Alhambra, Flamenco, Gymnastics, and a lot of Ice Cream

Friends came to visit from London this weekend.  Everybody was psyched.  Girls told us "I'm so happy to be able to speak English!!"

Friday we toured the Alhambra together. I remembered my camera but didn't think to swap out my zoom lens.  So the visit was an exercise in admiring the details.  A  few are here (the rest I posted on Facebook).

Taking children to an ancient palace falls into the category of Things You Should Do With Your Kids As Long As You Set Your Expectations Way Down Low as it will be another 30 years until they can appreciate the concepts represented - time, history, age, architecture, beauty, art.  The best they can do at this point is tag along and play Miss Mary Mack while they embarrass their parents.

 



I found this on my phone when I got home:

Touring Granada and the Alhambra during the day, we had clocked in 10 miles of walking so the kids were exhausted but I don't think any of them technically fell asleep at the Flamenco show we took them to that night.  We were seated right up front, at a table right next to the stage and a few feet from the dancers who did an excellent job of focusing on the wall directly behind us and not making eye contact with the audience, in particular the four kids yawning and asking their parents questions in front of them.

Ella: “Lauren?  Why does she look angry?”
Lauren: “Well, Flamenco is about expressing the emotions of life, especially a hard life.  It's mostly about love and lost love.  Like when you love somebody and they don’t love you back or when somebody stops loving you.  Sometimes life can be really…..”
Ella: “Mom, can you hold my necklace?”

Willa: “Mom.  Are her stockings too big for her?”

Lauren: “No.  Why?”

Willa: “Then why does she keep pulling her skirt up?”

Lauren: “Shh.  She’s just showing you her legs and her feet.”

Clio:  “If she’s going to keep pulling her skirt up, why doesn’t she just wear a shorter skirt?”

Lauren: “Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!”

Waitress brings food to the table, during a particularly quiet and dramatic moment.

Tess: (in her 5-yr old British accent) "HEY I DIDN’T ORDER CHOCOLATE!!!!!!!”

 

Moms throw back the rest of the red wine.

Female dancer finishes.  Male dancer comes out.  He has a ton of hair and an elaborately shaped goatee.  He is the Spanish Flamenco version of Gaston from Beauty and the Beast – large torso, slim waist, long hair, big biceps.  I try not to stare at his crotch, though his choice of pants suggests that we are all meant to stare at his crotch.  He dances for a few minutes and I decide that staring at his feet for the foreseeable future would make me feel much more comfortable. 

Willa: “Mom!  Do you see his underwear, they’re red!”

I don't think it's a question, it sounds more like a statement, but at least I’m not the only one staring at his crotch.

We take the kids back to the apartment and leave them with the babysitter, Ana.  She's 20 and she speaks a little English, enough for the kids to interrogate her about her life.  We learn that she is one of 13 kids, she is the 8th, her birthday is tomorrow, and we all notice her tongue ring.  The adults go out to grab some drinks in a lounge that looks out towards the Alhambra, all lit up and beautiful at night.  We catch up for a few hours, laugh, forget for a hot second that we have all kids, end up talking about our kids, and then around 11:30pm we text the babysitter to make sure the kids are asleep.  She texts back that three of the four are still awake and playing cards.  She wants to know if she’s allowed to tell them to go to bed.

The next morning, exhausted all of us, we drive down to Nerja for a bit of beach fun.  Weather.com says it’s going to be 67 degrees.  But Weather.com does not mention gale-force winds.

After we arrive and unload, we walk down to the beach to find lunch.  We settle on a relatively shabby looking restaurant because it's right next to a jungle gym.  But Shabby Looking Place With Jungle Gym actually makes the best grilled fish and paella any of us have ever eaten and we stuff ourselves.

Then we hop across the street to get ice cream for the kids and coffee for the adults.  

Despite the sugar and caffeine, none of us feel the boost and we decide our next best move is back to the hotel for naps.  Three of the four adults nap but Jenny takes one for the team and watches the kids swim in the indoor pool in the basement.  At some point, though none of us are at all hungry, we decide to head back to the old town and meander around slowly while we look for a place to eat dinner.

The Balcon de Europa is decidedly colder and emptier than the last time we were there.  But that doesn't stop the kids from doing cartwheels on it and filling their hands with germs.

We eat a fantastic dinner at Casa Luis.  The kids eat their third ice cream cone of the day for dessert.  All except for Clio who tells us she is feeling a little shabby.  She says she's just tired but I think she may have gotten a chill from the pool so I buy her a fuzzy leopard print scarf for 6 euros and she rocks it on top of her hot pink fleece.  We drive "home," tuck the kids into bed, I read three pages of a terrible book that someone left behind, and fall asleep.

At 1AM Clio walks into our room and tells us she can't stop shivering.  We bring her into bed with us to warm her up.  At 2AM she wakes and complains that her stomach is hurting.  At 2AM and four seconds I run to the kitchenette, grab the trash can from underneath the sink, and stick it under her face.  At 2:01AM she throws up in it.  At 2:10AM she is asleep in our bed and I am wide awake for the next hour, in and out of sleep for the next six hours, up making coffee at 7:30 and napping again by 8:30.

At some point, after packing and taking one more dip in the pool, we all head back towards Shabby Looking Place with Jungle Gym for a breakfast.  I'm pretty sure there was one more stop at the ice cream parlor, and then we all hit the road.  Because some little girl had a gymnastics tournament to get to!

The girls' school offered them a few different extra-curricular activities when we first arrived.  Clio chose basketball and Willa chose gymnastics.  It took a few weeks but we finally heard from Willa that the gymnastics was maybe less like gymnastics and more like dance with a few cartwheels and somersaults.  But twice a week she would practice with her coach and the five other girls on her "team."  She was very excited for the competition and for the prospect of winning a medal.  Although she was realistic about it as well.  She told us numerous times that the choreography was not likely to win any awards.

We had to arrive a half hour early with Willa dressed and in "make-up," which was supposed to included red lipstick, blush, and glitter.  I was traumatized enough by having to go out and buy her red lipstick so I decided to plead ignorance on the glitter front.  But in case you're wondering what all that is supposed to look like...

After we dropped her off with her coach, Clio, Michael, and I found seats and waited for the show to begin.  It was a long one.  There was some excitement at the start for the cute little ones who started the show.  Each school had their own flashy (and fleshy) costume.  And each early routine, while we waiting for Willa's team, was fun to watch for the sport of wondering whether holding another girl's leg in the air or jumping over someone's foot constitutes a dance move or a gymnastics move or something else entirely.  When Little Miss Willa finally made her appearance, she was all smiles and confidence and she was clearly having a blast.

Willa's team did not win a medal and she was bummed for an hour or two but she cheered up after we took her out to dinner and bought her a steak.  We all collapsed into bed Sunday night and Monday I hung out with our washing machine, 18 loads of laundry, and NPR so I could catch up with Ted Cruz, Donald Trump and The Greatest Show on Earth.
 
Miss you guys!!!
xoxoxoxo
  

Basketball Diary

I wrote this post about a week ago, maybe more.  But then I got sick (for the third time) and while I was sick I picked up the one book in English that I've been able to find in Granada - The Goldfinch.  I am better now but I'm hooked on the book so I'm staying in bed a few days longer just to make sure I'm really all better.  You can blame Donna Tartt if I haven't returned your email yet.

Right, so, here's a little recap of Clio's first basketball game ever (played in a foreign country and in a foreign language).  

Two weeks ago was Clio's first basketball game.  She’s a good little recreational player, but has never played on a team before and she’s being coached in Spanish.  Michael and I highlight the ‘Have-Fun-Don’t-Worry-About-Winning’ component while Willa pipes in with “Yeah, but I hope you win!”  

On the morning of the "big game," twenty minutes before we had to leave the house, Clio realized she’d left her gym bag with her tennis shoes, sweatpants, and jacket on the school bus Friday afternoon.  She wailed.  I suppressed the urge to kill her and said “It’s ok, it’s going to be ok.  We’ll leave now and go buy you a pair of shoes.  Somewhere.  Somehow.”  As the four of us scrambled to leave 20 minutes early, I looked down at my own sneakers and wondered if they’d fit her.  Mercifully they did, she wiped her tears, we got in the car, and headed to the school.

 

Now, it's important to understand a little bit about the information that we get from the girls about their activities at school.  As best I can tell, the teachers give their instructions in Spanish and every now and then they have the time or the presence of mind to remember the two English-speaking kids who need a quick translation.  Hopefully the teacher speaks English.  So, our kids either understand it, understand pieces of it, or pretend to understand it.  They will usually, wisely, turn to their friends and ask for clarification but at this point, the information is again at risk.  Because it now relies on whether another 7-9 year old girl, whose second language is English, is both listening to the teacher in the first place and then has the English words available to her to translate correctly.  As you can see, the chances of accurate information coming home to us are slim to none.

With little to no information that morning, my best guess for the upcoming basketball game was that it would take place somewhere akin to my junior high school gymnasium with old wooden fold-out bleachers.  Willa could sit and color there.  I could use the bathroom at half time.  The score board would probably be the old-fashioned kind where the numbers flip.  Clio, it seems, had somewhat grander expectations because she asked me if I thought there was going to be an announcer.

 

When we pulled up to the school the mix of mis-information, dis-information, and non-information slowly played out.  A group of girls that Clio did not recognize were huddled together on the sidewalk.  They appeared to all of us to be 3-4 years older and 6-12 inches taller than Clio.  We reasoned, entirely in denial, that they must be here for a soccer game.  I stalled in getting out of the car because it was just slightly above freezing outside and there was a dense fog blocking most of the sun.  I thought it best to wait in the warm car until I saw a grown-up with a set of keys.  We asked Clio which door to stand near so we could quickly walk to the court inside and be that much closer to indoor heat.  But she said, "Oh, the basketball court is outside, over there."  She pointed past a big metal fence and across a dirt field to a playground blacktop with basketball hoops and no bleachers or sitting devices of any kind.  The now familiar urge to kill her came over me again.  I hoped against hope that she has mistranslated something.

We stood around in the cold waiting for someone to tell us what to do.  Her teammates started to arrive little by little.  Michael helped a very lost British couple in a car find the Alhambra.  Clio’s coach arrived at some point.  I made a mental note to adjust our punctuality towards tardiness.  Parents and kids and coaches stared to gradually and very casually organize themselves towards the court.  It was a bit too casual for my taste but laissez-faire is where the Spaniards excel and where I do not and this was my daily reminder of that fact.

Poor Clio had only a pair of shorts on her skinny little legs and I was afraid she was going to freeze to death but she insisted she was just fine with her little purple fleece jacket.  The other kids arrived with big socks pulled up to their knees or sweatpants over their basketball shorts.  Meanwhile I had on my winter coat, my scarf wrapped three times around my neck, and my hood pulled up over my wool hat.  Clio seemed completely preoccupied with how she was going to defend the very large girls of the other team to notice how cold she was.

As a group, we made our way over to the OUTDOOR!!! (did I mention?) basketball court.  We stopped to pick up a bench and I experienced a brief flicker of hope that there would be more of these collected and brought to the court.  But the bench was not for spectators, it was for the players.  We stood around for half an hour more while the kids warmed up, more players and parents showed up, the adults organized themselves, and the score keeper got out his pencil and paper.  

Clio played in the first and last quarters.  She did a great job defending, even when her team was on offense.  The parents and coaches screamed a lot of things in Spanish, the girls on both teams sang cheers over and over in Spanish, mostly to keep warm, I think.  The referee blew his whistle every eight seconds because the kids were fouling each other, or travelling, or double dribbling every time they moved.  And no one except the score-keeper ever knew what the score was.  The next ten years of my life flashed before my eyes.  (60 second video of the game is below).

Reader Discretion Advised

I am home today, finally feeling better (more on that later), but Michael is out of town, and I thought I would get a post off to you about our weekend.  It was quite full.  Clio had her first basketball game.  And we spent many, many (many) hours with new friends (as you do in Spain).  But the story of our weekend is going to have to wait one more day because now that I am back from my morning excursion to the market we have slightly more pressing things to discuss.

Last night I told the girls I was going to try to make the fish that they liked so much in Almunecar.  “The sweet fish?!?!?!” they asked.  It was a salt-crusted whole fish that they devoured and loved and they remember it as sweet, which is sweet.  But I’ve become pretty adept at setting low expectations for myself and those around me so I warned them that I would probably mess up tonight but get better at it with time.  I had no idea I could fail before I had even started.

Before hitting the square where the fish market lady is, I stopped by the little organic grocer and stumbled my way through the purchase of some bananas.  When the price of a purchase doesn’t appear on the screen, I am at the mercy of a cashier who will speak either exceptionally slowly or with endless repetition to buy me enough time to make the translation in my head.  Today was not my day. 

Long Haired Hippy Guy who owns the store recognizes me now and has figured out that I’m not just here for a week.  I think his tolerance for me has worn thin.  Today, after patiently-ish waiting for me to figure out what number he was saying when he gave me my total, he asked me if I was new to Spain, or something along those lines, as if the answer wasn’t painfully obvious.  I replied “Si.”  And then I threw in “Para seis meses.”  Surprisingly, after we had just spent five minutes trying to get me to understand “$2.75” in Spanish, he launches into some rapid fire statement with at least 50-70 words in it and, not surprisingly, I couldn’t pick out a single one.  My best guess, based solely on his inflection, tone, and hand movements, was that he was saying “Oh good, you’ll be here long enough to learn the language.  SURELY after six months you’ll be speaking Spanish and properly buying bananas.”

Well.  We’re all allowed to dream.

My next stop was Plaza Larga.  Veggie and fruit stalls set up today in the middle of the square and racks of clothes, too.  Lots of old people milling around and chatting and catching up with each other.  Super cute and quaint.  Picked up three apples, a huge bunch of carrots, parsley, and a huge bag of huge strawberries, all of which would have set me back $15 in NYC.  $5 here.  The woman who sold them to me seemed to be speaking more simply and slowly than Long Haired Hippy Guy and I was grateful.  Though there may have been some miscommunication/misunderstanding when I asked her for ten strawberries.  She grabbed handful after handful and I wondered if I had inadvertently asked for 10 kilos of strawberries.  “Esta bien!” I said, trying to get her to stop.  “Esta bien” is pretty much my go-to phrase.  I can make it work in almost any situation.  It probably also indicates I don’t exactly what I am saying but at least I’m trying.

Fish was next.  I was relieved to see that Fish Lady was open.  This is not always the case.  One cannot and should not plan their meals or day around the fish store being open.  That would be a really stupid thing to do.  I walked in and the first thing I noticed was the smell – fresh and delicious!  Not what you were expecting me to say, huh?!?!  I wish there was an app to capture scent.  Fish Lady, who is large, friendly, and handles fish like nobody’s business, was very busy today.  There were lots and lots of short, cute little old ladies stopping in to get their sardines and to gossip with Fish Lady.  Everyone seems to know everyone here which is lovely and quaint (there's that word again) and makes for lots and lots of chatter.  I was taking all this in, marveling at the old-worldliness of what was happening around me.  And then suddenly it was my turn and Fish Lady turned her attention to me and said something super-duper friendly.  I have no idea what she said but I wish more people behind counters would do the same thing.  I was so taken aback by her politeness that all I could manage was “Hola” while pointing to a fish.  She said something, the name of the fish I think, picked it up, and placed it in her scale.  Then she turned back to the old woman on my right, continued their conversation, and collected the old lady's coins. 

Maybe now is the moment to tell you that Fish Lady, while I am a little in love with her for being at once super-friendly and not at all disgusted by handling fish, was not wearing little plastic food gloves.  And I'm trying to figure out how much I care about this.  I wash all my food when I get it home anyway, but it was a little odd to see someone grab a handful of sardines with her bare hands, place them in a bag, and then receive coins with the same hands.  I didn't know whether to be worried about the sardines or the coins.  There are a few people in my life who would, at this moment, without hesitation, turn and leave.  I, however, have been conditioned to assume that things that are “best-practice” in America (like picking up after your dog, politely moving out of someone’s way, or wearing plastic gloves when you handle food) are all, somehow, representative of a country and a culture with its priorities in the wrong place.  So I stayed, waited for my fish, and made a mental note to rinse it well.

While Little Old Lady On My Right had paid for her fish, she also stayed because she had some gossip to finish apparently.  But Fish Lady, though super busy, is also super skilled - she can chat, gossip and handle fish simultaneously.  She grabbed my fish from the scale, plopped it on her counter, and pulled out a knife.  "Oh, that’s weird," I think.  "Why doesn’t she just leave the head on?"  But her knife worked quickly and before I could say anything, the head was off.  And just as I was thinking about how relieved I am that she took the head off so that I wouldn’t have to look at it tonight in my kitchen, she started to descale the fish.  "Shit," I think.  "I was supposed to say something so that she would keep the scales on.  I don’t think I can salt-cover the fish without the scales.  Well, maybe I can fudge it."  And just as I was thinking of a way to fudge it, she started slicing the fish for me.  "Damn it!!!  There goes my plan for salt-baking a whole fish.  What's my Plan B?"  And just as I am coming up with Plan B, Fish Lady pulls out a mallet and starts beating the shit out of the fish head. 

Um......

What.  Is.  Happening??

I want to look away but I can’t. 

Over and over again she is somewhat violently bashing in the fish head and I cannot comprehend the purpose of bashing in a fish head.  I want to back up because little fish bits are starting to fly, but there are too many old ladies behind me.  "Keep Calm and Don’t Vomit," I think.  "Surely this exercise is almost over."  She mercifully puts down the mallet and stops beating the fish’s head and I take a deep breath, grateful that the brutality is over.  But then Fish Lady…still chatting with her friend.....reaches her hand….INTO the head……and pulls out a handful of ohmygod…..that I do not even want to discuss.  And unfortunately for my senses, the entire episode played out in a painful slow motion.

“Oh my god.  Oh my god,” I pray.  “Please do not let this fish head be for me.”   

Fish Lady looks up at me and says "Like this?” 

“No!  No, no, no, no, no like this!  No at all like this!!  Really, NOTHING like THIS!!” 

But instead I said.  “Si."  And then I added "Pero, no cabeza por favor.”  Which I thought was a decent compromise. 

Suddenly, all the Little Old Ladies around me went quiet.  In fact, I'm pretty certain the entire Plaza Larga went quiet.  Then, just as suddenly, all the Little Old Ladies started speaking at once.  To me, to each other, probably to god, in a Spanish that suddenly I could understand perfectly.  “Que?!!?!  Why wouldn’t you want the head??  The head is the best part!!  You can’t just leave the head.  You have to take the head.  Don’t you even know what you can do with the head??  The head makes wonderful soup.  And broth.  It has healing powers.  You will live forever!  Ugh.  Stupid American.  You waste everything.  Your priorities are all in the wrong place.  You don’t take siestas, your stores stay open too long and for too many days, and you don’t even know that the fish head is the best part of the fish.  Plus you are too skinny.  Blech!!”

“Esta bien,” I say.  “La cabeza.” 

And with that, it’s all bagged up for me.  All the pieces plus a bashed head.  I take the bag from Fish Lady’s hands, keenly aware of the fish brains that now cover both.  I hand her my Euros.  I watch her take my Euros and give me change, keenly aware that they, too, are now covered in fish brains.  I walk home in a daze.  I nearly step in shit.  I think about how quaint and charming it all seemed just half an hour ago, walking into market to buy vegetables and fish.  But now I have fish brains in my wallet and a fish head in my bag and I'm going to have to either come up with a new word for this town or adjust my definition and understanding of the word "quaint."

Come Walk With Me

Do you want to take a walk with me?  I thought we'd walk down to the city center today.  Maybe take some pictures.  Want to go??  It's nice out.  Plus, you don't have shit to do.

What should we take pictures of, just anything and everything?  How about this old thing here?  You know, it's interesting, friend.  We're only a block away from the apartment and I walk by this house everyday but I don't think I've ever looked closely at this....man.....monster....thing.....in relief......how interesting....he looks a bit.......like he is....throwing up.  I'm sure it's symbolic  Should we take notes?

There's a lesson here, don't you think?  That when you slow down and look up you start to notice things that weren't there before.  No, sorry, that's not right.  You start to notice things that were always there but not there for you because you were rushing around and looking down at your feet.

Though in all fairness, it is absolutely the right thing to do to look down at your feet while you walk through Granada because there is an awful lot of this happening.  Yes, I am posting a picture of poop.  Because listen, love, that there is not the worst of it.  The worst are the ones left right in the middle of the street that you're walking down with your kids who are far too excited to tell you about the "weird" way people say "shh" in Spain and then they step in it.  I've asked my friends back home if it would be ok for me to hang a little sign outside my door like they do in NYC that says something like "If they poop, please scoop!"  I don't know if the poetry of that would translate into Spanish, but I think it's worth a shot.  I would even be willing to provide the bags!  My friends insist that is passive aggressive American bullshit and while I'm in Spain I am to do as the Spaniards do and walk in dog shit.  I am not allowed to start a dog shit revolution. Oh my god, where were we?

So we're walking, and we're looking up, and we're noticing things, and we have no destination in mind (which makes me a little anxious, what about you?)  But we're going to go with it.  We're going to pretend like we're easy-going people today and just be easy-going.  How fun to have nowhere to be and nowhere to go.  Hey, we're walking pretty fast for two people who are going nowhere.  Do you think we should slow down a bit?  This isn't New York City, this is Spain, where the whole point of living is to take a break.  And anyway, I'd hate to get to Nowhere too quickly and then have nothing to do.

Well, I'm still looking down because I'm nervous about brown piles, but at least there are nice things to look at down here.  Look at this pebble-flower arranged in the street/alley/walkway/sidewalk.  Wouldn't it be cool if the sidewalks in NYC had pebble-flowers arranged in them?  Or is NYC too jaded for flower sidewalks?

Oh my goodness, check it out.  See that plant behind you just growing out of that old wall?  (first of all, wtf, how does that happen?)  But second of all, don't you LOVE IT!!!!!  More of that in NYC, too, please!!!!

Let's head down this way.  Oh, wait.  Those crescent moon shapes.  Those are symbolic of something or other but I can't remember what.  But I read about it.  Let's make a mental note to look that up when we get home, too.

More plants growing on top of walls.  But these ahead are a little different.  These, I'm pretty sure, are growing in the garden yard right over that wall.  They top and crest the walls they are behind and that's why we see so many along the way. 

 

I'm going to push my glasses up my nose a bit and tell you that homes with gardens in Granada are called "carmens," which is why we are seeing ceramic plaques outside so many front doors that say "Carmen de la la la."

It's actually not because a woman named Carmen lives there and she decided to put her name above her front door, though that's a good guess.  There is, after all, a high likelihood that a woman named Carmen does live there since most women in Spain seem to be named Carmen.  But the word comes from the Arabic "karm" which means vine.

And speaking of vine, here's one in my favorite color.  But this one looks like someone just planted it in a crack in the street.  Genius.  And it's making it's way up a rusty pipe and a cable wire.  How European.  And beautiful, clever, and visionary.  You're right, this could have just been Mother Nature blowing seeds around, but she is also beautiful, clever, and visionary.  I wonder if I could plant a vine like this somewhere on 13th St.

Pomegranate!  Have I told you yet that Granada means "pomegranate?"  Shall we see how many depictions of pomegranates we can find on our walk today?

I don't know, it's just cute.

Pomegranate!!  Where?  There!

Oooooh!  Light reflecting off the fountain water.  Cool!  Spanish woman smoking a cig and checking her makeup also cool.  Let’s go around to the other side of the fountain and snap a pic.

Hey, stop getting distracted by funny signs!

And by cute Japanese women taking selfies, what is wrong with you!  

Wait, the sunlight over here is different.  One more picture of the fountain. 

Ok, I’m going to tell you something and I don’t care if you think I’m weird.  I think the old people in Granada are really cute.  They’re kind of on the short side so they remind me of my Grandma Seikaly. I might be done taking pictures of beautiful architecture for the moment.  I might zero in on some cute old people.  (Hurry!  They're all heading home for siesta!)

Nice.  But this picture here is not of an old person.  What is it?  Oh, I see now.  Yes, I see the sign.  Mercado.  One of the five Spanish words you know because it relates to shopping.  And that other word has something to do with artists.  And the word above it, that ends in “ia” which Michael told me means the place is selling something.  All of this means we have to put our Walk to Nowhere on hold for a minute because we just got Somewhere and it's amazing.  I mean, look at all the shit in there!  I think I see sparkly things.  Come on, it'll be fun.  You'll get to practice your Spanish.  Let’s go buy some presents!!

Let's Thank the Arabs

View from the kids' bus stop

Most days, after getting the kids off to school, Michael and I find some excuse to walk into the city down below.  Our neighborhood, the Albayzin, sits at the top of a hill. The walk down is steep and round-trip it’s about a mile and a half so all my muscles are nicely burning when I get back home for lunch and the required siesta.  And while we walk partly to burn off bread and cheese, we walk mostly because it’s a wonderland, a feast for the eyes and the imagination.  Every minute and a half I have to stop to take a picture.  The views are pretty killer.









And right after you walk past one old church, you come up on another.  Or maybe it's a convent.  Or a monastery.  Or maybe it's just a house that's put a big cross up on their roof.  They are intriguing.
















One of my favorite sightings is an ancient crumbling wall that's just sitting there in the middle of modernity.  Next to a newly renovated apartment or restaurant, perhaps.  I have a special place in my heart for things (and people, too) that are beautifully out of place.  I mean, would you look at this thing!  No doubt we have some enlightened individual to thank for protecting him from a bulldozer.










And every now and then there is a hint of the Middle East.  It's subtle.  It might just be an arch, or a tile, or a design. But it's there.

 

And I've come to realize that I only have some vague understanding that Arabs ruled here for a time.  In fact, that vague understanding is actually the entire extent of my knowledge on the subject.  I could go on feeling pathetic and shameful about that but instead I decided to crash-course myself into this period of history.  I've been reading, Googling, and YouTubing documentaries while the kids are in school.  And now, though only having scratched the surface, I am completely enamored.

Contrary to what traditional history books would like us to believe, the Muslims (generic term Moors) who conquered Spain in 711 were not treacherous, murderous savages.  And they did not violently assault a Christian Europe.  On the contrary, when they arrived on the shores of southern Spain, to an area they called al Andalus, they found cities on the brink of collapse.  Thankfully for Europe, their "conquerors" were an intellectually curious culture that placed a high value on learning and knowledge (think Barack Obama) that far surpassed that of the society of the inhabitants here (think Sarah Palin), or any other at the time.  While other religions, including Christianity, kept their masses uneducated and reserved literacy for the clerical elite, Islam encouraged education and literacy among all its followers, rich and poor.  Islamists studied the teachings of the ancient Greeks and Romans when no one else in Europe was interested.  They actively sought out teachings and information and knowledge from other cultures.  As a result, they were an incredible learned people, experts in architecture, science, mathematics, medicine, astronomy.

Willa & al-Rahman

Here's a quick story about how the Muslims took Europe from rags to riches.  The year is 750 and Abd al-Rahman, prince of an Arab dynasty (Umayyad), is the only survivor left after a coup in Damascus.  He is only 20.  He flees, barely escaping (fascinating and gory story), to Al Andalus.  Fight for power, fight for power, he ends up founding the Emirate of Cordoba.  When he arrives, the city is in disarray, bridges collapsing, etc., etc.,  He sets about rebuilding not only the bridges, but the rest of the city as well.  He improves the roads and constructs aqueducts, something he was well versed in from his learning back home.  He brings the "cutting edge" technology for irrigation into Cordoba and as a result, the land becomes fertile.  Fertile enough for some plants that Abd al-Rahman knows about from his sophisticated trade routes back home: orange and lemon trees, avocados, pomegranates, palm trees, artichokes, none of which had ever been seen in Europe.

Now Al Andalus has something to trade and now they have some cash.  In time, they'll have so much cash that Cordoba will become hugely wealthy.  The combination of the wealth, technology, and learning that the Arabs brought to Cordoba transforms it into "the ornament of the world."  People in London are still living in wooden houses, but here, houses have running water, roads are illuminated by street lights, and with 100,000 inhabitants, it becomes the largest city in Europe.  People flock here for jobs, education, and skills that they can then take back home with them.

Under Islamic rule, 800 years of it, this area flourished.  And yet this seems to be a period that has been written out of history.  The story told instead dilutes the Muslim contributions as immaterial and unimportant, though nothing could be farther from the truth.  Christians, Jews, and Muslims lived harmoniously side by side during this period and the indigenous people here converted to Islam in droves (again, something modern Spain would rather not acknowledge).  Some historians suggest the reason they converted was that they were taxed for being Christians or Jews.  But more likely it's because they wanted to be a part of all that Islam had to offer - a sophisticated, organized, inclusive, progressive and wealthy society.  It's also interesting to note that no one was forced to convert to Islam under threat of expulsion or death (ahem, Ferdinand and Isabel, ahem, ahem).

Right, so that's the beginning of my history lesson.  Everything else is going well.  The girls are doing well in school.  They love to come home and complain about the strict teachers and how they sneakily ate a granola bar on the bus where food is not allowed.  They both have a ton of friends, most of them are named Carmen.  And little by little they're using the Spanish they know.  Last night, using my 2 year old Spanish, I asked the waiter at the end of the meal "Tienes helado?"  He answered back in Speedy Spanish (which is where they talk so fast I don't understand any of it) and Clio turned to me and said "He says they only have what's on the menu."  I'm so lucky to have my own personal android.

We're sending lots of love and hugs and kisses back to family and friends!!  East Coast, please stay safe this weekend during the big snow.  (My kids are pissed that they are missing it!!)

xoxoxoxoxoxo
L.

PS3 kids attend Catholic School in Spain...and survive!

The alarm is set for 7:20 am so the Kids can get out the door to school by 8:30 am without too much time left over for ball bouncing, bickering, and generally being annoying.  School starts at 9.  Alarms and tired parents be damned, the Kids get up at 7 and start making their own breakfasts so they can get in an episode of Punky Brewster before school.  The sun is not yet up.  There is not even a hint of it on the horizon giving the Parents the false impression that there might be a few more hours of sleep ahead.  But once the echo of sliding chairs hits the ear of the sleeping Mom, fear strikes her heart that the kids are spilling shit all over the kitchen floor and she pulls herself out of bed rather quickly.  Dad remains dead to the world until his electronic device gives him the go-ahead to rise.

Then the sun graces us with its presence.

Sunrise over our neighborhood, the Albayzin.  (Taken from the bathroom window, which should, but doesn't, have curtains.)

Good morning to the very first day of feeling like a human being in Spain!  Ah, that’s much better!  It turns out that moving to a new country with two kids is not easy.  Who knew??  In the immortal words of Condoleezza Rice, “I don’t think that anybody could have predicted…”

While running all over this city for the past week in an effort to get settled, Michael has had a head cold and I contracted a violent aversion to ham.  But he, in true superhuman fashion, has pushed ahead, simply bringing along his Kleenex.  I, on the the other hand, wimped out almost entirely when two days ago my intestines began a revolt against ham, cheese, and olive oil.  I managed two vital errands in that time span – the supermarket and the bank (where, after two visits, we still don't have a bank account).  Then I was back in whatever bed was closest to a bathroom.  I got up to make dinner so the kids were eating at a reasonable hour.  Otherwise the option was going out to eat, having to wait until 8pm to do so.

The girls are the gold medalists this week.  They have taken to their new school like champs, so much cooler than I would have been or that we expected them to be.  They are attending an all-girls’ Catholic school, the only school we could get them into on such short notice.  Michael and I both had our unique concerns.  Projecting my own insecurities, I worried that they would have a hard time making friends, find frustration at not being able to understand the teachers, wouldn’t like the food at lunch, and during their daily mass in the chapel would say a little too loudly “What’s god?”  

True to his inner Catholic boy, Michael’s concerns seemed to center around rules and whether the kids were going to wittingly or unwittingly break them, but in either case end up in a fiery hell.  Did we buy the appropriate clothing?  Would they accidentally wear a piece of jewelry to school?  Would they get in line to take communion thinking it was snack time?  (Knowing what we know now, I think it’s pretty safe to say that no matter how hungry a kid is, she’ll never be interested in having a cracker placed in her mouth by an old guy in a robe.  Unless, in Willa’s case, it’s a Cheeto puff.  Then, I'll bet you, she'd consider it).

While Michael and I were faltering at home, the kids were kicking ass at school.  It was with serious trepidation that we picked them up at the end of their first day, 4:45pm.  We wondered which one of them would be screaming the loudest to get them the hell of there and I was already coming up with a list of bribes.  But we found them alive and well at dismissal, surrounded by girls asking them questions.  Willa later said she couldn’t actually answer any of the questions because they were firing them off so fast, one right after the other.  So she just said nothing and let everyone else talk.

One of the first things we heard about was lunch.  The rule is you can’t go to recess unless you eat all your food.  Every single last bite.  Of the cafeteria food, since no one is "allowed" to bring their own lunch.  And apparently there is a teacher who walks around checking to see if you are eating.  On their first day, carrot soup was served.  I don’t think I ate carrot soup until I was well into my 20's and I’m not sure I’ve eaten it since.  I can’t imagine serving carrot soup to a bunch of grade school kids and expecting them to eat every last bite.  But the girls told us that when they saw a teacher walking around grabbing a spoonful of soup with one hand, the top of girls heads’ with the other hand in order to shove the soup in their mouths, they decided to eat every last drop in their bowls even though it was "disgusting".  My jaw dropped, as did yours, but Michael kind of laughed and said “That’s Catholic school.” 

By contrast, at PS3, kids take a bite of their apple and throw away the rest.  They might not even open their milk but NY State rules are that once you remove food from the serving line, you can’t put it back.  So, sadly, most of the food in the lunchroom gets thrown away (or composted!).  And, it goes without saying, if a kid came home and told their parents that a teacher held their head and made them take a bite of food, you can bet your ass you’d have a well-organized parent uprising the very next day.

We learned something else on that first car ride home – that both of our girls might actually be in the wrong grade.  Both of them are with kids who are one and two years older than them.  When we got home around 5:15 pm, Clio sat down and pulled her homework out of her backpack.  She needed Michael’s help with most of it, since it was in Spanish.  He sat down with her and except for dinner, the two of them did not get up until 9pm.  Clio’s math lesson was decimals and fractions.  Clio is a math whiz, but there were still quite a few tears of frustration.  Mama Bear tried to jump in and argue that this is too much, they’re in the wrong grade, we have to ask them to be re-assigned to a lower level.  But the girls wouldn’t hear of it.  “No!  We want a challenge!”  So a deal was struck: we would keep them in their current classes, and in exchange, they were simply going to do their best.  They were not going to worry about grades or tests or cry over things they didn’t understand.  They were here to simply do their best. 

Clio doing her homework (and not eating her cheese snack)

The girls have now been in school here for a week and this morning they told us that all the kids at school are asking whether they like this school or their old school better.  Our kids don't know what to say, because it's like comparing apples and oranges.  Willa pointed out that at PS3, they get to do things like art, music, and dance.  At PS3, a music class involves every kid seated at a percussion instrument while Mr. Bruce teaches them beats and rhythms.  Yesterday’s music class here at the Spanish school involved the teacher bringing in an ipad and playing music.  Willa was appalled.  Here, the teachers give them a list of things to memorize (i.e. the seven continents) and tell them there’s going to be a test next week.  Their teachers at PS3 taught them a song about the seven continents to help memorize them.  Then the class broke up into seven groups and each of them drew a map of each continent (or something arty like that).

On the other hand, here the kids are friendlier.  Willa made a friend the very first day whom she was enamored with even though she had no idea what her name was.  Clio told us on the first day that “From the minute I walked in, they acted like they knew me forever.”  Lots of hugs and gleeful screams.  It made me laugh because I could picture the over-exuberance she was describing.  Perhaps she was wondering whether or not the kids were being genuine.  But I was also incredibly grateful.  The girls here give each other hugs, hold hands everywhere - in line, walking somewhere, or just standing around.  We’ve heard more than once about how "everyone here is so friendly".  Clio told us that if a new kid came in at PS3, it would be hard for them for a while because everyone would already have their own friends.  

Also, she says, at PS3, kids don’t hold hands with each other after 1^st grade.  Which this mom thinks might have more to do with the presence of boys but we'll touch on that social paradigm later.  Maybe.

The First Post from Spain: A Little Backstory

(Does this qualify as “little” or do I need an editor??)

It begins with Husband who misses his days of living abroad and perhaps slightly regrets getting hitched and having children.  (Just kidding, honey!!)  But he dreams of travel that involves more than just a week in a hotel in a foreign city with all the other New Yorkers on Spring Break.  He would much rather experience an immersion, and he wants that for his kids, too.  He relishes in the stories that his co-workers tell of their extended time abroad – when one moved with their three kids to Mumbai for a year.  “See!  It can be done!” he tells his wife.  Wife responds that his friend must have a screw loose and also probably dysentery.  “Plus,” Wife says, “what a logistical nightmare.  Especially with the kids.  Do you really want to add Logistical Nightmare to your list of things to do?”

Then, as though the Laughing Gods of Irony are listening, Wife gets breast cancer. Early in 2013.  Husband comes to her rescue and attends every doctor appointment, cuts way back at work, and their hectic, over-scheduled, over-planned, over-achieving lives in New York City come to a screeching halt.  (Wife writes a blog about it.  See previous entries.)  And after two years of surgeries, doctors, appointments, side-effects, and doctors and appointments for those side effects, Husband and Wife and their two kids have a new life together.  She is now living almost entirely in the present, something she's never been proficient in.  Gone are the lists of goals and dreams set in a future that never comes and she's not sure she'll ever experience anyway.  She plans what is for dinner and when she'll see family and friends but not much more than that.   And He is no longer tied up in knots, pushing himself beyond his limits.  They are both keenly aware that stress was perhaps where and how the Cancer grew.  (Full disclosure: they also both go to therapy and come by these new outlooks with a good deal of soul-searching, time, effort, and heartache.  New outlooks are not, unfortunately, found on trees nor are they available on Amazon.com).

And so, sometime towards the end of 2014 and the beginning of 2015, Husband again brings up the topic of living abroad, if only for just a spell.   Lucky for him, Wife is in a better place to hear it.  They sit down one night and look at a globe.  They talk about what they might want to get out of an adventure like this, how long it would be for, and, of course, a whole host of other Logistics.  Two priorities top their list.  Husband would like the kids to learn some Spanish.  And Wife would like to live in a country that is fluent in coffee.  Asia is eliminated and they hone in on Costa Rica because husband enjoyed a semester abroad there in college.  And also because their friends Sue and Ward just moved there with their kids and Wife made the mistake of offering them packing supplies before they left so when they came to pick them up Husband heard all about their plans and suddenly had another family to point to who was “making it happen.”  (In the case of Sue and Ward, one year has become two and may well become three, four, all bets on permanence).  They love it so much that it must be Heaven down there.  Husband, Wife, and the Two Kids plan a trip for Spring Break to visit and see Heaven for themselves.

There are only three things you need to know about Costa Rica for the purposes of this story.  Uno: every day between 11am and 3pm, the heat gets up to 95 degrees Fahrenheit and beyond.  For a cancer patient forced into an early menopause with regular and formidable hot flashes, describing this period of the day as Hell is not an exaggeration.  Dos: lizards, spiders, general bugs.  Probably not necessary to go any further than these three words, but it’s worth pointing out that Wife discovered that living in Costa Rica is a lot like camping, which no doubt makes it a wonderful place for people who think camping is fun.  Wife is not one of those people.  Camping stopped being fun for Wife about 15 years ago when she discovered the comforts of a good hotel.  Tres: birds, monkeys, and other wildlife that are always so very cute and preciously god’s gifts except during early morning pre-alarm hours when they beat at bedroom windows, and afternoon and evening hours when they shit on your outdoor furniture and general living space.

Back in New York City, the Family sits down with the globe once more.  They’ve narrowed the world down to Spanish speaking countries so that the kids might learn a phrase or two.  Europe begins to gain advantage over the other continents when considering of all the countries accessible by train or quick flights on weekends.  So Spain is selected and they pull up Weather.com to find out what the temperature is like in Madrid in January.  They discover it’s nicer in Seville.  Flights are booked to Seville for the last week of summer break 2015 for one more reconnaissance mission.  All systems are go for a move that begins January of 2016.  Family is getting down to the wire.  They’d better find a city soon.  Preferably one with a school for their children and an apartment to live in.

The trip to Seville is lovely and busy.  Husband is in charge of the planning so the five days are chock-full and no one is allowed to sleep too much lest they not be able to sleep.  Or something like that.  Wife doesn’t get it, but she defers to Husband on this one because his Passport is twice as thick as hers.  Family visits two schools, two apartments, a Flamenco dance, and a horse dancing event that is borderline bizarre but historic and cultural.  Family walks the streets of Seville, eats ham, tours in a carriage, and tries to imagine themselves living there.  Then, the day before flying home, they drive to Ronda.

Ronda is a little Spanish town on a hillside somewhere between Seville and the Malaga airport.  Husband thought it would be fun to spend their last night in a smaller town before heading home.  And the evening changes their thinking a bit.  By the time they board the plane the following day back to NYC, all are in agreement that Seville is too big and that they would rather spend six months in a small town like Ronda.  Husband and wife confer on the plane, scanning their brains for another possibility.  Husband says he spent 24 hours in Granada once 20 years ago and enjoyed it.  Wife, tired of airplanes and time zones and itching to make a decision so she can get on with her life, agrees that Granada is the perfect place. 

“But you’ve never been,” he says. 

“I’m sure it’s lovely,” she says. 

“Get out your calendar and let’s find a time in October to visit,” he says. 

“No.” she replies.  “You get out your calendar and figure out when you can go see it.  I’ll get on the internet, watch some YouTube videos, and Google Map my way around the town.  I’m sure it’s lovely.”

Four months later they move to Granada, to a very old and beautiful neighborhood called the Albayzin with an amazing history and a series of alleyways they call streets.  They have a little yard.  It looks out over the roofs of their neighbors, towards the Alhambra and Sierra Nevada mountains.  They settle in for a six-month adventure.  And it is lovely.