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.

On September 2, 2018, after months of preparation, Az and I set out for Begur by way of Atlanta and Barcelona.  Cassie and Cam were just as nervous, but they didn’t know to be worried they could potentially be stopped from boarding because they weighed too much or their paper work was missing a signature or something was misspelled!  Fortunately, that part was a breeze.  No one looked at them, weighed them, or even glanced at the paperwork — all that effort for naught.

Cam cried most of the way to Barcelona, forcing me to put his carrier on my lap so I could soothe him.  I’m not sure how we managed, but I actually slept about four hours and felt GREAT when we landed.  It was such a relief.

The Peugeot 308SW that I leased online was ready for us and we had it packed!  When we arrived at my apartment, my gracious landlady and her husband were here to explain all the idiosyncrasies of the apartment, give me the keys, etc.  I wish I’d paid more attention to the lesson on the washing machine — more on that later.

It’s hard to remember now what all we did that first week, except spend a lot of time at Xing, which Oz called the Chinese Dollar Store.  It seemed to have almost everything I needed to make my fully furnished apartment my own.

The second weekend in September was the Fira d’Indians, the town’s annual festival paying tribute to its heritage.  In the late 19th century, citizens of Begur travelled to Cuba seeking their fortunes.  They returned with new customs, including Mojitos!, cigars, and music and dancing from the tropics.  It was a little like Mardi Gras, with parades through town of women (not transvestites) with fruit on their heads like Carmen Miranda, dancing and singing.  The Mojitos were great and I’m so glad I planned my trip to be able to arrive and participate in the festivities.  Everyone wore white with Panama hats, and spirits were high!