering.  But at least three of the bottles I dropped in the bin exploded too.  I’m never going to feel safe again with one of those things in my house!  Such a shame.  I hope I get over it.