Artesanal

There is something magical in the concept of "local."  We travel the world to find the local...the things we haven't seen...the things which only other people know.  And anymore when you travel the world you are often told - boldly - that something is local.  Subtly is gone.

Here in Spain the term of choice seems to be "artesanal."  I've seen it on everything from tomato puree (a Spanish favorite for morning bread instead of jelly) to "patatas fritas" (yes, that's potato chips).  At first I didn't think they really had normal potato chips here (everything was ham flavored) but then I realized I'd just been missing them because it was in a huge "local" section.  My other favorite artesanal is a jar of "dulche de leche" that we bought this holiday season.  Something about the stamp "artesanal" makes it seem healthier when I am slathering it on a piece of toast alongside my Nutella.  Too bad I think it's straight sugar, basically carmel.  Kind of like buying sugary things at the farmer's market or a freshly made lemonade at local craft fair seems not indulgent but rather supportive.

I love eating local...at least when it doesn't involve seafood, live animals, or something that's been rotting for months on-end.

It’s not open...at 9

How silly I was to think my new gym might be open at 9 on a Sunday.  My morning gym pass will work from 11 (when I found out they open) until 3 on Sundays.  It’s very fitting how the traditional concepts of morning, noon, and night are slightly tweaked here.  Sadly, my hours of operation are becoming less and less Spaniard with the weeks.  When we first moved to Madrid, I adjusted quickly to the later hours.  Without really trying I was having no difficulty staying up to midnight and sleeping until 7 or 8.  But then I began trying, and things got harder or seemed to revert to my pre-Spaniard days. Now I wake at 5:30 or 6, sometimes earlier as Dorothy seemed to be on an “I want a morning bottle phase” for too long with cries between 4:30 and 5:30.

It's not open...at 5:30am

In Chicago I was the neighborhood quack who be waiting outside of Starbucks at 5:30am for a cup of coffee and some quiet time for reading the paper.  It was part of my morning routine on and off for the last several years.  I miss it greatly.  Here the earliest you can find a cup of coffee (or espresso) is at least 7:30 and really more like 8 or 9.  Starbucks doesn't open on Sundays until 9:30 (I didn't even try to go looking early during the week).  Coffee in Madrid is much more of an all-day social activity.  One of the surest ways to be spotted as an American is to ask for a coffee "para llevar" (or to-go).  Only Starbucks offers that and even there the default is a ceramic mug.  That said the Spanish breakfast scene has ruined me on Starbucks.  The espresso is so much richer and most of the time the tortilla espanol is much more filling than anything Starbucks offers.  So I guess I miss my Starbucks friends - Dale, Ethan, and the crew - more than I really miss Starbucks.  Haven't gotten to be really friendly with any of the new breakfast holes as of yet.

It’s not open...at 2:30

Siesta.  Lasting anywhere from 1:30 – 4:30 but most typically 2:30-4, the afternoon rest period remains a mainstay of Spanish life.  I’ve adjusted pretty quickly, not planning to do anything involving anyone else during the afternoons.  I found early on that stated hours of siesta were often rather fungible and that a “return at 3:30” sign was really probably more like return at 4.  For Eric, I think the siesta has been more frustrating.  His work is at least a 30-minute drive from our house, and thus it’s not possible to run home for some Dorothy time or a breather.  Yet, the work schedules mandate a siesta with expectations of arrival between 8 and 9 and exit sometime after 6:30.  So siesta becomes about spending either more time explicitly working at your desk or spending time with coworkers over the extended lunch.  Luckily Eric has some very nice coworkers.

It’s not open...on Sunday

Need I say more at this point.

12 Hours in Air Travel

For some time Eric and I have been planning for a very busy December 3rd and 4th.  I had some work that took me to Luxembourg since the night of the 30th and Eric is to leave on the morning of the 4th (as I write this) to fly to Paris and then Lome, Togo, to see his mom.  By the best of estimations, our schedules were only going to allow for some 10 hours in overlap on the ground - a stressful amount under any circumstances.

Friday’s travels for me began rather benignly with a faster than expected taxi ride to the Luxembourg airport and the resulting twiddle your thumbs and look for food time.  The plane was about 20 minutes late on take off, which seems to be the norm for about all of my European travel thus far.  With little turbulence on what was a small plane – carrying approximately 25 of us – I was pleased with a return journey that was allowing me to read some.  And then the pilot came on the loud speaker…

French…
Italian (maybe?)…
English…

“Good evening ladies and gentlemen.  We have a small problem.  While we have been in flight the air traffic controllers in Madrid have gone on strike.  We have two options.  We can return to Luxembourg, realizing the next scheduled flight to Madrid is on Sunday night [2 days later].  Or we can divert to Barcelona and you can wait there to see how the situation resolves.  We will be taking a vote of the passengers on these options.  Thank you.”

You gotta be freaking kidding me!  I have planned for a lot of possible travel situations in my days as an adult but there is no planning for this contingency.  I immediately begin planning my trip from Barcelona and thinking about the train timetables I studied on a recent trip there, wondering if they might still be cached in my computer’s history.

The flight attendant has begun working her way down the isle, passenger by passenger, repeating in many languages the story from the captain and scribbling a vote along side the name of each passenger on her manifest.  Being close to the front, only 4 votes were cast when she reached my row (all for Luxembourg, I might add), which was shared by a young woman who also preferred an English explanation.  The attendant and the captain had their stories straight as I detected few inconsistencies but she did let slip more detail.  “The strike is planned through at least 1am [about 7 hours later] but we really don’t know as this was unscheduled.”  “Don’t worry; we have enough fuel to return to Luxembourg.”  Looking back, there is a lot of humor in some of these statements although I only had brief levity waves at the time.  I just kept thinking, “how am I going to get home?”

But luck was on my side in a strange way last night and before the flight attendant could finish her polling, the captain was back on the speaker.  French, another language, English…”The striking workers have agreed to let any flight that took off before 6 land so it looks for the moment like we are going to Madrid.  We will begin our decent in about 30 minutes.”  So being on a schedule 5:15 flight that took off closer to 5:45 seems to have been my saving grace.  From that point, there was no mention of the event again by the staff and things moved silently like every other flight I have taken.  You approach a dark city, seeing only intricate patterns in the lights of the roads and houses.  It’s not exactly reassuring to know that your plane is being controlled by someone who isn’t sure they really want to be working that day, but I eventually landed in Madrid.  I even made it home in time to tuck Dorothy in.

So, now, I have just gotten a text from Eric, a bit after 6am.  He stands in line at Air France, his flight not showing cancelled but the line seemingly endless and doubt invoking.  The Spanish military took over the airspace over night.  Iberia, the main Spanish airline has cancelled all flights until 11am.  Air France seems to be checking people in and taking luggage.  Fingers crossed for Eric!

All of this strike I think stems from some of Spain’s recent actions to try to put in place “Austerity” (aka budget saving) measures to build investor confidence and attempt to stave off a run like Ireland and Greece have seen.  I certainly wouldn’t expect this to be our last run-in with the backlash to these money saving plans.  This strike though should escalate lots of tensions in the country as it's at the start of a long holiday weekend with lots of travel planned.  Who would have guessed that with Eric’s first trip to Africa, a land of my travel complexities, he’d be having the hardest time getting out of Madrid.  I hope for his sake and his mom’s that this all works out.  He’ll make the best out of whatever and if he is to get cancelled or something at least it’s still in his home city so he can come back easily.  It’s been an eventful 12 hours for this household’s travel…

Abroad for Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving to me is the strangest time to be away from the U.S.  It’s the holiday that uniquely pulls at our heart in ways, which cannot be eloquently described, to non-Americans, especially in another language.  Independence Day is special but it is less of a family holiday to me.  This year was a weird one for our family in that we are living abroad but also Eric’s mother is abroad, too, having recently moved to Africa as a part of the Peace Corps.  So, for us it must be strange, but I am sure it was also strange for our family back home.

While we were in Hong Kong, Thanksgiving was always a let down.  There really were very few options for celebrating it there and so we got very disappointed after trying hard to find something.  We happened to be in Bangalore, India, one year and also attempted to find something there but instead ended up at a Pizza Hut with a close friend.  This is all came as baggage to Thanksgiving 2010, and is probably why we tried to deny that it was going to happen or that we had any special sentiment about it.  We had not celebrated Thanksgiving in 2009 because we had just been placed with Dorothy for adoption the day before so our life was a whirlwind; the planned outing in Chicago with Eric’s dad and step-mom was not to be.  But Wednesday night silent desire had bubbled up in our sleep, and any pretense that we didn’t need to do something to celebrate the holiday was gone.  Thus began our Thanksgiving.

After my morning workout, I consulted Google and came up with some promising possibilities for a Thanksgiving meal.  Eric suggested Hard Rock Café, which is close, but its festivities were sold out.  I called three or four other places I found listed, but all seemed full or required reservations at least two days in advance.  We were striking out.  I kept Googling, found one more possibility and hopped in a taxi because I knew like Black Friday that if there were any opportunity here it was going to require the skills I had honed in years of garage saling with my mother and grandmother.  Break out the shin-guards; this might get ugly.

Taste of America is a small store which was actually pretty close to the first temporary apartment we had in Madrid but I’d never seen it.  Google had led me there as I looked for pies or other possibilities to add to a modest at home meal.  After jogging up the block from where the taxi dropped me, I saw the awning and started to get excited.  I could see lots of activity.  I cracked the door and tried to squeeze my way inside passed the line of people waiting to checkout.

Each time I find a new stash of American items that I haven’t had in months, I must admit to feeling a little crazed.  It’s not like we are starving or even suffering in selection opportunities but I think this reaction is still natural, particularly when you are already feeling homesick.  I can only imagine how Terry might feel when she comes to visit from Africa or after finishing.  So, entering, my hands start to grab really random items indiscriminately.  Caro syrup – oh I have to have that.  Crisco – I didn’t even know I was missing you!  Barely four feet in the door I took a deep breadth and realized I needed to take control of myself.  I had no basket and no idea what I was doing.  Then, I saw them – pies – apple, pecan, and pumpkin.  But each of the boxes had a name written on it; crap.  Was I again to be disappointed?  Then I saw one on display.  Moving in, I picked it up.  No name, but no box either.  I moved over to the proprietor of the store and asked if this one was taken?  After much checking, and a little disbelief, she said she didn’t think so.  I took that as no and was off.  I was in line, determined to purchase said pie before they realized they were mistaken or something.  After about 10 minutes, and a nice chat in line with a woman originally from Wisconsin running a cooking show on Spanish television (check it out), it was my turn to pay.  At the counter I was also able to grab cornbread mix.  Oh, I almost forgot my other success – bagels.  I’ve been searching for them for a month to feed a very odd craving.  So with all of that, it was back in a taxi to home to figure out how to bring this together into a coherent meal.

Thanksgiving night 2010 for us ended up as cornbread, chili, and apple pie a la mode.  Combine this with a previously ordained web chat with Eric’s mom who had Internet access just for the day, and that was our night.  While I worked some during the day, Eric had to work a full normal day, including several hours of Spanish lessons, so he was less than festive.  I think his Facebook status for the day summed up his mood – “Bah! Humbug!”  Things didn’t turn out as bad as they seemed they might at the beginning of the day but next year we’ll definitely both be taking the day off.  We have so many things to be thankful for and to celebrate together with food, fun, and a relaxed day.

It’s Time to Experience

These last few months have been exhausting.  While fun and exciting, most of what moving abroad with a baby means is a lot of stress, logistics, and downtime spent worrying about the many things you’ve neglected.  Parenthood certainly brings with it whole new areas for feeling potentially inadequate if you let it, and when you uproot your family and move to a new country no amount of time spent worrying on these issues seems enough to compensate for the changes in your child’s life.

But now is the time to start our Madrid experience…and I am ready.  Intellectually I know I have to but I have a lot of momentum around putting myself last on the list of priorities that needs to change.  It feels better already to admit this.  It’s been great to feel the vicarious excitement of others in our European adventure but I don’t know that I have actually felt a lot of that excitement yet.  My natural tendency is to be a bit guarded in my reactions, attempting to anticipate what could go wrong.  My parents do the same thing, which drives me nuts sometimes in them, but I know I do it as much or more than they do.

Our move to Hong Kong had a lot of this same pattern to adjusting; however, there I had more time to explore because I wasn’t working as much and we weren’t parents.  Also, there, I got very luck to fall in quickly with an awesome group of friends through a Stitch ‘n Bitch.  I haven’t yet found that outside group that is not work and is not parenting that I feel fully connected with here and selfish in attending.  So, the exploring begins.  We are no longer moving to Spain.  We are no longer new.  We live here; get into it!  There are a lot of possibilities and things to be excited about.  All the worries and things unfinished will still be unfinished later!

So I Skip Verbs Sometimes...

When you move to another country, personal interactions become much more important because so often you are clinging to the 70 percent of a situation which you actually understand through reading visual clues, gesturing, or other things in the context of a situation.  I don’t think I ever realized how much of communication truly is beyond the words before living abroad (especially with a baby).

Now, I fear I rely on these other signals too much.  Sometimes without realizing it I just stop using important things when talking – like verbs or sentences.  The brain is truly an amazing thing and the more I live with myself the more I realize I’ll never fully understand my wiring.  But two things related to language have appeared while living abroad. 

First, is the verb skipping habit. There are days where I just feel like I can’t communicate at all with people; then I’ll realize its because I am skipping all verb usage.  Just trying to act out my verbs or imply them doesn’t seem to work well.  This usually gets Eric rolling as I am sure it really is quite entertaining, although at the time I am thoroughly embarrassed and will deny I am doing anything out of the ordinary.  

The second thing I have learned is that my mind can handle learning another language but nimble it is not. It’s like the handle on that part of my brain is really heavy and takes a long time and effort to toggle back and forth.  Case in point, on a recent trip for work to Italy for 2 days, rather than just speaking English (or staying silent) I would instinctually respond in Spanish (or French – I don’t know where that came from!) but there was nothing in my brain which was inclined to use the few words of Italian I knew.  This brain is rusty!

But even for the all the weirdness of interacting with others with this brain in a foreign language I remain remarkably not good in, it’s possible to get about anything done, with enough time, frustration, and insanity.  Sometimes the little things like working through an internet connectivity issue over the phone or that the dishwasher is electrocuting you (yes, this was actually happening) become the small miracles of the day.  The victories over yourself and your inabilities.  The victories of feeling a bit more at home.  Who needs verbs...not me...well, except in writing this.  

A Spanish Wedding

Iglesia de San Manuel y San Benito

Five minutes until the wedding was to begin, we stood on a busy sidewalk across from Retiro Park, groom a few feet away checking his iPhone for a just-arrived text.  Up the few steps that separated us from the cathedral entrance a parade of exiting people flooded out.  They went left; we were on the right.  Slowly it became apparent that one wedding needed to end before ours could begin.  Our first Spanish wedding but apparently the third or fourth wedding in that cathedral that evening (ours was set to begin at 7).  It's hard to imagine a U.S. bride putting up with this scenario but for the Spaniards this all seemed normal.  The ceremony is only the beginning of the process, and they were all out for the long haul.  Unfortunately, we weren't.  We only had childcare coverage for the ceremony, not for the hour and a half bus ride, the dinner, the dancing or the 6 am bus ride home that would follow.

So, we enjoyed the curiousities of the ceremony and look forward to attending a full wedding in the future.  We were late additions to the invite list (one of Eric's colleagues) since we’d only met a few weeks earlier.  It was quick for a Catholic ceremony, about 35 minutes, but very beautiful.  We were on time as we only had to walk over but many of the guests were late, we think for lack of parking.  One particular guest made her way down the isle ten minutes into the ceremony and proceeded to have the first pew of attendees all scoot over so she could squeeze in.  I'd love to know who she was!  No attendants here.  No ring bearer.  Only the bride, groom, mother and father.  The bride and groom sat in the middle with the priest and the parents on either side, to help arrange the long train and provide the rings are the appropriate time.  I understood very little of the wedding as the grand setting and somewhat muffled acoustics made it simpler just to enjoy the ambience rather than to focus on any details.  The only major sections I picked up were the Lord's prayer and obviously the vows.

Street greetings

I should note one other Spanish wedding tradition that I am sure our American friends would wince at.  With the invitation the bride and groom provide their bank account details.  No wedding gifts from Crate and Barrel here.  Just send the money from your home computer in advance.  This is one of the few areas of Spanish life where they are oddly efficient and non-emotional.  We spent more time kissing in greeting and on exit than in looking for the wedding gift.