my "glamorous" life

When I tell Americans that I live in Spain and that Big Jim is English, I often get a response along the lines of "Oh, that sounds so glamorous!" No doubt, the past few years have been exciting and a bit of an adventure. "Glamorous," though, would not be an adjective I would use to describe our life or the lives of many of the people who live in or near our village. The majority of expats I've met come here to have a simpler life than they did in the UK, Germany, Holland, or Denmark. They have given up many of the comforts they had become accustomed to in their previous lives. For example, heat and air conditioning. Last year, we had one of the hottest summers on record in Europe. In our village, we had three weeks of temperatures over 105 degrees. Big Jim and I live in a typical village townhouse, designed to stay cool during the heat. During the heatwave, the temp hovered around 95 during the day in the office. Because of the additional heat coming off of my laptop, I developed prickly heat all over my hand, with hundreds of tiny blisters under the skin between my fingers and palms. Because I was the sole money earner at the time, I had no choice but to keep working. When the itching became unbearable, I made an oatmeal paste, which I kept in a bowl on my desk. I would dunk one hand in the mix while I typed with the other. If only my former coworkers who had the misperception that I now worked poolside as the Big Jim served up endless pitchers of sangria could have seen me then. On the plus side, Big Jim and I both lost about seven percent of our body fat during the period, just from sitting and sweating all day. As I mentioned, the houses in this area have been constructed to keep cool during the long summer months. Unfortunately, there is no magical switch to turn off this feature during the autumn and winter. We use a couple gas-powered estufas, or heaters, to warm the house. There are electric versions of these as well. When I first came to Spain as a student, I remember being perplexed why the family I was lodging with were sitting at the dining table with the long table cloth draped over their legs. It didn't take me long to realize that the only estufa in the apartment was under that table. Several of our neighbors here use the old style estufas. During the winter, every afternoon after lunch, Rosaria and Iluminata are on the steps outside building olive wood fires in their heaters. When they fire is hot and dies down a bit, they will carefully take them indoors and place them under their tables, with the heavy velvet tablecloth. This is their only source of warmth for the evening hours. Modern conveniences are slowly making their way to our village. Quite a stir was caused about 15 years ago when the first washing machine was delivered to a resident. Dryers are still uncommon; washlines hang from every roof terrace. Dishwashers---only for foreigners. We were some of the first people in the village to have a permanent Internet connection, which Big Jim and I need for our work. Our house didn't even have a regular phone line before we moved in; the waiting time for a phone installation can be years. Until recently, when younger villagers began moving elsewhere, there was probably little need for phones---all relative news could be gained by word of mouth. One tradition that remains today is the ringing of the church bell when a resident has died. There is a distinctive pattern for men and women, and when it sounds many women head to the church to learn the identity of the recently deceased. The word then quickly spreads as the women return to their homes. These are just a few examples of why I sometimes feel as if I'm in a timewarp. Tradition is big here, and it is one of the reasons Big Jim and I love Spain. But is our life glamorous here? No, decidedly not. Life is about hard work and sweating and a constant battle with the dust that blows in from the nearby countryside. It's about the electricity going out at the mere chance of a rainstorm and dodging the mopeds as they speed through the winding narrow streets. Love, family, friends are what make it all worthwhile. Next time, gazpacho. Hasta luego, mylifeinspain

coffee coffee coffee

When I first moved into my old neighborhood in Philadelphia eight years ago, the storefronts were as quirky as the residents...art galleries, vintage clothes shops, the Korean grocery, an Italian trattoria, and a fabulous coffee shop called Quarry Street. There was nothing fancy or slick about Quarry Street, but for many people in Old City it was their extended living room. On rainy Sundays, one would find most of the overstuffed chairs, some of which were losing their stuffing and looked like they had been scavenged from a grandparent's estate sale, occupied. The hardwood floor was creaky, and there was always a bit of a musty smell to the place; we could never pinpoint its source....the old wooly chairs were a possibility, as were the stacks of used books lining the shelves at the rear of the shop. The damp-furred giant Schnauzer, a retired show dog, was a likely suspect. The steamy strong coffee was served up in mismatched oversized mugs, picked up at sidewalk sales and thrift stores. It was a perfect brew to kickstart the day or to nurse while reading the Sunday paper. The clientele was as eclectic as the mug collection, despite the overall slacker chic vibe and decor. It was a wonderful place. My former neighborhood has changed dramatically in the past eight years. When I moved into my apartment, half of the loft spaces were unoccupied. Many artists had made Old City their home because the abandoned warehouse lofts were large and cheap. Now there is a 3-month waiting list for apartments, and the prices have skyrocketed, forcing many of its former residents to find new housing. The new crowd is younger, more monied, and sleeker. Not surprisingly, Quarry Street closed its door years ago. There is a mug of coffee at my side now as I contemplate the future of my beloved morning beverage in my new adopted home. Starbucks have already begun to appear in Madrid and Barcelona. How long will it be before the franchise makes its way south? Will the locals, who last summer found my request for an iced coffee completely absurd (after much prodding I eventually received a regular espresso with a separate glass full of ice), embrace the decaf latte with nonfat soy? I'm told there now is a new Starbucks a block away from my old apartment. Let's hope the same future does not await my new home and that the traditional cafe/bars, with the bullfighting posters juxtaposed with the framed Madonnas, the shallow bowls of olives, "La Cucharacha" playing on the slot machine in the corner, and the group of retired farmers playing cards at the front table by the window, do not quickly fade into the past.

"But don't you miss the US?" & patatas a lo pobre

This has been a question posed to me countless times since I moved to Spain, by Americans, Spanish, English, Germans alike. The answer is not simple. Before I came to Spain, I lived in Philadelphia, PA for 11 years. To many people, Philadelphia is that lost city between New York and Washington DC, lacking the style and culture of NYC and the political power of DC. For this reason, some believe Philadelphia suffers a bit of an inferiority complex. Those who live there for any length of time realize this is not the case and that Philadelphia is a treasure of its own. During those 11 years in Philadelphia, I created a very nice life for myself. My publishing career was successful; I had a great apartment in Center City and a fabulous circle of supportive and fun friends. I lived near several live music clubs, so I just had to stumble a few blocks home after a night of listening to the latest of the local bands, and there were three art house movie theatres within a 15-minute walk. Restaurants, markets, pizza joints, salons, day spas, boutiques, art galleries...all right outside the door. I lived in the shadows on the Ben Franklin Bridge, which spans the Delaware River, linking Pennsylvania to New Jersey. The BF Bridge is one of my favorite architectural landmarks in Philadelphia. On a clear, sunny day, if one stands at the corner of 5th and Race, looking east, the bridge's enormous swooping curves can be best admired. But I'm digressing....what do I miss about the US? Good pizza, bagels...I've had neither here. My family, friends....obvious. Going to the movies....we have to travel 10 miles down a very precarious mountain road to the coast to the local multiplex, which unfortunately only shows the latest Hollywood blockbusters. Diners...one of my favorite places in Philadelphia is the Melrose Diner (if you've never been, check out their web site www.melrose-diner.com, and buy some of their cookies; my 92-year-old grandmother swears they are the best she's ever had). Not only does the Melrose have great food and the mystique of being a bit of a Mob hangout but it also provides an environment where people from all walks of life gather over a cup of their fabulous diner coffee and a slice of apple pie. The Melrose has a reputation of treating their employees very well, and as a result, many of the waitstaff have been there for 30+ years. They're always quick to spot a newcomer: when I took the Big Jim there for the first time, our waitress Patricia greeted him with, "You're not from South Philly, are you?" I don't suppose his English accent gave him away.... So yes, there are things that I miss about the US, but the longer I stay away, the more I see about the US that I dislike...the overconsumption, the ridiculously enormous houses, the wastefulness, the violent crime. And as globalization spreads, more and more American goods are available in Spain. You can imagine my shock-horror on seeing an Oscar Mayer weinermobile parked at our local shopping center last summer, for example. I thought I would never be able to find good Vietnamese food here, but most of the supplies are now available at the larger supermarkets, so I've become quite skilled at making my own summer rolls. Well, I must be off to walk the dogs. In addition to the "precious Boo," the dog I brought with me from the US, we have acquired a Spanish abandonero, a mix of Doberman and something very small, nicknamed "Mr. Beebs." They are great friends and love playing on the old goat track on the edge of town. They can run freely there; in the warmer weather, like now, Mr. Beebs especially loves to run through the ancient irrigation ditches the farmers still use to water their terrace plots. Typically on summer Sundays, Big Jim and I head off to the beach. We pack a simple lunch, pick up a copy of the London Sunday Times, and spend a relaxing day on the edge of the Med. Today, however, we've been invited by our friends J. and M. for lunch and a dip in their pool. They are from Holland, and some of our closest friends here...just wonderful people. Before I go, I want to pass along one of our favorite Sunday brunch recipes, patatas a lo pobre, which essentially translates to "poor man's potatoes." This area of Spain suffered tremendous poverty for many, many years, and this was a diet staple. Here's what you need: four large potatoes three green Italian peppers one onion 1/2 to 1 cup of olive oil (this can vary; most Spanish go more heavy on the oil) garlic (again, this can vary depending on how much you love garlic; we usually use five or six cloves) Slice the potatoes thinly and soak in water for about 20 minutes (gets rid of the extra starch). Coarsely chop the peppers and onions. We often don't peel the garlic entirely, just removing the outer skin and leaving the clove whole. You may peel, if you prefer. Using a large, deep frying pan, heat the oil (medium heat), and add the peppers, onions, and garlic. When the onions and peppers have softened a bit (about 5 minutes), add the potatoes. You want to cook them slowly, so lower the heat. When they are cooked through, salt and pepper, and enjoy! You may add bacon or chorizo if you prefer, but as one local elderly woman reported, her family was so poor, they only could afford to eat meat once or twice a year. So to be most authentic, skip the meat. Hasta pronto, mylifeinspain

hola

Hi there, Welcome to my virgin blog entry! It feels a bit weird, but here we go. I am a US expat living in a tiny mountain village in Spain with my English "significant other," who henceforth will be referred to as Big Jim. Big Jim and I came to Spain to seek a life away from the corporate treadmill and find a more tranquil existence. why Spain? Well, I had studied here during university and felt an almost instant bond with the people, the life, and the beauty of the land. It may be my one true "love at first sight" experience. The Big Jim independently had been traveling here over the years and had felt a similar bond with the country and people. Finally, a practical matter, there were no quarantine restrictions for pets, so it was easy for me to bring my then 13-year-old cat (she's 16 now and thoroughly enjoying her retirement in the sun) and my precocious pup. This blog will relate our day-to-day observations, our progress as we struggle to find our place here, as well as the occasional rant about the frustrations we encounter. In just two years, we have faced many challenges that we never could have anticipated, become stronger and, we'd like to think, better people because of them. Our Spanish vocabulary has grown through the trials and tribulations of daily life ("bomba de agua" [water pump] is a good one to know when your car breaks down}. We hope that you enjoy following our journey down the "road less traveled" and perhaps find yourself questioning ways in which you can take your dreams off the backburner and start making them part of your reality. Peace.