Floor to ceiling

We spent the day cleaning out the rental apartment, post-obras, which was more of a task than I thought it was going to be. The walls are freshly painted and the lovely wooden beams and new electric installation shine above, but below, months of dust and paint splatters and plaster and sticky stuff are congealed onto every surface. The refrigerator was a smelly mess (the workers left it unplugged and closed). We carted out bags and bags of trash, cleaned all the dishes and all the furniture, bemoaning the horrible treatment it received at the hands of the workers (for starters, they left all our chairs and pieces from our antique bedroom set, the one with gorgeous inlaid wood and marble tops, sitting outside over a very rainy weekend) and brought more antiques back to this apartment (which is, believe me, the last thing we need). We installed new kitchen drawers, rearranged furniture, and made many trips up and down the six flights of stairs. Ugh.

I never will understand the system of numbering floors here. That apartment is technically a fourth-floor apartment, but since there is an "entresol" and "principal" before even getting to the first floor, the flights of stairs really add up. Same thing goes for our apartment here; second floor by name, it's really four floors' worth of stairs. In both apartments, all the building's neighbors have agreed to pay for and put in elevators (a verrry expensive proposition, especially when it's times two), but given the pace things move around here, we won't be riding our elevator until we've already schlepped years' worth of groceries and possibly infants and strollers and whatnot up and down these dadgum stairs.

Now we are dusty and sore in the lower back. The Mister's allergies have kicked into high gear in from all that dust. The rest of our Saturday night is, I have a feeling, going to be spent sprawled out on the sofa with a newspaper and possibly a movie. We like to live large.

Today I am thankful about the apartments. As much of a headache as owning is, we were very lucky to have stumbled into two amazing fixer-uppers, giving us a lovely place to live as well as a welcome stream of rental income.

Odds and ends

Today November sun slants through the window onto the bookshelf. It's a little chilly in the house.

*

I am researching how to roast a turkey in a convection oven. It's confusing. I don't have a roasting pan and am wondering if I need to buy one. I probably need to buy a thermometer so I don't get everyone sick with an undercooked bird.

*

My voice teacher told me my voice is "too angelic." She says I'm hiding my real sound behind a church choir warble. She made me sound like a lady with blue hair. So my task this week in practicing is to let out a deep, belly-mellifluous "hey!", like someone I don't know just patted my rear end, before every warm-up scale. I wonder what the neighbors think.

*

The Mister's saint day present was: framing. We've had some things sitting around for a long time now that we wanted to get framed. One is a big 1950s Spanish poster of the United States, published by the State Department, and found in a chest of drawers made by the Mister's great-grandfather. Serendipitous. We love it. Each state has little pictures of its major exports or vacation spots, so it's full of great tiny details, like the kneesocks-clad Vermont hiker, or the one carrying sap buckets right next to the words "arabe de arce" (maple syrup), or the Iowa guy hoeing a cornfield over the words "maiz gigante" (giant corn). I'll take a picture as soon as we take the final step and get it actually hung on the walls.

*

The other poster was purchased from Tiny Showcase (you can see it here). I am so ridiculously tickled by this print: it's a "guide to fifty nine fields." It's a field guide! Get it?! Plus, I love the colors and the shapes, how it looks like an alphabet or something from a distance, and the captions for each field, like "beside the ghost houses," "eight makes the chorus," "forgotten things," "summer swallows learning," "wherewithal"... I could go on; they're all awesome. It makes me look at fields differently when I fly, studying their odd shapes and sizes from above.

*

We are not having many bites for the ad we put up to rent the other apartment, now that it's fixed up again. This is worrisome, because it's been empty for two months now. Subtract rental income and add expensive renovation fees--not ideal. It's always gone like hotcakes before, and now it should be even better, due to brand-new wiring, newly exposed beams, and a complete paint job. Maybe it's the wrong season; I guess not many people are looking for an apartment in Barcelona in December. Anyway, if you have found your way here and are in need of an apartment in Barcelona (2 br, long-term, i.e., not vacation rental), leave a comment.

*

I have just three words for you: Pumpkin. Bread. Pudding. Go make this. I made it because I needed to use up some leftover pumpkin I was afraid would go bad, thinking I would freeze the dessert for a later date. Um, nope. I singlehandedly ate a good third of it yesterday, it was that delicious. And quite ridiculously easy. I left out the Bourbon, but it would probably be an awesome addition.

*

That is all.

*

Except for this: I am thankful for pumpkin bread pudding, and November sun, and books and breath.

Saint Robin

Everyone here in Spain gets to have a dia del sant, or Saint Day, the day on which their namesake saint is celebrated. By extension, somehow, the person bearing that name is also celebrated, complete with presents from the family, so that you have sort of a second birthday. It's really amazing how everyone walks around with a holy days calendar in their head. People who know your name--neighbors, shopkeepers, relatives--will call you on the phone or call out their felicitats! as you pass, because while they might not know your birthday, your name corresponds to the saint, so it's a built in reminder. Anyone who regularly attends mass is given, on the full parroquial (parochial newsletter), a list of that week's saint days. Even those who don't go to church know the saint days of most common names, since they probably have a Josep/Josefina, Pau/Paula, a Maria or Pere or Anna or Marc in their family.

We celebrated the Mister's saint day this month with his family, complete with presents. In fact, I'm curled up in one of them now, a cozy fleece blanket. One of my failings as a partner is that thus far I have never remembered his saint day until it is nearly upon us, and even then the importance of it somehow escapes me, so that I fail to get a gift. Not this year, though! I knew just what to get him--because he, um, told me what he wanted--but... it's not ready yet. Still at the shop. Hey, at least I got him a gift!

Then there's me. As far as I knew, there was no Saint Robin. But the Mister and I were talking about names, and we did a little digging on the internet, and found a bizarrely-named page in French ("Call Back Me It" for a birthday and saint day reminder service? sounds like some Babelfish translation at work), which says that Saint Robin's day is April 30! I have a day! Too bad it's only 9 days before my birthday. Would have been nice to spread it out a bit. But wait! Another page, this one in Spanish, says that it's September 17! Much better. I can't for the life of me find any info on who "Saint Robin" was, or if they're just making this up, but I'll take it. Presents? Sign me up!

One tidbit I did manage to find is a poem by Sir Edmund William Gosse about "Saint Robin." Even if this is just poetic fancy, I'll be happy to think of the "saint of flowers" who has birds for a choir and a nimbus of daffodils on his head. (Which would, come to think of it, put the logical date for celebration closer to April 30 than September 17...)

With a Copy of Herrick

Fresh with all airs of woodland brooks
And scents of showers,
Take to your haunt of holy books
This saint of flowers.

When meadows burn with budding May,
And heaven is blue,
Before his shrine our prayers we say,--
Saint Robin true.

Love crowned with thorns is on his staff,--
Thorns of sweet briar;
His benediction is a laugh,
Birds are his choir.

His sacred robe of white and red
Unction distils;
He hath a nimbus round his head
Of daffodils.

Around the bend

Being in England got me in the Christmas spirit already--the brisk cold, and so many cozy shops smelling of cinnamon and selling rustic wooden ornaments and berry wreaths--but we haven't even had Thanksgiving yet!

I'm sad to be missing my family's celebrations this year. My sister is hosting for the first time and oh how I wish I could be there to hang with everyone, especially the adorable nephews, who are all three at various stages that make you want to monch on them. The oldest showed me a paper plate turkey that he made yesterday, complete with feathers. Which he then proceeded to pull off and pile on top of his head, with the most winningly sweet smile you ever did see.

But I too will be making a Thanksgiving dinner (a day later), to introduce the Mister's family to this concept. I already know they will find certain things strange: mixing all of the dishes on the same plate! sweet foods next to savory foods! sweet-sour cranberries! pumpkin pie! But I'm hoping they'll like it nonetheless. We don't have enough chairs for everybody, and we'll have to use those antique plates that came with the house and that are kind of small, but we'll make it work. By the way, I love how Thanksgiving is translated here: acció de gràcies, or "action of thanks," which is so lovably literal.

I have an appointment with the Mister's grandmother to go down to the Boqueria and order a gall d'indi ("Indian rooster," i.e, turkey), which I plan to make even if I don't eat it myself. Maybe I will. We'll see. The last time I was involved in preparing a turkey without my mother around was with my housemates in Oxford. The seven of us put on a Thanksgiving meal for some British friends, and I only vaguely remember how it all came together, although I do remember the good feeling after everybody ate and we were all splayed out on the couches.

And I'm still mulling over the menu, unsure of how much I can prepare ahead of time and how it will all come together logistically in my wee kitchen, and how much to make (it'll be in the evening, so I don't want to overdo it), but in any case I know it will be strictly traditional. For one's first Thanksgiving, one should eat: turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, cranberry, squash or sweet potatoes, green beans, rolls, and pumpkin pie with whipped cream. Right? It's just a question of which recipes to use, where to get the ingredients (the Mister may have to bring me cranberries from Brussels), and how to bring it all together. I'm smacking my lips already.

Today I'm thankful for the coming holidays, for food and family on two sides of the ocean.

Same story, but in pictures

view from hotel

across the street

cheese!

the fells

the village

muddy sleeves

rainbow

green

Fells

It was a day that might be best called blustery. Every few steps along the lane, the wind picked me up and set me back down again. A shepherd in wellies who met us in the path gestured to the sky and said, "A bit wild." I agreed.

But this was a glorious, beautiful blustery, the kind that wakes you up and makes you look around. A misty rain blew at us sideways as we walked down the road, which we chose over the muddy fields--they call them fells--that would have required serious boots. The sheep, with skinny spotted legs and heavy wool coats, chewed grass and watched us go by. We in turn watched the bright green hills roll into the fog, or the fog roll into the hills.

The air felt good after a big breakfast that had followed a cozy sleep after a big dinner, the kind of dinner that starts with glasses of wine by the fire and ends with a selection of amazing local cheeses that we can barely eat because we are so full after our delicious desserts, and then tea again by the fire.

So we were happy to ramble along. We got to the village at last, and learned about ropes and stone wall building and cheese making--at the rope museum, the dales museum, and the cheese factory, respectively. I learned new vocabulary, like "sally," which is the fuzzy part where you grasp the rope that rings the church bell, and "cope stone," which is a thin stone that sits vertically on top of a hand-built wall.

At one point, as we walked through a hilly cemetery, I slipped on the wet grass and landed--ufff!--in a big smear of wet mud. I was very out of sorts for a while, because my hands, sleeves, and bottom were covered with the black stuff. But moments later we watched a rainbow arch over the roofs of the village and the fog cleared for a minute so we could see the top of the dales, and I was happy again. And dorkily amused by my tumble, because I suddenly realized: I fell on the fells!


(Picture downloading has been hampered by my inability to locate the little thingamajiggy that puts European prongs onto my American camera charger. Will look again and hopefully will have pictures soon.)

Reverse

One of the best things about travel days is the strange sensation of having been in a place so drastically different just hours ago. This morning I was climbing medieval walls and enjoying an Anglican church service and driving a car on the opposite side of the road (not all at once, obvs.), and now? Well, now I'm sitting on the couch in the living room.

I'm very proud of myself for successfully maneuvering through the little skinny byways of the Yorkshire Dales without any major mishaps. The internal chant of "stay on the left" helped quite a bit, as did avoidance of driving after dark, because once dusk fell (at about 4 o' "it's further north than you think" clock) I lost all confidence as to whether I hadn't missed some crucial sign and was driving the wrong way down a one-way road. I did once turn into oncoming traffic, but that was quickly remedied, and everyone was moving so slowly that no damage was done.

There was a lot more to the trip than conquering the reverse driving experience, but I'm sleepy and I want to download the camera files and see if any of our pictures captured just how green the rainy fields were, just how lovely the mossy stone walls, just how inviting each dale. I promise that tomorrow I'll write about those things.

What's home?

(Am still in England. This post was written ahead of time. Look at me, all prepared and whatnot.)

After the election, I was so proud that all of my "home" states pulled for Obama (not all of them givens, either):

Iowa, where I was born.
Pennsylvania, where I spent my childhood.
Vermont, where I spent my high school years and where my parents live.
Massachusetts, where I went to college and where my siblings live.
Indiana, where I studied for grad school.

Just as I was thinking about that, Astrid wrote a great post about what it takes to feel "at home" in a place, especially for expats. How the feeling of belongingness can come and go so easily.

And I wondered, where's home for me?

As the above list should indicate, when people ask me "where I'm from," it's not so simple to answer. The first answer is "the US," but after that it gets more complicated. I usually say Vermont, which is, of all those states, where I identify most as "home," both because it's the place I go back to for holidays, and because I'm proud of it and fiercely attached to it as a (beautiful) place.

Although those who ask that question clearly identify me as a foreigner, another answer is that I'm also "from" here. This is where I live. This is what I have chosen. Through my husband and our house and his family and the Catalan language, I am making a thousand new little rootlets to create "home" every day.

But feeling at home is another story. One minute everything makes sense, I'm grooving with the language, I feel like an adopted Catalan, I get cultural references, jokes, and place names, I belong in my neighborhood, I know what's what and can steer my way around the city like a local. The next minute--boom!--I'm so darn foreign, all gangly and blond and my words get tangled up and I don't have my ID yet and I don't get the joke and the explanation doesn't make sense and this is so not home. Sigh.

Ultimately, I would define home as the place where my loved ones are. Thus I can simultaneously talk about "going home" for Christmas, and "coming back home" when Christmas is over.

Mostly, home is where the Mister is. It's in his arms.

2468 Memory Lane, Childhood, the Eighties

(Still in England; wrote this post the other day. Am clever like that.)

My dad scanned some great images for me, pictures I maybe hadn't ever seen, or not for a long time.

The first one is of me with two beloved items that are, I believe, still in a box somewhere in my parents' basement. When I was very small, my mom made that activity book I am carefully "reading" for the millionth time. As a matter of fact, most of my childhood pictures consist of me curled up in some chair or another, engrossed in some book or another. Next to me is perched the Christmas present that made my little head nearly explode with joy, a real Cabbage Patch Doll named Christy Nicolina. My great-grandma told me it was an ugly doll (it was, of course, not that I could conceive of such sacrilege at the time), which made me cry. Sadly, it's one of the few memories I have of my grandfather's mother.


The second photo shows the "stacked like a cord of wood" configuration I mentioned the other day. How we drove to Iowa, all laid out in the back. Nowadays, of course, totally illegal, but I have good memories of falling asleep, curled among my siblings, listening to the steady thrum of the highway.

I want to neglect the remainder of my life with you

While I'm away...

The other day I watched a little video that so thoroughly tickled my funny bone I sat there chuckling long after it ended. Not surprisingly, it's all about wordplay, and the comical results of automatic internet translations. I couldn't for the life of me figure out how to embed it here, so go to YouTube and watch it there.

Hills and Dales

Today I'm flying to Manchester to meet the Mister (he's there for some meetings). From there, we're going north to explore the Yorkshire Dales and some lovely B&Bs, then down to York for a day. I'm looking forward to misty fields, crackling fires, hearty English breakfasts, tea, and cheese! (Wensleydale, home to Wallace and Gromit, is famous for its cheese.)

We've rented a car, and I'm a bit nervous about driving on the other side of the road. But everyone assures me that it'll be fine if I just take it slow and think carefully at the roundabouts.

Anyway, although I've committed to writing every day for national blog posting month, I don't know if I'll be able to post. I'm not bringing my computer, just my little iPod touch--so if I'm lucky and can capture a wireless signal, I'll be able to write briefly, but if not, I'm out of luck.

I'm also trying to figure out what book to bring. Something nice and Englishy, something good for fireside reading. Maybe Jane Austen. The area where we're headed is also famous for being home to James Herriot, country veterinarian and author of a series of autobiographical books. I devoured and loved them when I was about twelve, so maybe I will be able to dip back into them if there are copies strewn about the inn's bookshelves.

Today I'm thankful for lovely feeling that accompanies the anticipation of travel.

Happiness doubled by wonder

I'm not necessarily forgetting to be thankful, I just keep forgetting that I was going to write about it...

The other day I came across this lovely sentence by G.K. Chesterton:
“I would maintain that thanks are the highest form of thought; and that gratitude is happiness doubled by wonder.”

Therefore, to be included in today's post and past posts:

-winter's sweet and spicy smells and tastes, the warmth of baking with cinnamon

-Barcelona's November sunshine

-the pure silliness of dressing up for Halloween

-nephews and nieces in adorable costumes

-Skyping with family

-the baked apples my mother-in-law snuck into the bag we carried home on Sunday

-revisiting wedding albums

-sore muscles and the satisfaction of having exercised

-Sunday crosswords

-Bach's Magnificat

Lavender and cinnamon

In September we attended a wedding up in the hills of the collserola. The wedding favors, sitting on our napkins when we arrived at dinner, were fat bundles of lavender and cinnamon. I ended up with a few extras, those of our out-of-town guests, and stuck them all in a pretty glass vase and put it in the entryway.

Now, every time I walk by, I catch a whiff of the bright note of lavender and the lower, spicy undertone of cinnamon. Who needs air freshener when natural aromatics like these can fill the air?


I've long been a lover of cinnamon. I still remember how disappointed I was when, as a little girl, I ate a big spoonful of the raw spice, thinking that it would be as delicious as the cinnamon candies I loved or the baked goods flecked with brown spicy sweetness. I think the Cinnamon Roll is one of humankind's better inventions. (My in-laws, when they came to the US for the first time, for our wedding, asked me about "those little spiral breads" at breakfast, in an awed sort of voice.)

As a child I also had a series of imaginary pets, ranging from horses to raccoons. They were all named Cinnamon. And I still hoard cinnamon gum from trips to the US, because I can't find it here. Most of my Catalan friends (the cuisine here is decidedly un-spicy) wrinkle up their noses when they try it because they find it too spicy. Not a problem, just means more for me!

Thus, it was with great excitement this morning that I woke up to discover I had won some Vietnamese cinnamon, whose superlative sweetness and fieriness Todd and Diane at White on Rice Couple had me drooling over. They say it tastes just like cinnamon candy, and has such a high concentration of essential oils, it'll spark when ignited! I've never tried this kind of cinnamon, and now I will have the opportunity to do so. Thanks, Todd and Diane!

In costume

On Friday afternoon there was a late-in-the-game change of plans, and we decided to go with political attire. My wig was all wrong, and most people had to read the "Miss Alaska" sash to figure out the costume, especially if my McCain wasn't around. But it was fun to pull together, kind of silly, and relatively easy.


Little red riding hood snagging candy...


And some very adorable clowns.

Estiuet de Sant Martí

In early November, the Catalans predict warm weather: the "little summer" of Sant Martí, which falls on November 11. Sure enough, today was a winner, crisp air and warm sun. We ate lunch outside for the "festa major" of my in-laws' town (every town and neighborhood has its own week of celebrations, based on the day of the patron saint). After some days of decidedly cooling weather, we are enjoying this estiuet.

I couldn't help thinking about what it'd be like in Brussels right now: ten degrees cooler, and gray. Maybe raining.

So I did a little poking around on the web, if only to confirm my suspicions. Brussels has, on average, 208 "wet days" per year, or 17.33 days per month. And this statistic does not include not-wet but still gray days, which I would unscientifically estimate to be another 10 days or so. 27 days of gray per month.

Barcelona has, on average, 79 "wet days" per year, or 6.5 days per month. Maybe a couple more are gray without rain. 9 days of gray per month.

If you could choose between the two, where would you want to live?

It's funny that I care so much about this, because I'm not a sun-worshipper, not a beach bunny. I burn and don't tan, I stay in the shade. Really, it's all about the effect of so much gray on my spirits. It's SAD all year long in Brussels.

And Barcelona? Happy.

(source)

Party cleanup

Nearing midnight. Must post, but am in the midst of saying goodbye to guests (who've been here since 7). Some fabulous costumes. Ours were slapdash, but got the most laughs: McCain and Palin. Am on sugar overload, as were all the children literally running back and forth through the apartment screaming at the top of their lungs. In a cute way, wearing little red riding hood and clown and doctor costumes. Somersault contests for the kids, a Barça soccer game for the boys, and lots of yummy food. Happy Halloween, redux!

Pet peeve rant ahead

A couple of weeks ago, at long last, we got a washer and dryer. On the first day, I washed every scrap of fabric in this house that needed to be washed or could be construed as needing a wash. I've never been so excited to do laundry.

The Mister's grandmother had told us in all seriousness that we didn't need to buy the washer and dryer, that we could just keep bringing her our clothes. I thought she was just being nice. But when we bought the machines and she still insisted that we bring her some things, or better yet, bring her all of the Mister's shirts to iron, I realized she truly does take great satisfaction in her impeccable presentation of perfectly ironed clothing (she even ironed our sheets and socks, and she has some mad stain-removal skilz). Plus, given the time and care she takes with it, doing laundry and ironing is a way to fill her day with activity.

Since I simply don't iron--the Mister irons his own shirts, but lately barely has time to stop off at home and re-pack his bag--I actually might take her up on the offer, if I can get over my own sense of the impropriety of bringing our ironing to a 93-year-old woman!

The arrival of the washer and dryer also reminded me of two major PET PEEVES: Stickers on New Things, and, even worse, Stickers on New Things that are Impossible to Get Off. The shiny New Thing is offensively marred by some loud sale sticker or ugly price sticker or, in this case, a muffin-sized sticker announcing in big red letters the number I should call to register the warranty. I know people who don't mind leaving the stickers on, but I really really can't stand to leave them there, marring the way the New Thing is supposed to look and feel. (In grad school classes, I sometimes had the urge to reach over the table to take the big yellow USED BOOK stickers off the spines of my classmates' books, and they always did easily pull off, so why leave them?)

But when it's the second degree of peevedness--not just Stickers, but Stickers that are Impossible to Get Off--you peel, or sometimes, in tiny little fingernail-gunking strips, rip off the sticker, but are left with a gummy residue that Will Not Come Off. I spent a good hour the other day trying various (probably toxic) substances on that darn sticker, including a de-greaser and turpentine, but nothing worked. Meanwhile, I was worried that I was damaging the nice shiny white surface of my New Thing. Finally I was able to get rid of the stuff, mostly by fingernail scraping and persistent wiping with dish soap. Ugh.

Someone should fire the people in charge of Stickers on New Things.

Today I am thankful to be doing laundry in my own home. Yay!

Phoneless

Our home phone hasn't been working for a few days.

I can't make calls or receive them.

With my cell phone, I call the number on the contract.

They only deal with contracts at that number.

I go to the store and talk to a real person.

He can only sign people up and doesn't help with technical difficulties.

I call the number he told me to call.

An automated voice tells me to call another number if I am already a client.

I run out of credit on my cell phone.

The website to re-charge the cell phone won't load.

I come back an hour later, and it is working again.

The website to re-charge the cell phone doesn't accept my credit card.

I try it again.

I put twenty euros on my cell phone.

I call the technical service number.

I am on the phone for about twenty minutes with a guy who tells me which buttons to press and what to unplug when and what to look for on my computer.

He concludes there's something wrong with the cable. They will send a cable.

I hang up and call the Mister.

While I dial, a voice tells me I am running out of credit.

I wonder if there is some mistake.

I ask the Mister if it is possible for the technical support number to cost almost a euro a MINUTE?

If it might not be toll-free to call a company to fix something that is THEIR FAULT?

He tells me since this is Spain, it is possible.

The line goes dead.

I bang my head on the desk.

L'americana

Last night was my first "real" concert with the new choir. We sang "Cançó d'amor i de guerra" (Song of Love and War), a rollicking zarzuela, full of triumphalist full-throated choruses that end with happy emphatic crashes of cymbals. Which fit my mood rather well after the election.

In fact, the best part of arriving at the auditorium dressing room last night was that one by one, many of my fellow singers (many of whom I still don't know) came up to me and solemnly, admiringly, shook my hand or kissed me on the cheek. There was a deep contentedness in those sturdy handshakes. It caught me by surprise at first, but of course: I was likely the only American they had seen that day. I felt like a celebrity, just by virtue of being l'americana, and believe me, this is the first time while in Europe I have ever felt so... admired for being American. I told them all I was so proud of my country.

Take a look at these reactions from around the world. It captures a bit of that good feeling.

And now for a couple of tangents, one a gush and one a dash of realism:

Isn't Michelle Obama just fabulous? I have a feeling that she is going to rock as first lady.

Also, Obama's election is a huge huge huge step for a country whose legacy is one of systemic racial hatred, violence, and discrimination. It really is an American dream come true. But some commentators are acting as though all of the sudden racism has been defeated for good. Sadly, that's not the case. I'm worried that having a black president could serve as an excuse for the more naive segments of society to say, "See? No racism here. Obama's in the White House. Case closed." And then shut their eyes to their own behavior or injustices around them. Obama might be kind of like the Cliff Huxtable of today, the friendly black guy who makes white people think they're "totally fine" with black people and that his success story is proof that racism doesn't exist.

(Yet: I am thankful things are changing.)

Yes

I tried to stay awake long enough to see some conclusive election results. I baked and did laundry until 2 am to keep myself occupied while the Catalan television speculated and the CNN election map slowly filled in with bright red and blue. I made it until 4 am, but although things were looking good, nothing was really certain. I fell asleep curled around my laptop.

So when I woke up all I had to do was hit refresh, and I saw the news. And then watched Obama's acceptance speech, and was moved to tears. The man is a brilliant orator, and I hope that the feeling I get when I listen to him, the feeling that here is a leader who I can trust and is telling the truth, will be borne out by his actions in office. I know that no one is perfect, and that an Obama presidency in and of itself does not solve the nation's--much less the world's--problems, but I hope that he will follow through on the good words of his speech.

Because what I heard is this:

I will always be honest with you

I will listen to you

it cannot happen without you

a new spirit

of service and responsibility

looking after not only ourselves, but each other

a measure of humility

to promote the cause of peace

America can change

while we breathe, we hope

yes we can

(today I am thankful for the promise of America)

Historic

Every election is an "historic election," in the sense that history is made whenever a new president moves into the White House. However, this time around the outcome will be especially noteworthy, and the issues at stake seem especially crucial, what with the ugly economic panorama, interminable war-waging, the dire state of the world's ecosystems, good health care out of reach for millions, and a lingering legacy of racism, poverty, and social injustice. I turned to the Mister the other day, when news of the financial crisis was starting to hit, and wondered aloud if we would look back on the whole of our pre-2008 lives as a kind of golden age.

And yet: whatever happens, I feel energized and excited just by the fact of being alive on this memorable day, and proud of the changes that already seem to be taking place.

Some reasons the election is especially historic:

* Barack Obama would be the nation's first African American president.

* John McCain would be the oldest person to be sworn in as a new president.

* Sarah Palin would be the nation's first female vice president.

* This is the first time in history that the two main candidates for president are both sitting senators.

* This is the first time in more than 50 years that neither the sitting president nor the sitting vice president is a candidate on his party's ticket in the new presidential election.

* This has been the most expensive election campaign in history.

* This has been the longest election campaign in history.

* This is the largest-ever age gap between the two presidential candidates.

* Obama's campaign has raised a record-setting amount of money from small contributions.

* New voter registration and early voting have broken records, and voter turnout may do the same.

* For the first time in history, both candidates were born outside of the continental US.

* The two candidates are the first from their home states, Arizona and Hawaii.

* The candidates have made unprecedented use of new technology like Facebook, text messaging, YouTube, and online advertising.

(Most of this I pulled from my buzzing head after nonstop election reading, but this article covers all of these assertions, I think.)

Vote

On the eve of...

Unless you are living under a rock, you know that tomorrow is the Big Day. The rest of the globe is voting for Obama. What will America vote? Everyone here is holding their breath, and there is extensive US election coverage in the news. Every day I have conversations with people who are puzzled as to why McCain even has a fighting chance, and I find myself (inadequately) trying to explain the whole American political panorama. It ends up being about the ideals of individualism and freedom, and competing definitions of those ideals when applied to various social needs. Isn't every political system (with further shadings among parties) just a different balance of what and how an individual gets to decide vs. what and how the government gets to decide? Meanwhile, I am getting nibble-on-fingers nervous.

As Obama's half-sister, who lives in Kenya, said of him, "He can be trusted to be in dialogue with the world." Boy, do we need a president who will rely on dialogue. And a president who is trustworthy.

The quote comes from an editorial I enjoyed because it suggests that literature and politics have a whole lot in common: they're both all about narrative. Stories matter, because stories are how we understand ourselves and where we come from, and how we understand our leaders and where they come from.

Anyway, the important thing is: vote!

(Scroll down a bit to see my election-themed Etsy sidebar...)

Me Mosaic

The Rules: you answer the following 12 questions about yourself (my answers are in parentheses after each question):

01. What is your first name? (Robin)
02. What is your favorite food? (tomato)
03. What high school did you attend? (Mount Mansfield)
04. What is your favorite color? (blue)
05. Who is your celebrity crush? (Obama)
06. Favorite drink? (coffee)
07. Dream vacation? (Argentina)
08. Favorite dessert? (chocolate)
09. What do you want to be when you grow up? (writer)
10. What do you love most in life? (beauty)
11. One word to describe you? (quiet)
12. Your Flickr name? (Cant d'Ocell)

Want to play?: Type your answer to each of the above questions into Flickr's search. Using only the images that appear on the first page, choose your favorite and copy and paste each of the URL’s into the Mosaic Maker (3 columns, 4 rows)... Enjoy!

Trick or treat

No trick-or-treaters rang my doorbell yesterday, but the doorbell did ring, and I did get a treat:

A big box full of books, all of them MY book! My translation, that is. It's a deeply satisfying feeling to see a row of them all ranged on the shelf, knowing that my name is on the cover, in letters just as big as the editor's.

It's not the first time I've seen it; I have had one copy since late July, I think. And I've been simultaneously excited and embarrassed about it all ever since I first held it in my hands and flipped through the pages.

Excited, because the book is beautiful, with a lovely painting of food on the cover, and a tasteful jacket design. I love the deep red endpapers, the font, and the layout. I was thrilled that it is a bilingual edition, Catalan and English on facing pages, so readers can themselves go to the original for the thornier aspects of the medieval language.

But also embarrassed, because some funky editing went on after I sent my round of proofs to the publisher. [Redacted: some guesses as to who is at fault, because on second thought, this is a job here, and blog lesson #1 is probably about not discussing work-related issues online.] The first problem is with inconsistencies (changed some but not all occurrences of a word). I wouldn't mind if they had changed them all but it makes me itch and practically break out in hives to see contradictory usage. Similarly, some but not all words were changed to British spelling. Finally, there are some errors that are probably typesetting issues, including many incorrect word breaks (as a former proofreader, this gets under my skin).

Yet all of this I could easily forgive if there did not exist, right in the middle of page 19, glaring at me reproachfully (there might as well be a blinking red light for all I can ignore it), this clunker: "When the recipes was copied, they was extensively reworked..."

The first time I thumbed through the book, I saw it, and it still makes me cringe every time I think about it (the "trick" in yesterday's "treat," if you will). I suppose the error resulted from the back-and-forth between the British and Catalan editors. Somebody changed something, somebody changed it back, but without correcting the verb. I don't know.

I have to reassure myself with the following line of reasoning: a) not a whole lot of people are going to buy this book, anyway--it's a niche audience--and b) of those who buy it, not many are going to share my obsession with grammar, and c) the clunker on page 19 does not go on my CV, so sheesh, just calm down already.

Anyway, today I am thankful for my very first, very own, shiny pretty book translation.

All Hallow's Eve

Happy Halloween!

I hope everybody has a fun, sweet-filled evening. It's not terribly Halloweeny here, but in honor of the holiday I roasted a little pumpkin (I was overjoyed to see a few pie pumpkins here!), then mixed the pumpkin purée with cream cheese, brown sugar, and spices, and dipped apple slices into it (and, to be honest, ate it by the spoonful). Like pumpkin pie in a bowl.

Our Halloween party isn't for another week, and I'm trying to think of a costume for the Mister and I. In past years, we have dressed up as Vermeer and the Girl with the Pearl Earring, Bonnie and Clyde, and Anthony and Cleopatra. I have two ideas so far, but I can't figure out if they're dumb or not: American tourists (fanny packs, flip-flops, floral shirts, sun hats), or Quasimodo and Esmeralda (a pillow for a hunchback, gypsy-esque dress, the same black wig I wore for Cleopatra). However we end up costumed, I have big plans for pumpkin-based food as well as lots of candy and chocolate and yumminess!

I also want to announce (to make sure I go through with it) that I am going to try to blog every day during the month of November, just like last year, and that also like last year, I'll be remembering the many things for which I am thankful.

Back to BCN

Thanks to everyone who commented or emailed about my grandfather. The trip went remarkably well (despite having to turn around mid-ocean and go back to Amsterdam and switch planes because there was something wrong with the controls) and the whole 7-adults-in-a-minivan-for-9-hours thing was actually kind of fun. Like when we were little and we all piled in the back of the station wagon to sleep through the night in our jammies with our blankies ("stacked like a cord of wood," my uncle said as we looked through some photos from the 1980s). Now, though, we took turns driving and everyone challenged each other to best their high scores on one of the several ipods and iphones and laptops floating around the car.

The funeral was sad, but simple and lovely. Grandpa would have liked it. It was great to see my cousins--all the grandkids made it--and aunts and uncles so soon again after this summer, and to be there for Grandma, because this is a very tough time for her, facing loss and a new kind of life after more than 50 years of marriage. Step by step. She told me she is going to learn how to find my blog online so she can keep up with our goings-on. Hi Grandma!

We played cards and watched faded slides of my mom and aunts when they were kids and ate lots of food and then so soon we had to turn around and head back to Chicago, where we had to buy the Mister some sweaters and a scarf and gloves because he was going to the Yukon for a work trip afterwards (because of the funeral he hadn't been able to re-pack his bag between Strasbourg and the Canada trip). For my part, I stuffed my suitcase with canned pumpkin and chocolate chips and almond extract and cranberries.

I came back to a rainy and cool, November-y Barcelona, and discovered that I would need to break out the space heater. And maybe buy a couple more. (We never had the radiators installed in the apartment...this winter will be an experiment to see if we really need to do so.) Today the sun is out again, though. It doesn't stay away for long 'round these parts.

Grandpa

My grandfather was very sick, but it didn't seem possible that he would leave us so quickly. I was able to talk to him on Sunday just before they gave him morphine for the pain, before he entered a cloud of sleep and medicine, a conversation for which I am so profoundly grateful. He was tired and hurting, but still his matter-of-fact self, his laconic midwestern voice the same as ever. I told him we would talk again in a couple of days, but by Monday evening he was gone. I told him that I love him.

Tomorrow I fly to Chicago, where I'll meet my dad and brother, spend the night at my uncle's, and then drive to Iowa together for the funeral. I still can't believe that the last-minute ticket was so reasonably priced, and I'm astonished that I am even able to go to the funeral. It's a strange thing to be so happy about that even in the midst of sadness, looking forward to seeing family and being with them to celebrate grandpa's life.

Battle hymns

A couple of weeks ago, I auditioned for an excellent choral ensemble here in Barcelona. I always get shaky and nervous during auditions, but fortunately they accepted me, and I am thrilled to be singing once again! I'm looking forward to getting to know a repertoire of Catalan music--my first full concert will be a Catalan sarsuela (zarzuela, in Spanish). One of the conditions of membership is that every singer take voice lessons biweekly, so I will also be returning to individual vocal study for the first time since college.

Last night we had the privilege of singing at the breathtaking Palau de la Música Catalana (click on "Guided Tours" and then "Virtual Tour" for a series of nice videos of the interior and exterior, or "Palau" for its history).


We were squished up in those red velvet seats flanking the organ in order to sing the Catalan national anthem, Els Segadors, at the end of an evening of musical and verbal tributes to Lluís Xirinacs. A long stream of public figures paid honor to Xirinacs' dedication to nonviolence and Catalan independence. Maria del Mar Bonet, a well-loved folk singer whose 1970s Catalan protest songs galvanized a generation, performed, along with many other Catalan musicians. The tenor of the evening, although filled with chants of "A Free Catalonia" and fists pumping in the air, was largely peaceful, given the example of Xirinacs himself.

However. When at last it came time to sing the Catalan anthem (which I had been frantically memorizing over the weekend), it struck me again how violent it is, and how ironic this violence given last night's context. The music itself sounds even more "militant" than the meaning of the words might indicate. People these days don't (usually) sing it in a spirit of violence, but the overall message is violent, and the lyrics were written about the Reapers' War of the 17th century. Like the American national anthem, which also commemorates a battle (from the War of 1812), this anthem links nationhood to a celebration of violent defiance. They are battle hymns.

I won't say much more about this except to lament it. I've long wished the American national anthem were something easier to sing and something a shade less bellicose. National identity, as represented by a song, should ideally be peaceful and pluralist. The Spanish national anthem is wordless, and perhaps this is the best way to go. However, recently a contest was held to add words to the anthem, resulting in some major controversy. For starters, the lyrics begin with "Viva España," inevitably reminding Spaniards (and Catalans, and Basques) of the dictatorship, when those very words represented the often violent oppression of "unacceptable" identities.

This falling

Autumn in Barcelona was bound to be different than in Burlington, or Bloomington, or Brussels. In fact, it is a combination of them all, with the addition of the saturated sun that drenches seaside towns. Although I dearly miss the vivid colors of Vermont and southern Indiana, there are still crunchy leaves and cool nights, that smell in the air of changing weather. We went up into the hills a couple of weekends ago for a friend's wedding, and we shivered in our party dresses (I secretly enjoyed it). And since September and October have been quite rainy, there are hints of the cool gray skies of Brussels.

During the day I can still wear sandals, although in looking around I've noticed that pretty much no one else wears them any more (except for the tourists): it seems that a change of seasons requires a change in wardrobe and footwear, whether or not the temperature is balmy. I always take my jacket with me now, the bright green one that makes me happy. I hope that one of these weekends we'll be able to get out of the city and wade through some fallen leaves.

My favorite autumn poem is Rilke's "Herbst." I may have posted it before, but it is worth savoring again. The "And yet" of the last stanza takes my breath every time.

This poem today is in honor of my grandfather, who is very ill. I pray that he is held "with infinite softness" in God's hands this fall.

Autumn
by Rainer Maria Rilke (tr. Edward Snow)

The leaves are falling, falling as if from far off,
as if in the heavens distant gardens had withered:
they fall with gestures that say “no.”

And in the night the heavy earth falls
from all the stars into loneliness.
We are falling. This hand is falling.
And look at the others: it is in them all.

And yet there is One who holds this falling
with infinite softness in his hands.

15 and 68

We now have internet! It is fast! And it follows me wherever I go in the house!

To mark the occasion, I have yet another summer story, written while internetless and waiting be wired so I could upload.

***

We spent a week in Amsterdam at the tail end of summer holidays so that the Mister could improve his Dutch. His workplace pays for a certain number of days of language instruction, anywhere in Europe, and besides paying for the class itself they provide a small stipend, which covered lodging (since we looked for the most reasonable B&B we could find) and a portion of our food costs each day. So basically, we figured, we had a subsidized vacation! Of course, he had four hours of intensive classes every day, which left him pretty brain-numb by the time we met up again in the afternoon. But I got to spend my mornings in museums, strolling through canal-lined streets, dodging bicycles, and sipping coffees.


For me, many of the highlights of the trip centered around the redeveloped area of the oosterdok, the thin spit of land off the edge of the city, out by the train station. The new city library there is wonderful, rivaling the great modern libraries of American cities like Seattle and San Francisco.

(Portions of the Oosterdok visible in the background.)

We also spent our last night in town in and around the oosterdok, with a meal at Jamie Oliver's restaurant,15, and a concert at the brand-new Musikgebow.

Slightly wary of the celebrity-chef-restaurant phenomenon, and having read some negative reviews of the 15 in London, I wasn't sure the dining experience would be a home run. But I think the principal idea is a great one, teaching disadvantaged kids (15 each year, thus the name) how to cook, serve, and run a top-notch restaurant. Plus, I like Jamie Oliver's style of cooking, at least as it comes through in the books: sturdy, unfussy, fresh flavors.

We had to eat early, because of the concert, so the vast industrial-style restaurant was nearly empty when we came in. The kids who greeted us and explained the menu seemed totally enthusiastic about both their jobs and the food they were serving, even if they tripped over some of the English terms. There is only one option on the menu, the fixed-price four-course meal (although we could choose from two options for two of the courses), and it was entirely Italian, at least on the night we were there.

The verdict? Home run. Nothing overly complicated or hard to figure out--I imagined I could even make some of the dishes myself, if I had time and the right ingredients, and the menu even printed the recipe of one of the simple sauces. But that didn't diminish just how delicious everything was. I was especially enamoured of my silver mullet with braised greens and oyster mushrooms. Silky and hearty at the same time, the dish was so satisfying that I was disappointed to have tucked it away so quickly. The young sommelier paired our courses with some slam-dunks as well. (Sorry about the overuse of sports metaphors. Don't know where that came from.) Altogether a perfect way to end our week in Amsterdam.

Yet, we still had a concert to attend! We licked up the last spoonfuls of white chocolate ice cream and plum tart, then rushed over to the concert hall and scooted into our seats just as the lights fell.


The musikgebow is a sight to behold, with its huge cantilevered overhang, vast glass walls with views of the sea, and several beautiful performance spaces. Earlier in the week, when we had gone to buy our tickets, we happened to catch the tail end of a free afternoon concert in one of the foyer areas. Everyone looked like they had enjoyed it, especially those who snagged the big turquoise pillows out front. A friendly white-haired lady gave us a free CD of the highlights of the last ten years of the summer music festival, of which both the afternoon and evening concerts formed part.

We hadn't understood much about the concert we chose to attend, except that it involved solo arias and names of composers who caught our eyes: Salieri, Czerny, Mozart. Sounded good, right?

The first singer, the mezzo, came out on stage with a big number 11 pinned to her dress. A voice from the darkness starts to ask her questions (in Dutch). Some sort of faux-audition? The audience chuckles. She introduces her song, In questa tomba oscura.

By the time the tenor, the soprano, the bass, and the alto again have come out with different numbers on their chests and sung different versions of the same text, after a short interview, we are able to piece together what's going on: the singers are answering as if they are the composers. There are 68 known settings of this Italian poem, and the concert's sctick is that each composer is "competing" for "best musical setting of In questa tomba oscura," or something like that. (Everything is in Dutch, so it's not that easy to follow.) We have a list in front of us of 68 composers' names, which correspond to the numbers pinned on the singers.

At the first intermission, we were happy to see that there were free drinks for the public. We strolled out to the deck with our wine and watched the light dwindle. But by the second intermission, we were wondering if they were really planning to perform ALL 68 songs? To squeeze them in, they even performed in the lobby during intermissions. Now matter how clever and funny the dialogues (to Dutch speakers, that is), no matter how lovely some of the arias, weren't they nuts to do them all? Seems that they were nuts. And I'm pretty sure the interview gimmick stopped being funny after thirty songs or so, judging by the much-dimished laughter. Three and a half hours in, half the audience had snuck out of the hall. We finally succumbed as well, although as a matter of pride we would normally never ditch a concert. I suppose the thing went on for four hours, but I was glad we didn't stick it out.

68 renditions of In questa tomba oscura is just a few too many for one night. Although in retrospect, the Italian food and the Italian arias made for a harmonious pairing.

(Unrelated shot of a rainbowy Schiphol airport.)

Canyon sunsets

I guess I had some more summer stories in me, after all... I wrote this the other day just after saying that I didn't. (Maybe I did it to prove myself wrong.) The post describes a couple of days in mid-August, after the family gatherings in Iowa and South Dakota.

****

After flying into Las Vegas and spending the night at my uncle's house, the Mister and I threw our suitcases and some borrowed camping equipment into the rental car. Said camping equipment consisted of: a pup tent, two sleeping bags, an air mattress, a flashlight, and a water bottle. (You might say we were betting on good weather and the availability of prepackaged foods.)

We drove merrily to the Grand Canyon, impressed along the way by the Hoover Dam and also slowed down by the traffic at the Hoover Dam. (Only a couple of hours into the nearly 2,500 miles of driving we did was the closest we came to an accident: a pickup behind me, annoyed at the slow pace up the curvy hill, beeping and swerving, decided to pass me on the right just as I decided to let him pass me by pulling off to the right, WITH blinker clearly blinking. Thankfully, with a last-second head-check I saw him zooming by and yanked us back into the lane. And THEN pulled off, to let my pulse get back to normal.)

Hours later, we entered the park and asked the ranger at the booth if there were campsites available. The look she gave us told us we were foolish to arrive at 7 pm during peak season at the GRAND Canyon, for Pete's sake, and expect a campsite, so our hopes were not high as we drove on to the campground. Yet, we were in luck. They still had a spot! Furthermore, in reading the handy park newspaper, we had discovered that sunset was at 7:33. I thought it would be fantastic if our first view of the canyon was during sunset, so campsite secured and tent hurredly set up, we drove as close as we could get, parked, and walked the trail to the edge of the void.

These were my thoughts as we hurried down the quickly-darkening path (it was already 7:45): Isn't it strange that I could drive so close to the edge with no visible sign of... anything? Here I am, walking in a pleasantly flat forest, only meters from one of the natural wonders of the world, and I just can't see it coming. It's not like a mountain, which you can see from miles away, and prepare for. It's a mountain in reverse, it's a gash in the earth, it's...sudden. A drop-off. Why is my heart beating so fast? I am nervous, as though I'm about to pet a wild animal. A very very huge wild animal.

There it was, only dimly visible as vast receding darknesses under the orange border of the dark northern rim. Ungraspable. The crowds of people around us, mostly teenagers, were already dispersing, because they had seen the sunset we had missed. We took a series of pictures in a futile attempt to get the canyon on film (the two days we spent there we were aware of the futility of our picture-taking yet constantly took pictures anyway), gazing at the last glows of sun.


And then we went and had pizza and beer at the dining hall. Among the things I was not prepared to find inside Grand Canyon National Park: a huge grocery store, Amy's organic frozen food, microbrews, pizza (especially not pizza with spinach and goat cheese), fresh baked goods, and delicious coffee.

We spent the next day hiking as much of the rim as we could, and taking many more pictures, because every spot seemed more photogenic than the last. We ate lunch on the trail and dinner at our very own campsite, and then strategically prepared for our second, and last, sunset at the grand canyon.


We wanted a spot that wouldn't be inundated with teenagers, a little more off the beaten track. It had to be nearby, of course, but not right off the Mather campground trail. We decided to drive out to Yaki point, near the second trailhead for descending into the canyon. When we got to the road, however, there was a problem: we couldn't turn onto it; only the shuttle could pass. So we had to drive down the road until we found parking, and then walk back to catch the shuttle. But the shuttle didn't have a stop at the intersection! And time was running out. Calculating hastily, we decided to walk the last stretch out to the point. Waylaid by a cute little deer that wasn't at all disturbed by our camera-snapping (none of those pictures turned out anyway), we ended up half-jogging to get there so we wouldn't miss the sunset again.

We found ourselves completely alone on an outcropping of rock, with spectacular views back over the length of the canyon. The sun descended as if just for us. After a while, a French couple appeared, so we traded photo-ops with them.

Finally, we made ourselves put the camera down, and put our arms around each other instead. Perched on the tiniest portion of the long winding edge of an immense stone basin, we soaked in the last rays of light and that heart-stopping sense of our own human smallness.

Gym

I mentioned the other day that I joined a gym. This for me is a big deal, since I have never actually been a member of a gym and have always thought of such a thing as something other people do, much in the same way I think of basketweaving or hang gliding. Doesn't one have to actually enjoy exercise to make joining a gym worthwhile?

You see, I have never been what you might call an athletic person. I never played organized sports as a kid, although all of my siblings did, and so I have an at least sketchy knowledge of basketball, baseball, soccer, and field hockey. Just enough to know when to cheer.

In college, I lived across the street from the brand-new athletic center for the three years I was on campus. A one-minute walk. Yet, I probably exercised there a total of...eight times? I was busy with other things, like my self-designed double major and minor, and being an RA, and singing in choir, and any of the other gazillion little groups and things I joined.

I didn't notice that I had gotten a wee bit chubby until after I suddenly wasn't, which happened after I left college and moved back home and started hanging out with a guy who--no joke--was an olympic triathlete. This is still amusing to me. Because I found myself climbing mountains, taking thirty-mile bike rides, swimming, and jogging regularly. That summer, I house/dogsat for family friends, and I took their dog for a run almost every day. And liked it!

Then I got a job in Austria, and didn't do anything but enjoy living in Austria. Sure, there were walks and bike rides, but nothing intentionally exercisy. (By this time I had met the Mister, and so was quite preoccupied with the bubbly hearts shooting out of my head all of the time.) So I was entirely out of the habit when I moved back to the US and into an apartment with four other women on Boston's north shore. Since exercising with a friend is always motivational, one of my housemates and I went to the gym in the basement of her work a few nights a week, as it was just around the corner. And free. Tacked on the wall was a lurid 80s poster of Schwarzenegger as body builder. His muscles glistened. It made me ill. At some point we took the poster down, an act of vandalism that I still think was entirely justified.

At around that time, three things happened. I became a vegetarian and learned how to cook, I applied to grad school, and I got offered a permanent job in Austria. I turned down the job because of grad school, but they offered me a three-month position anyway. Since Austria was thousands of miles closer to the Mister, and since I hadn't really ever found a proper job in Boston, I accepted. And I was back to the no-exercise-when-living-in-Europe plan, although I did stick to eating well.

Thus it was that when I arrived in Indiana, older and wiser than my undergraduate self, I was determined to at least take advantage of the free gym access on campus. I eventually joined a yoga class, and started swimming for exercise. My housemate and I would go to yoga and then come home and make fun of America's Next Top Model while we ate dinner and avoided reading literary theory.

In an ill-advised fit of athleticism, I also let myself be convinced to join an intramural basketball team, made up of women poets from the creative writing program. Only two of us had any inkling about how to play basketball. I was not one of them. We played against tall midwestern girls (superficially, I looked like them) who had just missed the cutoff for the school's Division-I team (their skills made mine look like dogfood). We lost every game we played that semester. By about fifty points.

And then? Then I moved to Brussels with my new husband, and it seemed that I was succumbing again to the Europe=not exercising equation. But after a while the diet of heavy-duty Belgian beer and things fried and/or covered in sauces, plus the cooking-for-two effect (I overestimate how much to cook, and we eat it anyway), took their toll. I was starting to look like a pillowy version of myself, and didn't like that much either. So I dragged myself a few meters down the road to the local art-deco pool, and did laps every once in a while. I always intended to join a yoga class, but never found one that was close by/reasonably priced/in English.

Which brings me to last week's major coup: the gym membership. I went to yoga for the first time in over two years, and boy have I got some loosening up to do. I also got on the elliptical machine for the first time since that basement gym with the Schwarzenegger poster. It brought back memories (which is why I find myself churning out this blog entry, I suppose). The pool, compared to the one in Brussels, where lanes were a theoretical suggestion and children were likely to launch themselves into the water on top of you, is heaven.

I had checked out a couple of options in our neighborhood: the semi-public mega-complex of glass up the road, and the private, dimmed-lights, warm white towel service place down the street. I was very surprised to discover that the fee for six months was the same for both, and the latter waived my sign-up fee and gave me the rest of September for free. And it comes with several guest passes a month, so the Mister can join me on weekends! And there's free wifi (which is why I am writing this post at the gym), and a restaurant, and a spa, much nicer facilities all around, and did I mention the towels! Plus classes that I am much more likely to go to. The first place didn't even offer yoga. Oooh, also there's a high-tech hand-scanner at the entrance. I am easily impressed.

I'm going to challenge myself to go every day, alternating classes and workouts. Things I have never done before in my life include any kind of aerobics class, dance class, or pilates, so I'm going to try all of the above. Meanwhile, just the step of joining a gym feels very empowering. I slung a white towel over my shoulder this morning and thought, maybe I am one of those people after all.

A visitor

I was watching TV the other night--Chuck in Catalan! (most of the time they choose pretty crappy shows to dub, but this is looking fun)--when an audacious little lizard crawled right across the tile floor. My first impulse, which surprised me even as I lunged, was to grab the little fellow by the tail and bring him outside. But he was too quick for me.

Immediately after that I got grossed out. What is a lizard doing in our house? Still--is this mistaken?--I have the idea that a lizard is a much preferable, much cleaner visitor than any number of bugs I can think of. In fact he may eat any bugs that might be around. I still recollect the utter horror of the cockroach infestation in our apartment in Brussels. I didn't cook for a month. Shudder.

Plus, I have a history of fascination with lizards and snakes. In seventh grade, I actually signed up for an extracurricular herpetology course with Mr. Witmer, who had snakes in cages in the back of the classroom. We took field trips to see other, fancier snakes, and memorized things about salamanders and lizards and frogs and snakes that I no longer remember.

So my questions are several. Did he just get lost and find himself indoors by accident? Will he eventually leave again? Does this mean there are more, or just him? I saw him again a few minutes later, heading for the open balcony door (but then couldn't find him again once he went behind some furniture). Was he leaving of his own accord?

Here's hoping he is a benign and temporary resident chez nous.

Sometimes life...

...bowls you over:

Last night I found out that my grandfather's pre-cancerous ailment has turned into full-blown leukemia. They're going to treat it aggressively, so we'll be praying that his body responds to the treatment, and for my grandparents' serenity in facing it.

And when I woke up, I saw a phone message that my brother and sister-in-law were at the hospital, working on delivering a brand new little baby boy.

Settling in

So I know that I was supposed to be writing subsequent blog entries about our trip this summer but several factors have conspired against me. First, we remain internetless. From time to time, at unpredictable moments of the day, I am able to pick up a neighbor's wifi signal. But this signal is likely to fizzle out after a few minutes and be maddeningly slow. We have signed up for high-speed service, but according to the guy at the store, there's some problem with the "central system" and our request hasn't yet been uploaded. Once that happens, it can take a month to actually be installed.

Second, I have been preoccupied with getting comfortably dug into life here in Barcelona. Summer, as a result, seems like a distant dream. I'm loving--LOVING--being here. As the fourth person in a row complemented me on my Catalan today, I realized how handy it is to actually speak the language of the place where you're trying to settle in. Being my shy self, I probably, if subconsciously, avoided taking as much advantage as I could have of being in Brussels, due to my fledgling French. And the Belgiums, even if I had spoken superb French, don't so much do the complement thing.

The one ongoing disagreement I have with a friend of ours, a Catalan girl, who we met in Brussels and who now lives in Barcelona, is over the relative merits of each city. She pines for Brussels and makes what I think are erroneous claims about how much nicer it is there. Isn't it self evident that sunny boulevards, tree-lined beaches, and tapas are much better than grey, grey, and more grey? For me, there's also the hands-down superiority of a seafood-based cuisine vs. a ham-hock based cuisine. We had a reunion of sorts with her and other friends in Brussels for the Beer Festival two weekends ago, and although it was great fun, and boy they make good beer, it wasn't enough to make me wish to move back there.

Sure, there are things that are difficult about living in Barcelona too. Red tape and general administrative unhelpfulness abound (see above re: internet), and I'm still getting the hang of how things work. We finally received our libro de familia--the official Spanish document confirming our marriage--over TWO YEARS after our wedding. And now I'll be jumping through all sorts of hoops about residency and health care here. But it feels like putting down roots, so it's worth it, even if it all happens poc a poc.

Plus, I love our neighborhood. Around the corner: the metro stop, the market for fresh fish and fruit and vegetables, the cinema with good movie selections, and a plaza where children swarm over the playground and old folks sit on benches. The demographic seems to be predominantly families with little kids and retirees. Down our street or one over: the video store, my new gym (I just joined yesterday!), my hair salon, the grocery store, the greatest little wine shop ever, and a number of other tiny shops that are perfect for odds and ends. If I need to do more serious shopping, there's a Corte Ingles (Spain's major department store) and a whole fancy mall a ten-minute walk north. Most of the time I don't have to go up there, though. A ten-minute walk south, there's the train station, which can take me to the suburbs, where the Mister's family lives, to the airport, or anywhere else I feel like going!

The Mister's 93-year-old grandmother lives a couple of blocks over, and not only does she invite us over for delectable lunches, and tell me exactly where to go for anything I need, she also explains the history of this neighborhood. Strolling through it with her is like a walking history lesson. Through her eyes, I see this barri when it used to be a town on the outskirts of Barcelona, smell the smell of the chocolate factory that used to be here, hear the tram that used to pass where the four-lane road is now, and see the view of the Tibidabo hill from the fields that used to border the buildings (now, if I lean off our front balcony, I can just see Tibidabo's church lit up at night). Through her eyes, I see how the ladies in their fancy dresses used to gather at the town center for dances. As a little girl, she grew up in the apartment where we live now, and tells us about how she shared our tiny bedroom with a whole bedful of siblings.

Speaking of the house, we're getting it in shape slowly but surely. Still missing are a washer/dryer, a coffee table, and various other odds and ends, and we have yet to put anything up on the walls, but we finally bought a couple of area rugs that I'm really happy with, and I'm enjoying working in the office. I've been doing a much better job of writing for solid stretches of time every day, despite running around to get life in order.

The Mister is in Brussels during the week, but I much prefer having him to myself on the weekend rather than on weekdays. Plus, he's usually able to fly in on Thursday and leave Monday, so that's a nice long stretch. So far, so good. We'll see if I'm still singing the same tune in a few months! In any case, unless the unexpected happens, this arrangement will just be for another year, and then our lives will be one big question mark. Question marks are scary, so for now I'll concentrate on getting settled in here!

Sublime

No one told me just how desolate, just how cliff-hugging, just how hairpin-curvy, or just how beautiful the Big Sur coast road is. I mean, I had read Robinson Jeffers and John Steinbeck, and I knew it was going to be full of sweeping views and water crashing onto craggy stone towers.

But as we drove through the country just north of San Simeon (before the real curves start), I thought: this is what they are talking about! How lovely! No wonder it's famous.

I was getting ahead of myself, because I had no idea what was yet to come.

And we were woefully unprepared. Having no reservation for a campground, we planned to stop "somewhere along the way." I had a quarter tank of gas, which I thought I would be able to replenish, also "somewhere along the way." And it was starting to get dark.

Thus it was that we found ourselves swerving around the tightest of curves, perched upon the highest of cliffs, face-first into the most deliriously blazing of sunsets. I could barely see the road, both because the intense flaming orange filled the windshield and because all I wanted to do was stare down the horizon: undulating cliffs and cascades of clouds falling golden into the sea. But I crept along and hugged the side of the mountain and, alternating with incoherent exclamations about beauty and telling the Mister to take pictures, nervously watched the gas needle plummet as we vainly searched for campground indications.



It occurred to me that this moment would qualify as Sublime, capital S, in the 18th-century, Burkean sense of the word, an experience (usually of the natural world, most particularly the Alps) in which terror and beauty simultaneously overwhelm the beholder. If John Dennis' conception of the sublime was an appreciation of utter beauty "mingled with Horrours, and sometimes almost with despair," well, our drive along the Big Sur coast road sure was sublime.

Because we were starting to despair when at last we reached the little outpost of the outside world called Gorda, and I was grateful--grateful!--to pay $6.25 per gallon of gas. I asked the guy where the next campground was, and he said laconically, "just a ways up the road." We had already stopped at a couple of places that were totally full, and I was past freaking out, already stoically resigning myself to driving those curves in the dark.



"A ways up the road" turned out to be, oh, three miles, but they felt like twenty. We rejoiced at the sight of a sign saying Plaskett Creek campground, but despaired once again when it became quite obvious that most of the first-come, first-served campsites were taken. At last, we spotted a tiny spur off to the side with a postage-stamp campsite, and in the almost pitch dark, we set up our tent. We had to make do with no running water and pit toilets, and for dinner we ate peanut butter sandwiches out the trunk of the car, but we counted ourselves lucky.

Sublime.

Snapshots

It's September. A whole summer of sunsets have gone by. I didn't write any of it down while it was happening, and now trying to find the thread of this blog is a daunting task. The trips we took--to the US for a month, to Amsterdam, to Italy--stand out as a series of images, so I'm going to try to capture just a few of them here over the next few days.

The gist of the summer was this: I flew to Boston, hung out with family there, drove for three days with my parents and siblings and nephews out to Iowa, spent five days in the town of my birth (the Mister arrived while we were all there), and then another five in Yankton, South Dakota for a family reunion. Then the Mister and I flew to Las Vegas and rented a car and spent two weeks exploring the parts of the country we have never seen: Grand Canyon and Zion National Parks, then Los Angeles and up through Santa Barbara, Big Sur, Santa Cruz, San Francisco, then over to Yosemite, Death Valley, and back to Vegas. We camped, stayed with family and friends, and resorted to hotels when we had to. It was the best trip ever. We flew back to Barcelona for just three days, then spent a week in Amsterdam while the Mister studied Dutch. After another week in Barcelona, we flew to Turin for three days, and well, that was two days ago and now I'm here in breezy Barcelona, wondering where the summer went.

Like I said, I'm not sure how to write it all down, so I'll just start snapshot by snapshot, sunset by sunset as it were. They were all so different, but all equally magnificent.