The Christmas tree is finally down, the boxes stored haphazardly in the garage, the ant infestation vacuumed up. It sits, in its red ceramic pot, on the front porch, ready for Mr. Understanding and Thing 2 to carry elsewhere. It was a fine tree, although a bit prickly and uncooperative. I left the light stringing to Mr. Understanding and he festooned it like a sailor on a drinking binge in Hong Kong. Wrangling the tree out of its lights from our China stint, lights that are now in the garbage, was akin to wrestling a bride in her frothy finery onto a toilet seat. Or, Scarlett O’Hara out of her corset. My neighbor, I surmise, felt so sad for the tree that she came over with a roll of wire-edged ribbon to try to disguise the manic light situation. Ni modo, all of our ornaments made it beautiful.

But putting all those ornaments away made me sad. The tree could only withstand about a quarter of our collection, its young branches sagging under the weight like Thing 3 with two pythons draped over her. I could almost hear it sigh in relief with the removal of each ornament. For in the storing and guarding of these pretties, I am reminded how perishable all things are. The sparkly handmade mini piñata ornaments from Mexico, of which only remain two, are a bit crumpled. How many moves more will they last? “Mortals cannot abide in their pomp” and neither can Christmas ornaments.

Speaking of moves, I do not know if I am going anywhere just yet. This is contributing to my general mental lethargy, that and a terrible case of viral pink eye. In short, I have a terrible resaca (hangover) from 2011. Not that I am complaining! It was worth the headaches and ensuing malaise. So worth it.

The Year in Review (and don’t get jealous. Remember, I have a whomping hangover):

A move to a new and, generally, improved house.

Visitors:
More than any I’ve ever had, anywhere, all in one year: my parents, the Understanding inlaws, the ContraCostas, Sue B, The Hussells (Mrs. Hussell even came by twice!). All of whom, I have to say, were perfect. Well, maybe not my mother wanting to rearrange my kitchen but other than that, perfect.

High School Graduation and Moving into College for Thing 1, currently living the dream in Paris for a 3 week language class.

Second HoneyMoon/20th Anniversary: Mr. Understanding is simply the best. So glad I married him!!!! I’d do it all over in a heartbeat.

Viajes, in no particular order:

Rome, Amsterdam (with Bea Long!), Paris and Normandy, Munich, Florence and Venice, Santiago de Compostela, Sevilla, Nurnberg, Bilbao & San Sebastian, Toledo, Toledo, & Toledo, Ohio.

Organizing a cottage in Florida to rent to others.

Bible study and book club with some profoundly beautiful, intelligent and wise women. Separate groups but each equally stimulating and interesting.

¡Olé!

2012 does not promise to be any slower. Paris next week for Thing 1’s 18th birthday. A visit from Mrs. O’Leary. February: London with Mr. Understanding & Valencia with the two younger Things. MCV’s 40th birthday celebration in Madrid during Semana Santa. A visit from Nittany Kitten and Mrs. Nato in May, a driving tour to the south of Spain. (Mrs. Nato’s husband is safely home from Iraq and she has a big, fat get out of jail card we are all playing with her.) Maybe a move to Ohio, maybe not.

After May it all goes fuzzy. Summer and the rest of the year is a big question mark.

Is there any time for writing???? You tell me. In any case, I am nursing my hangover until it’s time to start all over again next week. Am going to start with a martini at the Hemingway Bar.

Where does a princess like to spend New Year’s Eve? Why, at a palace, natch.

I have seen two palaces in the last four days; I would be hard pressed to pick a favorite. Aranjuez or La Granja?

The site of today’s outing, La Granja (“The Farm”), is just over the mountains near Segovia. Unfortunately, the Palace was closed today. The gardens, however, were open so we went for a ramble.

Terraced up the side of a mountain, the gardens are chock full of fountains, none of which were working at this time of year.

The silence of the park was pierced only by the occasional jet overhead or the crack of a rifle, off in the woods.

Thing 1, still recovering from college, and Thing 2, recovering from a night of PlayStation at a friend’s house, stopped at El Estanque Quadrado (Square Pond) while the rest of us ambled up the hill to El Mar (The Sea). A large reservoir, created to catch the snow runoff to feed the fountains, El Mar also became Franco’s fishing grounds.

As we wandered up the hill, we trailed two elderly gentlemen walking together at a slow pace. Occasionally, they would stop to chat and gesticulate with their hands. When we caught up to them, they wished us a Prospero Año. Brothers in their eighties, Alvaro and Demetrio chatted to us about the park, pointing out the Puente de Suspiros (Bridge of Sighs) made of twisted timber. It is called that, they said, because people would sigh upon finally reaching the top. They showed us a grotto and were game to take us around the reservoir. When we told them we’d left two teens at the lower pond, Alvaro quipped, “Cobardes!” (cowards). He was right. They missed some of the best parts! Demetrio lives in Madrid but Alvaro is a resident in the town of La Granja de San Ildefonso and he walks up the hill and around El Mar every Sunday. Clearly, this weekly trek has kept him fit and feliz.

Lunch at Reina XIV and we considered ourselves royalty.

Prospero Año to all!

No, I did not fall off the face of the earth. I am just December busy. Thing 3 turned 13, converting me into the mother of three teenagers. I can hear the sound of my mother rubbing her hands together in glee from five thousand miles away. Thing 3 has been a teenager since the age of one, however, so this is not new. At her first birthday party/Christmas open house, she toddled around the living room sticking her finger into shot glasses of tequila and sucking it off. She liked it. She could also paint her nails tidily at eighteen months. As Maggie O’Montes said at the time, “That one is going to give you a run for your money.” Indeed.

Thing 3, however, is the only child of mine who actually helps out in the kitchen, making dozens of cookies with me. That I am paying her is besides the point (remember: run for your money). She is there.

This Christmas we are staying in Spain. In October I heard a sermon in Baltimore wherein the pastor advised throwing a party to get out of the communal gloom. So I am throwing several: a cocktail party for neighbors, church folk, and book club members; a coffee for women in the area; and a storybook party for children. Believe me when I say that I know how daunting this is, three parties in December, with minimal household help. All that food! Drink! Paper napkins! But this is something I knew I had to do: I am good at parties.

Cookie making is a December activity, one I have not done for several years as I was traveling to the US for the holidays. I woke up this morning thinking of two women who greatly influenced my life and who always made my Christmases wonderful as a child. My mother always freaked out about Christmas, the equity of the gifts, the food, making sure my father had a nice pre-Christmas birthday. The Christmas tree selection was always an ordeal. Christmas for these women was not an ordeal, it was a natural extension of themselves. Nana, a grandmother and baker extraordinaire, had lots of time to bake. The other woman, Mrs. McDowell, had no children and had been a teacher; her saturation point for children was pretty high.

Nana lived across the hall in an apartment building from my parents. Both new to Hippieville, Nana took my mother, very pregnant with me, under her wing. She was, aside from my parents, among the first to see my face. Nana knitted all of our Christmas stockings. (Although the rest of my family has needlepointed stockings, mine stands alone and will never be replaced. I know what an act of love it is to make someone a stocking). She baked cookies out the ying-yang in December: shortbread, Mexican wedding cakes, sprinkled sugar cookies, fudge, fruitcake, spritzed gems. When I was older she let me help her make cookies in her blue and white kitchen, instructing me on how to roll the dough evenly. Right before Christmas she would invite us over for tea and cookies. My sisters and I would play with her toys set out on the coffee table. Nana gave each of us an ornament and sent my mother home with two plates of cookies – one for general consumption and one as a birthday gift for my dad.

Mrs. McDowell lived in our neighborhood. Every Christmas Eve we would walk up to her house where she had put on a cookie spread for a few families. Punch and coffee were set out on a separate table. She, too, was a baker extraordinaire. A petite woman with a puffy pompadour that looked a cloud and a set of the bluest twinkling eyes, she was Mrs. Claus embodied. As a child, she read me many books over the years. She had time for children.

I am not the baker these women were. My mother is a cook, not a baker, and cookie baking is an art that, I believe, is passed down. But to honor them, I really try. Bea Long gave me her mother-in-law’s sugar cookie recipe; after years of searching, it is the closest to Nana’s I’ve ever found, a mouthful of Christmas. The patience that goes with it is also a gift. As I show Thing 3 how to roll out the dough, I am reminded that I am eternally short of it and resolve to do better. How else will my grandchildren eat Christmas cookies????

After a lifetime of pondering, I finally realized my goal in life is to be a grandma. It’s that simple. I will only have to discipline on occasion and perhaps by then will have perfected a stable of cookie recipes. My bosom and lap will be suitably ample for children climb up on. The big house will smell good and be chock full of interesting items for them to break. There will be toys on the coffee table and, if my eye sight holds, a needlepointed Christmas stocking for each child. (First, however, I have to finish Thing 3’s).

So, dear readers, go make a batch of cookies with your kids and invite the neighbors over. Ignore the dust bunnies in the corner, the boxes that still need to be put in the garage. Read a Christmas story together. Slow down. The gifts don’t last but the memories linger forever.

___________________________________________________

Thanks to Lulu Powers’ Food to Flowers cookbook for turning me into the little engine that could! An inspiration for Go With the Flow entertaining! Thanks also to my father for reminding me to write. I promise to write about Thanksgiving in Sevilla soon!

Am experiencing a serious bout of visitor letdown. If you have ever lactated, you will know what I mean regarding a precipitous bodily drop in hormones. In this case, however, there was no relief, just a mean Sunday funk. When an out-of-town guest graces one’s home, one is obliged to drop most of one’s onerous tasks and get out there and ENJOY. Which is just what Baltimore Sue and I did.

I have written before about how Baltimore Sue (a.k.a. Sue B) took me under her wing twenty years ago, chaperoning me around the Beltway, making sure I did not get shot during scene investigations in skanky neighborhoods. In later years, she opened her home to our family during our annual medical forays at Johns Hopkins. So, it was a real honor to have her – FINALLY- in my own (?) home. Ever the gracious guest, she said she would go along with whatever I wanted to see. Herewith, an itinerary and rundown of all the sites we saw:

MONDAY morning: Royal Tapestry Factory (Real Fabrica de Tapices). Rated #62 on Trip Advisor. From Atocha train station, I followed my previously printed Google Map to the museum. Due to the nonsensical sidewalk configuration, we had to do a little backtracking. Those in the know had told me this was a hidden jewel. We waited only 10 minutes for a tour in English.

Now, honestly, you might think to yourself, tapestries are not my thing. Rug making/weaving on a large scale does not interest me. You would be wrong. For 12,000 – 15,000 Euros a square meter (ballpark figure), you can have your very own. These are still made by hand and kudos to the Spanish government for not letting this art lapse in these times of great crisis. Evidently, there are plenty of people with scroll to spare for their own rug and I say Good On Them! If only I could have taken photos!!!! Just the row of colored silk spindles hanging off a hook was enough eye candy for me. But where were the postcards of said spindles! The Spaniards still need to learn a thing or two from the French and the Yanks about merchandising …

My favorite piece: a rug called “Discipline and Lent” by a Spanish artist (don’t know who) which featured every Judeo-Christian religious symbol I knew existed and one I did not. Have you ever seen a winged phallus sporting a ring of bells? I had not and am still unclear as to its meaning (apparently GrecoRoman origins). Believe me, once you see one, you see them everywhere: graffiti, clouds, oil slicks on streets. Maybe even in the cream cheese on your toast. Would love for someone to enlighten me!!!! Please!!!!

Hours open: M-F, 9:30 – 2:00 but check here for time of last guided tour (they are all guided, FYI).

MONDAY afternoon: Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofia. Admitting I have not been here yet is rather like admitting I had not ever been to a flamenco show. Long overdue and, although I am not much of a modern art fan, there was lots to see. I even liked a few of the Picassos. One painting looked like a variation on my one (and only) Ambien dream. Scary, disturbing, and not to be repeated. In any event, I would go back again if ever a guest insisted.

TUESDAY: slept in. One can only push a guest so far. Then, as I am an Amigo del Prado , we used my free passes to attend “El Hermitage en El Prado” show. I had forgotten to look at the date but, lucky for us, it was opening day. Lesson learned: do not go on opening day. Having said that it was SO WORTH IT. Ever heard of the Scythians? Me neither. But they had a whole lot gorgeous gold belt buckles, forged in Siberia (?) on display. Whatever your beef with the Romanovs, they sure hoarded a lot of awesome artwork. The only disappointment: no Faberge egg. I bought the catalog and will return to see this great exhibit again. Once is simply not enough.

WEDNESDAY: up early to go to Toledo by train. Again. At my insistence. There is always someplace new to explore. This time it was the Convent of Santa Cruz, a mini Prado of a former convent/hospital with a few El Grecos, Beruete’s, and other Spanish artists (no Picasso here). The Carranza Collection of Spanish ceramics was amazing. Best part: the museum was FREE. Segundo desayuno at El Trebol (#5 Trip Advisor, right around the corner) – 5 euros/two people/two beers with the best EVER pan tostado con tumaca y jamon. A trip on the Zocotren, which has updated it’s route and material. Then on to the Cathedral. The transept still glorifies. For the first time ever for me, the Chapel of Saint Blaise was open. Besides the marble tomb that looks like its been cracked open one time too many, the recently restored frescoes on the ceiling were outstanding, as were the frescoes leading from the church to the chapel. I was nearly jumping up and down with joy. Lunch at Meson de la Orza (yum, thanks Sue). Convento de San Juan de los Reyes. Then back to the train and home to a meal prepared by Thing 3, on holiday from school. Another travel triumph!

THURSDAY: Carrehell and chillaxing at home. Must gear up for next/last day.

FRIDAY: Bull Fighting Museum, 10 – 2, at the Plaza Monumental de Toros de las Ventas. We took the Metro downtown, led by Thing 2, and were told that the museum was closed due to an “evento”. This is the kind of info it is handy to post on a website, but oh, well. We could do a tour of the ring itself (7 euros adult/5 children). Having spent all the time and energy getting downtown, how could we say no? The last time I was in the ring was with Bea Long, front row seats in section (tendido) 8, a ginormous bull bleeding out in front of us as the smoke from Cuban cigars burned our eyes. The tour guide was a walking tauromaquia encyclopedia, first speaking in Spanish, then English. Did you know that the pink cape, used to get the bull’s attention, is made of silk and lead? It feels something like one of those lead aprons you put on before an xray. It can stand up all by itself! Bulls are color blind so when you say, “I saw red”, it refers not to them, maybe only communists. I am not going to address the various merits and demerits of bullfighting but it was a fascinating tour and speaks to the heart of Spanish culture. I can’t wait to go back to the museum and would do this tour again – there is so much info it is hard to process. One mystery solved: the reason for the matador’s hot pink socks? Tradition. Nada mas.

Then a little trip to the Gran Via for a snack and an unanticipated gander at the Spanish hospitality industry (hookers, spotted by Things) en plein aire.

Is there more? Wait for it ….

Dinner at Botin and flamenco at Corral de la Moreria. This flamenco show is, I am told, the most touristy (and most pricey) but the dancers did deliver, Mr. Jones. Give me some of that Spanish dancing! Holy Smokes! The male dancer looked vaguely Israeli (as opposed to gitano) but he was the best I have seen, bar none. The ladies rocked the house as well. We ended up with excellent seats but my prior warning applies: stay away from the sweat flinging zone.

We then ran for the train and …. made it! Baltimore Sue was, everywhere we went, the lucky charm. Parking spaces opened, trains came in a minute, and tarried when necessary. She was the perfect guest.

Now can you see why I’m a little glum? There is just housework to look forward to this week. Oh, wait, I am going to Salamanca to see the Duchess of Alba’s palace on Thursday …. maybe I’ll perk up by then and leave the dishes in the sink.

P.S. Howard Schultz: all of your Starbucks in Madrid are out of the souvenir mugs. This is unacceptable.

The photos above are of the Day of the Dead ofrenda at Miss Lizzy Jardin de Ninos, circa 1999, and the one I assembled to honor my grandmother who died in 1998 (she actually paid a visit to the ofrenda that year).

Last night we had at least 50 trick-or-treaters in our conjunto. Most were vampires. Some came twice and asked for more candy than I was giving them. Instead of saying “Queremos Halloween!” as they do in Mexico, they would say “truco trato.” We do not really know what this means. A neighborhood child, half Spanish and half American, thought the kids were saying, “tu contrato” (your contract).

Regardless of the translation, Mr. Understanding manned the candy door a few times and decided to ask the kids a few questions as part of the “trick” portion of the evening.

Mr. U: What is the name of the president of Spain?

Niño: Juan Carlos? (Um, nope, he’s the King. Big difference.)

Mr. U: What is the name of the president of the United States?

Niño: Obama!

Between the two of us, we repeated this exercise the rest of the evening. Only two children got the first question correct.

There is something fundamentally wrong with this picture. How can you not know who your president is? When memorization is so prized? HOW?

That is something at which I’d throw a shoe, a pointy toed one.

Obviously that did not happen. It was 1991 and there was a major recession going on. Sound familiar? We moved to Maryland and I started working for an insurance company, unwilling to take another bar exam, especially in a state that was already not hiring its own. It took Mr. Understanding nine months to find his first job.

The European rose colored glasses quickly came off when we finally moved to Spain two years ago. Snarling Spaniards. Poor parking skills. Dog excrement every two feet on the sidewalks outside my house. The “me first” attitude permeating every aspect of life. A compartmentalized life, one with no BFFs. A petite burglary. Enough to make one question one’s life path. Was I sent here just to be constantly irritated? (Perhaps!) Even the Chinese did not wear me down so. I had felt so sure this was where I was supposed to be.

After church last Sunday, Mr. Understanding went into the parish hall for a cup of coffee. An older gentleman approached him and asked him if he remembered him. ¡Por supuesto!

As I approached the two men, the gentleman asked me the same question. His laugh is the exactly the same. Unforgettable. As I stood there, a ficha caiu (everything fell into place – Portuguese). The reason I am living in Spain was kissing both my cheeks and explaining about his hearing aids. Jose Manuel is visiting Madrid for a month and renting our church’s little apartment.

I do not know exactly why we are the beneficiaries of a double full circle moment but I am also not dumb enough to ignore such a sign. We never, ever run into people we know. Perhaps Jose Manuel is going to offer, over Sunday lunch, an explanation for why, in even the nicest neighborhoods, people do not pick up after their dogs. Why, after an education of pure rote memorization, Spaniards cannot park in the middle of two lines. Somehow, though, I do not think this is going to happen. After all, he left Spain. There had to be a good reason and I am going to get to the bottom of it, to see if another piece on the “Life is a Mystery” game board fits into place. Mainly, I just like to think that Jose Manuel’s appearance is confirmation that we are supposed to be here in Madrid, a little pat of encouragement to stick it out and avert my eyes.

Need a cheap furnished place to rent in Madrid for a month or more? Go here: www.stgeorgesmadrid.com/.

A few photos to whet your appetite … a good time was had by all!

This might have been a longer post but Madrid Maid Drama 2.0 sidetracked me yesterday. Firing and hiring a maid (with whom I am leaving Things 2 & 3), all in the span of an hour, did me in. That stein of beer can’t come soon enough! No, I am not leaving them with a stranger…. I have a long list of back ups, for this very reason. I am no Celia Foote. This, frankly, grieves me. The housekeeper drama is too long and soap operatic to recount in a blog. Let’s just say there were no winners.

Hasta la pasta, dear readers, and if I can, I will write from some lovely piazza. xoxo

Here are a few examples from my summer. Wah wah wah.

This August on Continental flight 1682, from Seattle to Newark, I left my Kindle on the airplane. Thousands of people do this every day. I voluntarily gave myself the Family Dunce Award for Inept Travel. I am always cautioning my children not to put stuff in the seat compartment and yet I did that very thing. Dodo! Here is the catch: I realized it within an hour and went to the closest gate. The agent there (very helpful), followed up by phone. The agent at gate 85 did see the cleaning crew with my Kindle. Upon further conversation, it was revealed that the Kindle was stowed in the cleaning person’s shirt. It did not make it to the lost and found department. I went to the agent in Baltimore, as directed, and was given a phone number. This was to an automated unit. I called back and asked for a supervisor. I was told I did not need one. Really? How convenient for Continental! I finally was given the number to a “New Jersey Task Force for Lost Articles”. I called the number in New Jersey [973-681-0658], which was automated, and it referred me to the original 800 number I was previously given [800-335-2247]. Do you see where I am going with this? Thirty nine minutes and four dollars later, the agent “Donna” eating carrots in my ear, I was no further along. Where was the “superior customer service” I was promised?

Two days later I called back and tried again, this time with “Michael”. He could not do anything for me and “the supervisor won’t talk to you about this”. “Michael” won that round. So I called back and said I had been cut off with the supervisor. I was told Continental was not liable for their subcontracted cleaning crew [this begs the question if they are liable for anything on a plane, just sayin’]. But I did ask for the President of Continental/United’s phone number [713-324-2779]. After listening to a recording about Continental/United being a “premier” airline, I left a message for Jeff Smisek on August 16 at 4:50 EST and to date have not heard back.

For a writing class two years ago, I started my China memoir. The opening line is/was, “I miss Gordon Bethune”. Gordon Bethune was the president of Continental from xxxx to xxxx. When he left, things started to go down hill. Larry What’s His Face might have been nicer man, according to one reservation agent, but he did not run as tight a ship. Jeff, in startling contrast, is manning the Titanic.

I am looking for a new airline.

Not looking at my receipt at the time of the purchase I discovered, while back in Madrid, that I had been charged twice for Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand at the Barnes and Noble at JHU. How many times has this happened before? For how many items? One wonders.

Orioles v. Yankees tickets at Camden Yards. Family took earlier flight back to Madrid to avoid Hurricane Irene. I don’t even know if the game was played because ….

My DF Chicks Post College Drop-Off Weekend was also cancelled. This was a blow. Four of us mothers, all of whom had children the same age in Sunday School in Mexico City, had planned a weekend of catching up and kibbitzing after dropping off our children at their respective colleges (two of whom, amazingly enough, attend the same one). It was not to be. We were all crushed. But in order to avoid all the cancelled flights, two women left early and I drove from Maryland to Florida with Dr. Skin, my sister-in-law, and Winnie, my mother-in-law. Nice save! I got the money back from my flight (go Southwest!) and had an enjoyable bonding time coursing through Virgina, North Carolina, etc. in a mini-van. Not what was expected but I would not take back that time for anything. We had real girl talk. This is what I call Making Lemonade Out of Lemons.

Twentieth Wedding Anniversary. This was the same day as Dorm Move In Day. Mr. Understanding and I, at the end of a long day, turned into toddlers on our way to the Maroon Five/Train concert in Columbia, Maryland. The concert was outstanding but we were too tired to celebrate. Not to worry. We had a wonderful meal the next night at Fogo do Chao before the Final Drop Off with the whole family, exchanged gifts, and made up. Also, we are going on a second honeymoon soon (I realized we did not have to take our children everywhere with us).

Laundry explosion. Can of aerosol sunscreen leaked all over clothes, new and old. I was too cheap to throw away the can, especially since they do not have them in Europe, and now I know better. Ka-CHING!!!! File this under General Stupidity and Being a Cheapskate.

Shingles vaccination. I am hesitant to even write this. Right before leaving for the East Coast, I decided to get the shot, ignoring all the literature that says you can actually get the shingles from the vaccination. I also ignored my low B12 level and forged ahead, as I am wont to do. Result: huge, itchy, red welt on the injection site for several days and an anxious 48 hours wondering if I was going to go down. Still, no regrets – I survived!

Tod’s driving moccasins – hole in heel. I am embarrassed to admit owning a pair as they are hideously expensive. But they felt sooooo good on my feet when I bought them in Roma and I have worn them a lot. I was told, at the store in Madrid, that really, these shoes only last a season. They cannot be repaired. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? Where is that market research, pray tell? One season? Too rich for my blood. Just call it Comeuppance.

All the missed phone calls to friends and not enough time with family. I beg your forgiveness. We just ran out of time.

Bank account: decimated. See above.



As I look back on the devastation, I am reminded that there were no trips to the ER this summer. No major crises. The toll just came in a different form, not nearly as painful, in truth. Oh, and did I mention I lost a daughter? OUCH.

Happy Birthday to Dr. Skin. You are still older than me. And Happy Autumn to everyone else!

Zocalo, Independence Day, Mexico City

Today is the eve of Mexican Independence Day, a day when Mexicans gather in the town square or zocalo to hear reenactments of Father Miguel Hidalgo’s famous cry in 1810 encouraging revolt from Spain. “Viva Mexico! Viva Mexico! Viva Mexico!” No one really knows what Fr. Hidalgo said but his words sparked a decade of war, concluding with the definitive separation from Spain.

For many years I have wanted to attend “El Grito”, as the famous speech is called, in Mexico City’s Zocalo. The President of Mexico comes to the balcony of the Palacio Nacional at 11 p.m., rings a bell, raises his hand, and gustily yells a few key patriotic phrases. These phrases, in fact, are intended to resonate with the crowd below, indicators of the President’s primary preoccupations for his country. The President then concludes the Grito by yelling “Viva Mexico!” Then he waves the flag of Mexico for the crowd below, fireworks go off, and the national anthem is sung. Safe on my own balcony at the Majestic Hotel across the plaza, tequila in hand and surrounded by amigos, I could not imagine a better way to celebrate the day than to witness this tradition.

When I lived in Mexico City, however, I had small children and attending this event was an expensive endeavor. Now of course it is just plain unthinkable. Martita, who still lives in el D. F., reported recently reported that a severed head was found in the Santa Fe area of Mexico City. Once an enormous landfill, Santa Fe was transformed into a massive commercial center on the outskirts of town, home to department stores, restaurants, hotels, and office buildings. Severed heads in one’s figurative backyard tend to make one think twice about venturing out to the Zocalo for Independence Day.

As I write this, Mexico is still fighting for its independence. Two centuries after that particular war was waged, another rages on. Mexico remains chained to its own, self-inflicted, crippled political system. The Mexico of the fifteen years ago was scary enough so I am unable to grasp the enormity of the current conflict (which is really just an intensified accumulation of the old one). In my heart I am going to scream loudly tonight for Mexican freedom from corruption, from the drug trade, from ceaseless violence. And maybe one day I’ll be able to witness the real deal with Martita and friends, singing the Mexican national anthem from the rooftop of the Majestic after a fine meal of chiles en nogada, screaming with the best of them.

For you can leave a country, but the country never really leaves you.

The learning curve for college drop off is steep. First, let me just say that all those orientation activities for parents to attend are all for organized parents. Domestic parents. Parents who have driven in with their childrens’ bedrooms and do not have to recreate one from scratch and two pieces of 50 pound luggage. We did not attend a single activity as parents, besides the initial coffee. We had to return to Target instead.

Target, during a college dorm move in, looks like a picked over landscape, parents scavenging like vultures for that case of water (hurricane coming), bedside lamp, or curtain rod and curtain to help block out what light the dorm room blinds do not. It is not the Target I know. My only comfort came from seeing other parents making the same trek. It does beg the question, “What can you live without?”

For setting up the dorm room, especially if you are an expat, is a splurge I equate with the modern day dowry. (If only people today gave as much thought and research to their future spouse as they do to the university they attend!). It is important that your child have a stocked medical chest, two sets of sheets, two towels, and enough underwear to get through a week or ten days. Then there are the items one shares. In Thing 1’s case, her roommate brought the fridge, she brought the printer, and the suitemate, a beauty pageant teen queen from Arkansas, not only bought the router but she set it up. All of this takes time and money – for the first time parent, well, nothing quite prepares you.

The parameters on the family’s life have forever shifted; the earthquake we felt in Baltimore was minor in comparison. I had been in deep denial before this moment, progressing through the family chores during the summer. Now back in Madrid, I am just rather numb, feasting on books like I am dining at an all-you-can-eat buffet. Life is akimbo and until I/we get used to it, there is nothing I can do, except process it little by little each day and play Scrabble after dinner. Re-entry is bad enough but this is just an extra layer of glum until the routine of the “new normal” sets in.

One final thought, unrelated: yesterday at church, the Gospel was Matthew 18:21-35.

21 Then Peter came to Jesus and asked, “Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother or sister who sins against me? Up to seven times?”
 22 Jesus answered, “I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times.”*

In the Anglican church, the readings repeat every three years with little variation, marching to the calendar based on the liturgical seasons, intent on drumming into one the most important messages. I am quite sure the hijackers did not consult the calendar ten years in advance. They did not anticipate that the tenth anniversary would fall on a Sunday and that the message would be forgiveness. And therein lies the true victory. I’ll keep working at it.

Thanks to Mood Ring Momma, Nittany Kitten, and Stephanie for sustaining my banquet of books. Here is what I’ve read lately:

When the Game is Over, It All Goes Back in the Box – John Ortberg. Soul food.
Traveling with Pomegranates: A Mother-Daughter Story – Sue Monk Kidd & Ann Kidd Taylor. Soul searching.
The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks – Rebecca Skloot. Soul defining, on a cellular level. Awesome.
Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art – Madeleine L’Engle. A reverberating ripple in time.
The Last Stand of Major Pettigrew – Helen Simonson. Dry, wry humor – dessert for the brain. Absolutely hilarious. If I had money, I would buy the movie rights.
Origin – Diana Abu-Jaber. Overly prosey mystery.
State of Wonder – Ann Patchett. Surprisingly did not relish as much as I thought I would.
In the Garden of Beasts: Love, Terror, and an American Family in Hitler’s Berlin – Erik Larson. An absolute must read.

* Also interpreted as seventy times seven. Wow.

This time it was my turn. I created two playlists, spanning her life. (Unfortunately, one is still in Spain, stuck in a different iTunes directory. So you will have to make do with this one.) Mr. Understanding created the cover art for The Life and Times of Thing 1 and it is spectacular.

Pack Up – Eliza Doolittle. This song is self-explanatory. Currently on the radio in Madrid, I liked the title and it bee-boppy beat. Perfect for anyone you need to send packing. The message is good as well.

Leaving on a Jet Plane – Peter, Paul, and Mary. This song is a song from my childhood and Mr. Understanding´s. We used to sing it to each other when we parted during our long distance romance. A timeless classic.

The Future´s So Bright, I´ve Gotta Wear Shades – Timbuk 3. Straight out of the 80´s. This song is how I feel about Thing 1´s future. Get goin´, girl! I am so excited for her!!!!

Outbound Plane – Suzy Bogguss. Again, the title was important. The message can wait until she is in a relationship. Planes and flying figure heavily in our familial identity.

Straighten Up and Fly Right – Robbie Williams. Flying again. A subtle warning, something to listen to before going to the first party.

Letting Go – Suzy Bogguss. THIS IS THE TEARJERKER. I have played this song almost as long as Thing 1 has been alive and in a twisted way, it has long prepared me for today. Don´t play it if you are going to be seen in public shortly thereafter make sure you are wearing waterproof mascara.. I like to think that Thing 1 understands a bit of mother´s angst just by listening to this.

I´ll Make a Man Out of You – Chorus – Mulan and Donny Osmond. Sometimes I think we moved to China because of the Disney movie. College will make a woman of Thing 1. A mountain top moment for me: walking with Thing 1, listening to this song on her iPod, up through the gardens of Versailles at dusk in the November chill.
Girl From Ipanema – Jobim and Stan Getz. This is the instrumental version, which was a mistake. Ni modo. I will revamp the CD and add the version with lyrics. Any schoolchild in Brazil learns this song and it was the number 1 song in 1964, the year of my birth. This fact, combined with our love of all things Brazilian, made it a shoo-in. it is the quintessential song of Rio and one must learn the lyrics in Portuguese.

Don´t Stop Me Now – Queen. Oh, Freddy Mercury! His voice and music are ones for the ages. Upbeat, this song expresses what I think college and new life anticipation should be all about. Thing 1 is, in fact, unstoppable.

I Miss You – Blink 182. Thing 1 will always be ¨¨the voice inside my yead¨. No need to say more.

Taps: Do you remember those electronic songbooks, precursors to iPods? Mr. Understanding used to tuck Thing 1 in bed and would round out the storybook with Taps. If you have never heard this played at the American Cemetery in Normandy, France, you have never experienced it. It is an experience, a comforting way to go to sleep. ¨¨All is well, safely rest, God is nigh.¨ As a message from a parent to a child, it doesn´t get any better than that.

Today is Mr. Understanding´s and my 20th anniversary. We are celebrating by dropping Thing 1 at her dorm at Johns Hopkins University. Then as a family we are going to listen to Gavin DeGraw, Train, and Maroon 5. Can you imagine such a day? I can´t but it´s about to happen in 30 minutes.

Two weekends ago, Stephanie, my law school buddy, met me at Nordstrom for a makeover with Viking Queen. Over the years, as a form of stress relief, Stephanie and I have bought lipstick/gloss/mascara/blush together; in this manner, we survived finals, bar exams, long distance romances, and toddlers via communal trips to the makeup counter.

Although staunchly politically opposite (each of us), Stephanie and I can have a meeting of the minds over the newest Chanel eye liner. If only Congress could be so likeminded! This year I introduced Stephanie, not only to Viking Queen, but to Trish McEvoy.

When we’d plotted our “law school reunion for two” (I am missing the real deal), it was only fitting that Viking Queen be assigned the job of rehabbing our middle aged faces. A former journalist, Stephanie was eager for a good interview. Most of the interesting questions came from her, even if I was the person asking them.

Herewith, The Tattoo You Interview:

EPP: So, Viking Queen, you don’t mind me asking you about your tattoos, do you?

VQ: Go right ahead!

EPP: What was your first tattoo and where did you put it?

VQ: A triskele, on my upper back.

EPP: What the heck is a triskele?

VQ: It’s a Celtic symbol representing maiden, mother, and crone.

EPP: Why the upper back?

VQ: Why not?

EPP: How old were you?

VQ: Eighteen. You have to be eighteen in Washington, by law.

SL: Oregon has no law. The Oregonian just had an article discussing this. There was a photo of a kid getting ear gages. Do you think there should be a law?

VQ: Absolutely!

SL: In your mind, is there a difference between tattoos and piercings?

VQ: YES! Piercings are too intense for me.

EPP: Yet your boyfriend has both and he is a tattoo artist.

VQ: Yes, but he is different.

EPP: We’ll get to that in just a bit. WHY, oh why, did you get a tattoo in the first place? You were living in Alaska at the time, right?

VQ: Yes, Alaska. I think it was a social thing. I was exposed to other people doing it from a young age.

[EPP: Is that because there’s nothing much else to do there?

VQ: Pretty much.]

EPP: But WHY? Do your tattoos have meanings?

VQ: Well, the first couple have meaning did but now they don’t. I recently got a matching tattoo with my niece. I let her choose it. [Shows wrist with small anchor on it].

EPP: How do you choose your designs?

VQ: Sometimes you don’t! At a low point in my life, I once drank a bottle of wine and went in for a tattoo. I came out with a prison b*tch tattoo. Ugly. Nick [the boyfriend] had to rework it. Generally, however, when you go into a tattoo parlor there is a wall with flash on it and you pick your design. You just don’t want them to sling something on you.

EPP: What is “flash”?

VQ: Just another name for the designs. They have them up on a wall or in books.. Piercing examples are also in books.

EPP: This is a whole new vocabulary for me. How do you feel about actually getting the tattoo?

VQ: I do not enjoy the experience. That is part of the reason my bird on my right arm is unfinished.

EPP: How do you feel about colors? I saw a girl with a cartoon of a mini robot in rainbow brite colors. It was serious arm candy, kind of like Skittles. [Here I must interject how ridiculous I thought this tattoo was].

VQ: I only like traditional colors. My Sailor Jerry tattoo is only done in traditional colors [pulls up her shirt to show us].

EPP: Who is Sailor Jerry?

VQ: Sailor Jerry was a famous tattoo artist.

EPP: Did he do that on you?

VQ: No! He’s dead.

Here we paused to count the number of tattoos, totaling ten, some of which had been reworked.

SL: which is the most recent tattoo?

VQ: the anchor. Although, I did get a matching tattoo of one of Nick’s [green roses on right wrist]. It looks stupid though when we hold hands!

EPP: Speaking of Nick, he is a tattoo artist, correct?

VQ: Yes but he is not like other tattoo artists.

EPP: How so?

VQ: He doesn’t wear flannel or have a big bushy beard. We also prefer to stay home and not party.

EPP: Very mature of you. I notice that you generally only wear black.

VQ: Well, when you are tattooed you don’t need any more accessories.

EPP: Are those Tiffany star earrings I see in your ears?

VQ: Yes, they are! Nick gave them to me! He also recently gave me a Prada bag.

EPP: Prada?! Holy Smokes! That’s a nice gift.

VQ: Why yes it is. I was laughing when they told me it was made of “city calf”. What’s that?

EPP: The opposite of country calf?

VQ: Who knows!

EPP: Are you going to get any more tattoos?

VQ: I don’t think so. I’m about done.

EPP: So, your adoption of your half sister was recently finalized.

VQ: Yes, just last month! She’s mine! She’s super smart, that girl.

EPP: Are you being nice to Nick?

VQ: A lot nicer. He is so good to me and my children.

EPP: Do you think you are ready to get married?

VQ: You know, I think I am.

EPP: I’ll be sure to pass that along. Finally, any advice on getting a tattoo?

VQ: Remember, it’s forever. You do not want to look like a “hot topic” so be classy. And, don’t do it on the face and hands if you want a normal job. People will judge you based on your tattoos.

And that concluded our interview. Well, not really. I asked her a lot of questions about piercings, the answers of which I am too embarrassed to share with my readers, especially for the grandmothers in the audience. Most questions were targeted towards the nether regions, the piercings of which I cannot wrap my mind around. My questions and VQ’s answers would make you seriously blush. If you have a prurient interest, go do the Googling yourself. I couldn’t make myself even do that! Better to ask the VQ.

After my interview, Stephanie and I came to the conclusion that a) today’s generations don’t need a reason to get a tattoo (but many people feel the need to make up a story in order to get one) b) Viking Queen was a mature woman who had her act together and c) tattoo and piercing parlors are, in fact, skanky places. Before this, I had thought the world was just memorializing their grief or happiness, unable to articulate their stories verbally. I was wrong.

Did the soccer mom not think before she went for the ink? How about that grandma with the absurd initials running across her toes? What about the Chicago World’s Fair hot hair balloon or the angels’ wings sprawling across the backs of thirtysomethings? Probably, they were not thinking . Or if they did, they did it just because they thought it was cool (why this is a revelation to me, I am not sure). There is, most times, no deeper meaning. The phrase “it’s only skin deep” resonates. I just think it’s too bad, sometimes, that it’s hanging on flesh, not on a wall of a museum. Other times, I am just plain relieved.

In any case, my profound gratitude to Viking Queen for demystifying the tattoo industry for me, for sharing her stories, and for lifting up her shirt against company policy to show me the her kids’ names in spelled out in Celtic runes.

Questions of the day: if you got a tattoo, what would it be and where would you put it? If you already have one, what is it, where did you put it, and why did you get it?

For more information on Sailor Jerry go to www.sailorjerry.com.

In 1985, I had just transferred colleges. I had signed up for Journalism – at the nth hour of my sophomore year at the University of Oregon – but when I transferred to Cal they did not have an undergraduate department in that field. So I got a B.A. in English Lit instead.

Anyhow, one day I asked Ms. Kennedy if I could write a spec interview of her for the Daily Californian. I said that if she did not like it I would not submit it for publication. So we had ourselves a little interview, I wrote it up, and she did not like it. She said, and here is a direct quote from twenty-five years ago, “It is too intimate.” Crushed, I slunk away and cried me a river. Wasn’t that was the point of an interview? Ms. Kennedy may even have offered to let me rewrite it but I was either too embarrassed or deflated to try. I secretly really liked it the way it was.

After a year of writing my blog, my crime novel having hit a standstill , I used to ponder why I never sent any articles out for publication. Why, why, was I so afraid of rejection? And then a light bulb that had been turned off for twenty years switched on. Even though it did not change anything, at least I knew the source. A few years after that, digging through stuff as I was moving from China, I found that interview with Ms. Kennedy. I still thought it was pretty good but I resealed the box and sent it to storage where it will remain in perpetuity.

What does this have to do with my friend, the makeup artist, Viking Queen? Well, Viking Queen has a storied past, a tale of heartbreak and today, overwhelming personal triumph. She has permitted me to interview her about her plethora of tattoos. This interview will be intimate because Viking Queen is intimate. She is a no holds barred kind of gal. There is nothing private about her and she says it like it is.

Today in the world there have never been more tattoos. It really is a global trend. I want to know WHY. I do not want one for myself but I am fascinated by them and extremely curious. I have a theory or two I’d like to explore. And not in a Miami/LA Ink kind of way. (I prefer to get my reality TV at the makeup counter while Viking Queen is applying eyeliner.)

Christine, a dear friend from Madrid, says getting a tattoo is like advertising your bad judgment. It is like flaunting your immaturity or a strange form of deluded self-confidence: you are so sure of yourself at 18 of what you like and would like to wear forever on your body. She has a point. When Christine speaks on the subject she is very eloquent and I generally agree with her.

Viking Queen, however, ends up turning all my preconceived notions upside down. She might do that for you too, if you are middle-aged. In any event, this is what I am going to write about in my next post: preconceived notions, tattoos and body piercings, and our judgmental ways.

If memory serves me, I ended up getting an A in Ms. Kennedy’s class (if I ever took it). At least that is how I remember it: a scary learning experience from a kind and gentle woman who did not like to be interviewed. The lesson from that experience today as an adult is not to be afraid to face rejection. Why could my 21 year old self not pick up on that? Today I don’t send any articles out or blog enough because being a wife and a mother is using up all my free energy, not that I am afraid. I am fine with that. My self-esteem will really not be enhanced if my travel article gets bought by the magazine Budget Travel. Really.

What is scaring you today, besides the stock market, that you need to move forward with?

Many kind friends have asked me how I am handling my daughter going off to college with the Atlantic ocean separating us. I cheerily reply that I am so happy for her that I am not concerned with my own mental state at the moment (denial, in other words). And this is mostly true. However, I had a little breakdown at the Shilshole Marina yesterday watching her ease into her camp volunteer mode with all her friends from over the years. Thing 3 and I were relegated to a picnic table, watching as Thing 1 helped check forms for children with medical issues. She is jonesing for her 10 year attendance plaque and is willing to put up with all manner of homesick kids to get it. This last outing at camp, not the last Harry Potter flick, is end of her childhood.

Speaking of plaques, every summer we head to the dentist for an annual check up. I like to balance out the foreign healthcare with that of the American, mainly because I, as you know, so prefer the latter. To my shock and awe, Thing 1 garnerd FOUR cavities in the past year. The last time this happened to a child of mine was during our first year in Spain when I could not figure out which dentist to use. College applications were the excuse this year – plus, I simply forgot to take my children to the dentist for a cleaning. Perhaps I could not find a hole in my calendar? Who knows but lesson learned. I am sure Maria the Dentist is cringing right now reading this. Needless to say, it spawned an entire conversation about how wonderfully Brazilians take care of their teeth – my kids had to brush after lunch at school in Campinas.

Other news: most of you know that today is President Obama‘s birthday. It is also Mr. Understanding‘s. Mr. U is a year younger than BO and gets my vote for President of Everything. Although these last two years in Spain have been some of my toughest as an expat, they have also been some of my best as a wife. Go figure. More on this later in the month.

Finally, please keep my college friend and faithful blog reader Raftbuddy in your thoughts and prayers. She had a little voluntary involuntary surgery yesterday. A diet of rest, rom coms, and love is required.

Next up: The Post College Roadtrip Analysis – for the Class of 2012.

Dear Leezer:

Remember when you came to visit me in Madrid and wanted to go to a flamenco show? And I talked you out of it? TWICE? Even going to so far as to make you watch a You Tube video in an effort to dissuade you? Remember that?

I made a mistake. Previous ethnic song and dance routines had influenced my decision making process. A tango show in Buenos Aires and a Chinese opera in Xian were the main culprits. In the case of the tango show, the accordian got to me, all that whinging and moaning. Forget about the dancing. Half an hour of that music put me over the edge. The same goes for the Chinese opera. The erdu, or whatever it’s called, combined with the back of the throat keening made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Therefore, I was none to keen to suffer through an hour of Much Less Than the Gypsy Kings. Although the guitar was a draw, the thought of semi-Arabic ululations was reminiscent of the aforementioned cultural displays. Plus, the show was expensive and you only get one drink with your ticket.

Now I have to confess that I have been to two flamenco shows. And loved them both.

First, I went to Casa Patas near the Plaza Santa Ana with Miss Sherri, a friend visiting from Mexico. Having purchased the tickets last minute, we were far from the stage. As they say in Mexico, ni modo; I’d heard the flinging sweat circumference could be deadly. The guitar music and singing were fantastic and Miss Sherri liked the men in black. However, there was not much dancing.

At least compared to the show at Las Carboneras, right around the corner from our beloved Botin and the Mercado San Miguel. We went there last week with the ContraCosta family for the 10:30 show. Flamenco Jo, a friend from church and a flamenco aficionado, got us the best seats in the house, right off the stage. Three women, in various styles of flamenco dress, sat down in front of a phalanx of somber looking men playing guitars and singing, all dressed in black. These senoras could sing as well as tell stories with their feet.

The first dancer led us on a homicidal bender, discovering her lover’s infidelity, dispatching him in a rage, and then attending his funeral as she lifted her polka dot dress to reveal her calves and feet rat-a-tatting the saga. The second dancer led us on a comedic ramble, slapping her thighs, rolling her eyes, all the while snapping her fingers and clapping her hands. Dancer #3 went back to the theme of betrayal, leading us through Elizabeth Kubler-Ross’s Five Stages of Grief, clapping her hands thoughtfully, as if she were washing them. For the finale, a man dressed in a shiny black suit and red shirt, sporting a short ponytail, came on stage. This gentleman took us on a journey of female conquest, dancing so vigorously we thought he would fall off the stage. All of the dancers were drenched in sweat by the end of the show, it was true. (Luckily for me, I was beyond the strike zone).

So, Leezer, the next time you are in Madrid, I am picking up the tab for flamenco. By then I will have a fully informed opinion and will have sussed out the best show in town. On our way back to the Metro station, we’ll stop by the Mercado and get an olive pop. I now have the Madrid itinerary down pat.

You can check out both shows on the links below:

www.tablaolascarboneras.com
www.casapatas.com

If you need Flamenco Jo to set it up for you, go to www.insidersmadrid.com!

I really must apologize for my lengthy absence from the blogosphere. Travel, house guests, and high school graduation (not mine but it felt like it!) all have taken a toll on my writing life. I simply did not, nor do I, have the brain waves to do it all. The short questionnaire at the end of my May post indicated that readers wanted me to flesh out my trip to the ER in May. In the interim, recent events shaped today’s post. Herewith, the long and the short of it. Bear with me as I ease back into the groove of writing.

On the morning of Thing 1’s last International Baccalaureate exams, I was scurrying around, preparing for our trip later in the afternoon to Bilbao and San Sebastian. As I bent down to pick up a pair of shoes I’d kicked off the night before, I accidentally slammed the corner of my right eye on the edge of my office desk. Don’t ask me how – my peripheral vision is just fine. My children, breakfasting in the kitchen, heard the clamor. I immediately ran to the fridge for an icepack, one of those plastic jobbers you throw in a lunch box. A purple, plastic flower rigid with ice, I held it to my eye for about 5 minutes before asking Thing 3 how bad it looked. This was a mistake. Thing 3 began to howl and I knew I had a situation on my hands. Removing the ice flower, there was a smear of blood trickling down.

I called Thing 1 to assess the situation. She said, “It’s not too bad but you might want to have someone look at it. It might need a stitch.”

On the morning of a trip, this is not really what one wants to hear. Mr. Understanding had already left for the gym and I could not figure out to drive one-handed to the ER. So I called Alice of Aragon and she drove me to the closest ER, Hospital Zarzuela. Then I went to the guest room and told my parents I’d be back in a few hours.

Ever hopeful, I had my international health insurance card in hand when I approached the receptionist at the ER. Now, let me preface this by saying that I was not looking my best. Dressed in Spandex for the gym with my hair scraped into a pony tail, I was ready for the 10 a.m. spinning class but not for a public outing not involving sweat. I did not have on makeup, was not carrying a designer purse, and was not properly accessorized – all of which are required if one wants proper service in Spain. Attached to my face was the ice pack and a hand towel.

Two women were chatting at the desk. One was about to go off for coffee (it was 8:20). Neither stopped their conversation. Finally, one looked up. I handed her my card and asked to be seen by a doctor. She told me it was a private hospital. I said that I knew that, could she check the insurance. No, they did not take it. I called the international insurance company who said they would fax a guarantee of payment. The receptionist said they would not take that. Of course not. I handed her a credit card. She processed $350 euros. She was not nice.

It took me awhile to figure out why. As the empty waiting room filled up, I began to get strange, furtive looks. As I waited for the doctor to finish his coffee (am not sure triage as a concept is used here), it dawned on me that everyone assumed my husband had perpetrated, sadly, the most routine of crimes and that I could wait.

The good news: I was in and out in an hour, they gave me an itemized bill, and returned $162 euros on the spot. The bad news: I had a honkin’ bandage on my eye, everyone thought I was the victim of spousal abuse throughout graduation week, and I now have an ugly little scar at the corner of my eye. So, did the hospital refuse to serve me? No. But did they want to help me? No.

After this incident, I began to quiz expats and locals about their favorite emergency room.

Contrast this with my latest trip to the ER (the learning curve is steep but eventually I get there).

Two weekends ago, I had to take Mr. ContraCosta to an ER for what was termed Travelers Syndrome. That day, our two families were scheduled to go to Salamanca for an overnight excursion. I had booked four rooms via booking.com but had not yet bought the train tickets. (Are you sensing a theme here, yet? You should be).

Now armed with a wealth of knowledge, I had a choice to make: go to the ER closest to my house with the mean receptionist or zip seven minutes further down the road to the hospital about which I’d heard no complaints. I threw on my sweats (again) and driving like the wind, I shaved two minutes off the difference and escorted Mr. ContraCosta into the Hospital Quiron. This receptionist was nice and Mr. CC was seen in 5 minutes by an empathetic staff of nurses, doctors, and other personnel, many of whom attempted to speak English. Even the barista in the hospital cafe was friendly. The hospital was clean. Not rural America hospital clean, but cleaner than the myriad others I’ve seen.

This time, however, we had to cancel the trip.

In the end, this last hospital experience cancelled out the other one and I now know where to go in an emergency. Since I am accident prone, I consider this a good thing, even if it did come at another’s expense. Further lessons on expat living and travel are listed below. Really, learn from the foot(fall) of the master.

Morals of the story:

*pack ahead of time (I had, which was good)
*move slowly on the day of travel – do you really need to put away the shoes?
*not every woman with a bandage on her eye was hit by her partner
*if you are visiting me, think twice about non-refundable reservations.
*scope out ERs ahead of time
*remember: they serve beer and wine in the cafeterias
*dress up for the ER if you possibly can
*ask for a plastic surgeon

Finally, I would like to give a shout out to the Room Mate Vega hotel manager in Salamanca for not charging us for four unused hotel rooms. That was really, really nice. I can’t wait to stay there!

Next Up: Formal Apologies and Flamenco

*************************

As God is my witness, June 19 feels like the first day I have woken up relaxed in about a year. And that is after arriving home at 3 a.m. after a party! Friday night I had a little mini-breakdown. My maternal grandmother always said, “If you have nothing good to say, say nothing at all.” This aphorism in the same vein as her other favorite, “Pretty is as pretty does”. I have not been feeling pretty in quite awhile. There are many contributing factors for this. Most would assume that it is because I have gone into early mourning for Thing 1’s departure for college. Not so. My poison pen is collecting the facts before exposing either the lunacy/inefficiency/corruption/snobbishness of the culture in which I am living. Honestly, I can’t decide which to write about first! So many choices!

Two years ago, our family got on a plane and said good-bye to Shanghai, our third foreign home. I, at least, shed a lot of tears. Today, Bea Long and PAL and their families are saying good-bye as well, an act which officially ends an era. In the intervening two years, Thing 1 has completed high school with an IB diploma and a salutatorian plaque, has gotten into one of the nation’s finest universities, we’ve moved houses twice, my parents visited for two months, and we’ve traveled around Europe. We have spent a tremendous amount of time together as a family, which is perhaps the cosmic objective of this expat assignment. But none of us have friends like those we left in Shanghai, Campinas, or el D.F. (Mrs. NATO and Nittany Kitten having abandoned us here in Madrid).

Why is that? you ask. I have plenty of theories but not enough of your interest to lay them all out. The bottom line: Spain is a tough nut to crack and so far, in the expat ranks, my least favorite abode. Quite Franco, in general, the Madrilenos are not fond of Americans.

So, how did I transition, in 36 hours from being the starring actress in Pedro Almodovar’s movie “Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown” to the most relaxed I have been in a year? Honestly, probably via the prayers of some pink nuns in Philly and a trip to the NATO base for their International Food Festival.

Between the French champagne, German bratwurst, Greek Tzatziki, Italian focaccia, and American brownies, I saw a glimmer of hope in mankind. These international kind of people – normal, humble, working – are my peeps. The barrel bellied hombre with moving his hips and levantando los manos in the Spanish version of the Electric Slide, con “movimentos sexy”, loosened something in me. Thing 2, hard up for cash due to a terrible texting bill, agreed to dance for 2 euros up on the dance floor, next to the abuelas, the teenage girls, and the men hoping to get lucky that night. The Turkish infant seated at our table , with so much hair he looked like he was wearing a wig, crying at the loud music, unlocked my heart. But it was really the Spanish song “Bacalao con Papas” that was the tipping point.

An entire song devoted to salted codfish! Besides rice, bacalao/bacalhau has been the one food staple common to all the countries in which we’ve lived. Our favorite Spanish “caviezel” (refer to earlier post), involved a Christmas bacalao fest. Stacked like rugs in a Beijing market stall, a Mexican grocery store, or swimming in sauce on a Brazilian buffet line, salted cod has been ubiquitous. Even though I am not a fisheater*, this song made me laugh. Hard. Watch it here and decide for yourself if it’s really about cod and potatoes.

Spinning with the fake boobs (refer to video) and botoxed lips at the Reebok club, while a necessary evil, does not fulfill me. A good party with real people, however, puts everything in perspective. Which is why I stayed out ‘til 3 the following night at a 10th anniversary of a 30th birthday party. On Friday, if you had told me that I could get on a plane and leave Madrid for good, I would have rejoiced. As it is, I am here for another year. I think I am going to party like it’s 2012.

And really, I am over the parking issue. I delight in not straightening out my car. Oh, and a big thank you to my father for raising me to believe in the possibility of earthly justice, to my father-in-law for writing one treasured thank you note, and to my husband who really is Mr. Understanding. All are fine men and fathers, simply the best.

***************

Future subjects (please vote on the next topic):

1) why did a certain “international” school take down the Taiwanese flag before graduation during which a Taiwanese citizen was graduating?
2) if you cheat in 10th grade by posting a photo of a test on Facebook, should you be expelled from school? If not, should you be allowed to participate in the honors program?
3)do the Ivy Leagues really want to educate Americans or do they prefer foreigners?
4)if you are female and go into an Emergency Room holding an icepack to your eye, is it safe for the receptionist to assume that your husband beat you and tell you to go elsewhere?
5)how about taking a trip to San Sebastian & Bilbao?

*Question: why do non-fisheaters suffer from a stigma but not those who eat pork?

Swoooosh! That is the vacuum of time you hear, whisking away my seventeen year old baby and converting her into a lovely young woman. Hundreds of years ago, the word promenade was used to describe a leisurely stroll during which members of the opposite sex checked each other out. In Spain and Italy, the women walked the plazas in one direction and the men, the other. Today, the word prom, short for promenade, describes a formal high school dance.

A European prom today is slightly different than the old school walk-about. My daughter and her friends are dressing up for an evening at the Ritz. Unlike in the US, there are no dates, no corsages, no Denny’s or IHOP to round out the night. They will take a taxi back from an after-prom party held at a VIP club, where they will party with some of their teachers, at least two of whom are notorious for throwing back tequila shots.

Although it is hard to compete with the backdrop of the oriental arching bridges of Shanghai for prom pictures, I have sussed out the perfect location: the steps of the Prado with the Ritz in the background. We are meeting at the statue of Goya.

It has been a long time between blog posts but that is just our lives recently. And it doesn’t look like it will slow down anytime soon. On Monday I took a train to Bilbao with Thing 1 and my parents after an early morning trip to the ER. Accidents, large and small, I interpret as God’s reminder to me to slow down; sometimes it is possible, sometimes not. This time my right eye connected with the edge of an Ikea desk while bending down to pick up a pair of shoes (silver Tory Burch ballet flats). Alicia of Aragon drove me to the closest ER as I held a lunchbox flower-shaped icepack to my eye. My reception there was cooly received and my insurance was not accepted, thus heightening my hatred (yes, that is the word) for Spanish hospitals. However, the waiting room was empty and I was seen after about half an hour. The doctor and nurse were actually nice. After cleaning the wound and applying a few puntas americanas (butterfly bandages), I was back in a taxi heading for home and later to Bilbao where my pace slowed considerably. The art in the Guggenheim museum in Bilbao is the building itself, well worth the visit. On Tuesday we rode a train to San Sebastian and came home late Thursday night.

Graduation for Thing 1 is a week away. Both sets of grandparents will be here to witness the moment and hear her give a speech. I intend to wear waterproof mascara and bawl the whole way through, no matter how much it stings the puntas americanas. I’ll be wearing sunglasses in any event – her future’s so bright – they cover up the honking eye bandage I am sporting to protect my visual gaffe. At any rate, I’ll remember to promenade slowly.

When I was a teenager, my paternal grandmother took me on a three week trip to France. One of our stops was the American Cemetery in Omaha Beach. Nearly 30 years later, this is one of the few places I remember in detail. Today there is a visitors center but then there were just the endless marble memorials to the fallen soldiers. There was, in other words, very little context. The men with whom I was touring in 1981 all cried.

Eva gave us a little history of the crosses. I say crosses because there are more than 9,000 of them and only 149 Jewish stars. They are all made out of Italian Carrera marble. On the back of the crosses at the bottom is the number of the soldier´s dog tags. On the front, each memorial bears the name of the soldier, the date of death, his state, and his battalion. Unlike the British tombstones, there is no birthdate inscribed. Four women are buried at the Omaha Beach cemetery. Another 4,000 American soldiers are buried in the St. James cemetery on the way to Mont St. Michel.

In 1948, the American government gave the families of the fallen soldiers the option of moving the remains from temporary grave sites in France to home cemeteries in the US or to the Omaha Beach site. Forty percent elected to remain in France. Thirty five thousand American soldiers in total lost their lives in the Normandy campaign.

Today you can tell if a soldier´s family has visited recently by the stains on the marble. Sand from Omaha Beach (formerly called Plage dÓr) is rubbed into the etchings on the memorials so the inscription will stand out in photos. Quentin Roosevelt´s grave had recently been visited, judging by the stain on the cross. The only grave from WW1, Quentin is buried next to his brother Theodore. Theodore´s inscription needs no sand – his letters are emblazoned in gold because he is a Medal of Honor winner. Awarded posthumously, Teddy Jr. is one of three men with this distinction. He died of a heart attack 6 weeks after D-Day. Brothers are placed next to each other in the cemetery as is a pair of father and son casualties. The rest of the soldiers are placed randomly, their grave markers lining up in perfect harmony … like soldiers.

We left the Omaha Beach cemetery as it was shutting down for the night. The flag was lowered and folded by a random American visitor who knew how to fold it, the stars bundling up the stripes in a neat triangle. Taps was played over a loudspeaker:

Day is done,
Gone the sun,
From the lakes, from the hills, from the sky,
Safely rest, all is well,
God is nigh.

Mr. Understanding used to sing Taps to Thing 1 when he would put her to bed. It was a song on one of those, now antique, story books that would play songs when you pushed a button.

On the way home to our farmhouse accommodations we passed a small memorial where 10 men lost their lives. One Pfc. Theodore Mister of Charlie company, 38th Battalion, a native of Baltimore, MD lost his life in the company of Theo Master, sucessfully pushing the Germans off a small, but strategic, creek. During the Battle of the Moulin des Rondelles on June 13, 1944, Mr. Mister led his company across the creek saying, ¨Come on, follow me!¨ He left behind a wife of two years and three month old daughter.

Our day ended on a cheerful note, Mr. Understanding folding a neat triangle of his own. For a small wager, he bet me he could make a cootie catcher. Thing 1 had made one at the dinner table out of a paper napkin. Mr. Understanding make a cootie catcher? He proceeded to precisely pleat a paper placemat into an enviable cootie catcher. The things you don’t know about your spouse of nearly 20 years. Now that is what I call random, dude.

To book Eva for your own tour, write her at info@experience-normandy.com or go to the website. To check out the house we stayed in, contact Martin Fletcher by going to this site. At the end of a road, Les Quatre Vents was a special treat and the garden pure paradise. It was an excellent choice for three generations!