Long. Strange. Trip.

Moving

New website up, or coming up, at http://addictedtochange.typepad.com/quixotic/.

Hasta La Vista, People

I started this weblog as a way to keep everyone informed (well, anyone who is interested) about my movements during the nebulous transition phase from Portugal to Spain.  And to that end, it has served its purpose. 

Now it's time to do something a little different; I'm just not sure what that will be yet.  I'm committed to writing and particularly devoted to keeping in touch with you all in some fashion, so I will probably set up a new site soon.  Or maybe I'll just take a break and re-vamp this one.  Details to follow.

Until then, be kind to each other.

Peace out.

............

All I know is something like a bird within her sang,
All I know she sang a little while and then flew on,
Tell me all that you know, I'll show you snow and rain.

If you hear that same sweet song again, will you know why?
Anyone who sings a tune so sweet is passin' by,
Laugh in the sunshine, sing, cry in the dark, fly through the night.

Don't cry now, don't you cry, don't you cry anymore.
Sleep in the stars, don't you cry, dry your eyes on the wind.

La da da da...

- Jerry Garcia

Weighing In

I have been absorbed in work and summertime lately, so much so that I didn't even realize that I reached a sort of benchmark recently - I have now lived here for over six months.  Six months! In Spain!

I celebrated by applying for a library card.

So far eating has presented the biggest challenge here.  I mean, besides parking.  Parking is hell. 

In Portugal, the only real trouble I had was shopping for any type of clothes, because I am on the *large* side compared to most Portuguese women, but here in Spain I am happily average.  I walk into a shop and they always have my size.  Truly, I am blessed.

Food shopping, however, has not been so easy.  The supermarkets here are brimming with presuntos and olives and cheeses and canned anchovies which would make your head spin.  The restaurants have delicious, but somewhat predictable, tapas.  And for a while there I ate this wonderful dish at least once per week.  Beyond that, though, I have found the food in general to be... well... not as good as in Portugal. 

That is, until now.  I hereby confess: I am addicted to this. 

It would be nice if I could choose something less fattening like chocolate or Haagen-Dazs, but this yummy tomatey soup shivers my timbers.

Next time you see me, I will be 46.3 pounds heavier. 

Peace out.

Retreat

We went to the beach this weekend, on the Mediterranean Sea to a place about 2-1/2 hours from here called Estepona on the Costa del Sol.

The weather was clear and I could see Gibraltar and Morocco from the beach.

That's right.  I was sitting on the beach and gazing at AFRICA.

And I ate a lot of gazpacho.

Peace out.

Wookiepedia

I don't know why the existence of this disturbs me so much.

But in my own defense, I found it because I was curious about this place, which is within a very short walking distance from my house. 

On Second Thought

Maybe I was indulging in a little wishful thinking when I said that The Wee One is currently at 10% English; it's probably much less than that.  I suppose I have some trouble with the fact that we do not share the same native tongue, that it will likely be another 10 to 15 years before she knows what loquacious and verbose mean.  Or... supercilious.

Every so often I resolve to speak more English with her, but we end up in our same old habits.  The focus has been on learning all the Spanish words for things, for both of us, and the good-ole English language has fallen by the metaphorical wayside.  Then again, she's only three.  Maybe she'll learn supercilious by the time she's... say... five.  Ya think?

Peace out.

Just A Little Verbose

I have always suspected that The Smallish One was more... shall we say... "chatty" than your average three-year-old, but last week it was confirmed.

When I picked her up from pre-school on Thursday, I paused to speak with her teacher to see how things were going with the language difference and all.  The teacher said (in Spanish), 'Yes, yes, she is very good, behaves very well... talks a lot, a lot... doing very well.'

I smiled, 'Yes, it's true, she talks a lot.'

That's when her teacher grinned, 'Yes, she does.  Just yesterday, Nacho told her, "Isabel, stop talking!  You talk a lot!"'  Nacho is also three years old. 

I have already started a list of euphemisms for this behavior so I have something to hold onto as she babbles on in three languages, which is what she does from the instant she awakes to the moment, at 1030 pm, when I finally tell her to be quiet and go to sleep.  They are:  verbal, communicative, articulate, loquacious, and effusive. 

And, for those of you keeping track, her language breakdown is currently about 60% portuguese, 30% spanish, and 10% english.  I'm working on that, trying to bring it a little more in balance.

Peace out.

A Rude Awakening

Today I went for the first time to the huge mega-gymnasium which is just two blocks from my apartment.

I had this brilliant idea to try a 7:30 am class called Body Pump.  It was held in a large, high-ceilinged room with tall windows out to the main floor.  I arrived early enough to study the environment and mimic the other people who were arranging their steps and mats and weights before the class started.  Then the instructor put on the music and stepped up to his platform to begin, and I realized with horror that I had set up in the front of the room.  Ughh.  Quickly, I hauled all my stuff to the safety of the back, where I could follow along in a bit more privacy.

I will suppress the temptation to describe in awful detail how hard it is to resume physical exercise after six months of slacking off.  True, I have been walking a lot and biking, but lifting weights above my head and doing hundreds of squats was... extremely... difficult.

In other news, the parental units were here for two weeks, which gave me a fabulous opportunity to do some Sevillan sightseeing that I would not have done otherwise.  Photos have been added to the album.  While they were here, Mr. Husband discovered that we have a few channels in english on our super-advanced double-satellite home entertainment system.  One of them is Fox News - for which, if you are interested, I am seriously considering starting a petition to have the name officially changed.  Because, really, it doesn't seem legal to call it "news".  Why not "Fox Opinions", or "Fox Reactions"?  Anyhow, after watching this program for a few hours over the past few weeks it quickly became clear to me why there are so many angry, violent citizens of the United States.  That show made my blood boil.  In fact, I am even considering watching it before going to the gym, just to get me worked up before I work out.  So that's my message for the day - want to get in shape?  Watch Fox News (soon to be "Fox Reactions") and then head off to the gym where you can take out your aggressions harmlessly on plastic and iron.

Peace out.

In Which I Blame it on Pastries

I'm just checking in to say that we are still alive over here. 

My free time has dwindled down to zero recently.  And by "free time" of course I mean "time to play on my computer." 

We went to Portugal this weekend with the visiting parental units.  Many sardines and pastries were eaten.  Castles were gazed upon.  Scenery was seen.

I have been slacking off with the blog, but I ask that you bear with me a bit longer.  In the meantime, I update the photo albums with pictures of our misadventures.

Hasta breve.

Peace out.

In Which I Become An Esportugermerican

Busy, busy, busy.  That's me.  A busy bee, a busy body. 

We have had so very many holidays this month, so many days without school, without routine.  The past week Sevilla has been a burst of flamenco dresses and cavalleiros as we celebrate Feria de Abril, just walking distance from our house.  Our street has been a parade of women in long, colorful dresses wearing flowers in their hair, carrying fans.  And horses.  Horses and carriages which clip-clop down the streets and jingly bells that dangle from their heads as they pass.  It's quite the spectacle.

We had company from Portugal for five days, and they were nice enough to drag me to the Museu de Bella Artes, where I saw works by masters of the 19th century.  I had a brief business trip to Frankfurt last week and was immersed in four languages for those days: German and Spanish in the airports and hotels and trains, English in the office, and Portuguese when calling home.  I started speaking Spanish to a German cab driver, then rolled through two other languages before I managed to squeak out a "Ja, Danke". 

Somewhere along the way I must have lost my foreign-person look, because wherever I go people assume I am part of their culture.  In Spain, people ask me for directions almost every day.  Spanish people.  They look at me on my bike with the Smallish One strapped on the back and ask me how to get to the Plaza de España, or Triana, or Avenida Manuel Siurot.  In Frankfurt, waiting outside a bar for my ride to take me back to the hotel, an inebriated German spoke to me for a full five minutes, seeming not to notice the fact that I had not spoken a word, just smiled and nodded my head periodically.  He happily waved goodbye and wandered off into the night. 

I am reading a book about post-deconstructionalist theory, and I think my head is going to explode.

Every now and then, I post pictures to the photo albums in the sidebar.

And that, Good People, is what I have been doing.

Peace out.