The Pet Psychic Responds!

Here is what she writes (verbatim):

When you go to look for him, I got the sense that to talk to as many people as possible within a 2 block area from where you live, he says he's not far.  He's not being kept a captive, but apparently the person has no idea what to do or how to find you.  My thoughts and prayers are with you both.  Stay as calm as possible and send loving thoughts to Thunder and before you go out to look for him send him a message in your mind - Thunder ok we're coming out to look for you now, and we're going to ________ and _______ and we'll be calling your name etc.

Let me know when he's back with you.

Blessings
Suzi

here is what he wanted to say - what he gave me is in italics - he described it as best he could:  

“Yes my soul essence is still within the physical dog body known to Deb Perkins as Thunder. Yes the heart is beating and pumping blood throughout the physical dog body and the lungs are receiving air as you are talking with me now.  No I’m not physically injured, the pads of my feet are a bit scraped up but other than that I’m ok.  Yes I am with a human, who took me in.  Yes I am safe and she is taking good care of me and is trying to find where I belong.  Yes both of those sightings were of me and I ran for about another hour or so and then was exhausted.  I curled up in a doorway and slept.  (this doorway was on the right side of the street and it feels like it’s on an incline, not steep, but can feel the slant of the street)  When it got light I started to retrace my steps but it got too busy with people and needed to hide.  (I see him going left into a smaller path, not a street, not an alley because I don’t see cars, do they have walkways between buildings that might be like an alley without cars?)  I walked for a few minutes and this woman was bending over tending to a plant and I sat and watched her.  She turned around and saw me and I could tell that she was kind and gentle.  I started towards her and she opened her door for me to come inside.  She gave me some food and water and I fell sound asleep again.  (this woman’s house is on the right side of this pathway, the door is inset from the street, looks like an archway from what Thunder is showing me) 

No I am not far from the house I can feel it.  I was too tired and hungry to go on any further and that’s why I went to this woman because I knew she would help me.  Yes I’m within 2 blocks North and slightly east of our house.

Yes of course this woman will cooperate and give me back.  She doesn’t know anyone is looking for me.  Yes I can find my way back if I go outside by myself, however that hasn’t happened yet.  It would be easier if you can come and get me.  I realize there are many houses that might look alike to you.  This woman has grey hair, wears it back in behind her head, is medium height, slightly over weight, but not fat, has a very pleasant face and shining eyes.  Yes she lives alone because there is no one else here.  Yes if you called out to me and you were close I can bark and you could hear me most likely.  I make her think of times when she had someone around and it felt good, now she is considering having someone in her life again.  So this has been good for her.

And yes, I do not like the housekeeper, she has a side to her that you have not seen yet.  I prefer never to go for a walk with her again, I am fine being with you.  Yes I look forward to you coming and getting me.  Yes this woman is quite sociable and well known around here so it will be easy for you to talk with people and they will connect you with her.  I’m here waiting and I love you.”

AND SO...we will be looking for the grey haired woman who has taken in our beloved boy dog tomorrow when we are back in Madrid.  Love and Happy New Year to you all!  We'll keep you posted...Delora

The Pet Psychic

My sister recommends that we call the renowned pet psychic, Joy Carroll, to enlist her help in finding Thunder.  She senses my East Coast reaction and explains...I know, I know, sounds kooky.  But she tells a compelling story about some very sane friends of hers who were missing their cat for 4 days when they were persuaded to call Joy.  Joy instructed them to think of a place where the cat could meet them and she would transfer the information to the cat psychically. Yup, my sister says, that very afternoon the cat met them at their meeting place.

That`s great, I`m thinking, but what are the limitations of where I can tell Thunder to meet me?  The above mentioned cat was around Venice, California and met his owners in a special box they leave outside to trap wild animals.  We live in an apartment building in Madrid and a miniature dachshund can`t exactly reach up and ring the buzzer.  Besides, we`re in Switzerland now.  Can she send instructions to take Iberian Airlines flight 629 to Geneva?  Then, just as I`m getting used to the idea of having a pet psychic in my life, I get the bad news from my sister that Joy Carroll, the famous cat finder, is on vacation anyway.  Luckily though, Joy has left a back-up psychic`s name.

The back-up psychic won`t site statistics about the percentage of pets she`s found historically, but does state that she specializes in lost dogs, cats, horses(?), gunea pigs and snakes.  Her website instructs us to fill out a form about when and where Thunder was lost, and to give her any details we can, so that she can locate the spirit of our dog. She also instructs us on how to use Paypal.  She will ask the spirit if the body is working, whether the heart is pumping blood, whether there is any injury.  She will ask the spirit nicely if, in fact, it is still inhabiting the body.  (Can you think of a more delicate way to phrase that "condition" when the spirit no longer occupies the body???)

If the spirit is, ahem, still occupying the body, she will be happy to ask the animal for details about where it is.  She warns that the animal`s perceptions and use of language may not be completely accurate, but she will do her best to describe, as she is told, what the dog`s surroundings look like, whether he is with anyone, what the place looks like, etc.  She warns that if the dog says he is in a white room, it may actually be tan or beige.  Again, she cannot be responsible if our pet can`t tell white from beige.  She also warns that we have to take the dog`s sightline into account.  We have to see things from his vantage point. This is unfortunate, since Thunder is about 5 inches off the ground.  I imagine one of us pulling the children on their bellies on a little device with wheels through the streets of Madrid looking for a beige or a white door. I wonder if there is an extra cost for translating, through the spirit, any Spanish words.

No matter, we`re filling out the form tonight, and looking forward to conversing with our pet`s spirit (and hopefully, his uninjured body) and will keep you posted when he gets in touch.

Thunder

No pet has been better loved than our canine son, Thunder.  Of course, we try to love our pets unconditionally, but this 8 year old dog/child of ours has meant more than we could ever have imagined before having pets.  He is the most empathetic, wise, old soul of a dog that we have ever encountered.  No offense humans, but that canine has more sense in his little paw than most homosapiens we know. So it is with the greatest sadness that I tell you that Thunder has been missing since 8:00 PM on December 23rd.

On that evening, our Chica, using the poorest possible judgement, tried to multitask and do a few errands while walking the dogs.  She tied Thunder and Roxie to a post outside the very busy La Paz market and when she returned, Thunder was gone.  We got a call at almost 9pm that night while dining at a friend`s house.  Within minutes, we were searching the rainy streets of Madrid in four groups with Maria and her mother rounding out our search party.  We were scheduled to leave for Switzerland at 7 AM, ten hours after receiving that phone call, and still weren`t packed. Hours later, having found two people who had spotted Thunder running through the streets, we regrouped to figure out a plan. 

With non-refundable tickets, and the sense that 5 people would be no more useful than one, it was decided that Chip and the kids would fly to Geneva and I would stay to put up posters with Maria.  Reports were filed with the police and a poster was made of Thunder, looking his finest, offering a 500 euro reward. And now, the hard part.  We wait. 

The Spanish are kind-hearted dog lovers.  They treat their pets fantastically and appreciate love for a pet. Several passersby were nearly moved to tears when they saw us putting up the posters; several offered to assist.  We thought the reward money would bring Thunder back more quickly during a holiday when everything closes.  But in every population, reward money can bring out the devil. 

Now we find ourselves in a canine version of the movies Ransom and The Changling -- where Angelina Jolie loses her son, then the police return a boy that looks close, but isn`t hers. We`ve received a dubious phone call from a man that couldn`t answer any questions about Thunder, but swears his brother has him three hours outside Madrid. He offers to drive the distance, then meet to exchange the dog for the money.  Maria explains that Thunder has a chip embedded in his soulder with an ID number and as soon as they take him to a vet and scan the number, we will be thrilled to make the exchange.  When the caller hears this, he loses his enthusiasm.  Oh, he claims, it isn`t about the money...it`s because it`s Christmas... he says he`ll call  us back, but doesn`t. 

Please, please, let this be the time that some kind-hearted person has rescued Thunder from that rainy night; that the lovely person has a hunch that Thunder might like a smoked almond and a piece of a clementine while being petted all night; that this angel has waited until Monday to take the dog to the proper autorities because everything has been closed.  Let Thunder think that he has been away at a dog spa and that we`ll be picking him up any minute...

Choose Your Team!

When you're new to a city, and there is more than one team in town, you can choose your team!

You have no alliances.

You can choose the BEST team!  You can choose the team with the NEW stadium.  You can choose the stadium that has the HEATED SEATS!  Your team can be full of cajillion dollar players!

You can choose the team that has an Opera Singer at the start of the game!!!!

Go Real Madrid!

Dear España - a love letter

Dear España;

I didn't want you to find out this way.  I didn't mean to hurt you, it was never about hurting you...it's just, well, it's me.  I know you found my air ticket in my bag, and yes, I guess I've been unfaithful to you this past week.  I've been with Los Estados Unidos.  Oh! Just to hear you cry out like that chills me to the bone!  It's not that I don't love you dearly.  This new romance of ours is like nothing I've ever felt.  I love so many things about you: the way you dress your streets with beautiful Christmas lights, the way you look at me from your stunning city scapes,  the late nights Flamenco dancing, and the loud tapas bars where we have to shout at each other to be heard.  I know, I know -- we've had lots of tender moments too: dining at the finest restaurants in the world, exploring the most exciting museums on the planet.  Remember that time we walked hand in hand through the Retiro?  I could never replace those...what?

Yes, I'm sorry, E.!  I did walk on my heated floors in my heated kitchen and bathroom but, please, try to understand!  I only used my heated towel warmers because they were, well, turned on.  And while having a really toasty, fluffy towel after a shower was nice, I'm sure I can get used to my ice cold floor and the hard towel that's been dried outside, no problem.  España, I'll do anything to make this relationship work.

Please, don't make yourself sick over this!  It's not wise to answer all these questions... All I'll say is: yes I saw my old friends. Yes, actually, some of my best, closest, dearest friends in the world.  And I'm not going to lie to you. I enjoyed every minute of it.  I enjoyed being able to talk to people and have them understand what the heck I was saying and to take a cab without mishap... OK, sorry!  I'm just saying, we haven't always had the easiest relationship.  You're right, that which doesn't kill us makes us stronger.

I'm so, so, sorry E.  Forgive me! I promise that I'm going back to my language therapy classes to work on what's happened between us.  OK?  I'm going to enjoy the really fun FOF's I've made here and continue to learn everything I can about you.  And I promise, no matter what, I'm going to be faithful to you from now until, well, summer.

Paging Dr. Shepard

On Wednesday, I had been sick for a few days, but feeling better, looking forward to a long weekend in Paris with the family.  I was taking the kids to meet my husband who was already there on business.  But packing several steamer trunks of clothing did me in and on Thursday morning I had to use every bit of energy just to haul my legs over the side of the bed.

It's decided that the kids will fly to Paris alone and I will stay behind -- granny-dumped with the dogs in Madrid.

Time goes by and the dogs and I realize: I am really, really, really sick.  I don't have the energy to throw Roxie her rubber chicken, and I have all kinds of revolting symptoms which I will gracefully refrain from telling you about.  I am conscious of the fact that I should see a doctor, maybe even go to a hospital, since I don't have a doctor in Spain.  Then I think, just tear off my limbs, anything would be better than having to go to an emergency room in a foreign country where I don't speak the language.  Anything is better than going to an emergency room in the United States where I DO speak the language.  I'd almost rather die.  So instead, I lie in bed until I think: I actually may be close to dying now, the hell with the shower and the blow dry, I should use my last few moments on earth to crawl to the elevator, get to the first floor and call a cab.  Then I remember a story that my friend N. told me once, a story so outlandish, so remarkable, that it's been seared into my sickly brain.  It was a story about a doctor who makes house calls!

During my last remaining minutes on earth, my best friend, iphone, convinces me to call N. and get the doctor's name.  She's the sort who does her homework, whose recommendations are unimpeachable.  She reminds me that the doctor she spoke of was a pediatrician, but, kind soul, offers to take me to the hospital anyway.  She also gives me the name of an Anglo-American clinic nearby.  A few phone calls later and it's arranged that a doctor will be coming to my house in about a half an hour!

Sure enough, half an hour later, straight from central casting, my Spanish hero Doctor arrives.  Mas o menos, this is what he looks like:

But, being Spanish, he is dressed in a beautifully tailored suit and an Hermes tie.  He carries a gorgeous leather briefcase and has the bedside manner of an Ambassador.  He is tender attentive and loving professional and seems like he really cares about my illness, despite my lack of a blow dry and make up. He apologizes for his English, and smiles warmly.  He spends plenty of time analyzing my sickness, explaining what course of action he recommends and prescribing drugs.  He doesn't roll his cinnamon-colored eyes when I launch into a full history of my reactions to various classes of antibiotics.  The cost for my liason housecall? 150 euros!  The cost for the 3 prescription drugs, including a third-generation antibiotic? 14 euros -- less than a kilo of cherries!  The experience of having a housecall? Priceless...

Where's the Gaggenau?

I'm wondering: would any of you, when renting a very nice apartment in Madrid, think to ask your realtor if the kitchen and bathrooms were heated?

My fingernails are actually BLUE since returning from the Artic tundra that is our kitchen and I'm realizing: nope, I didn't think to ask that question.  Call me gullible, but when I see an elevator, I figure it probably works.  When I see a lovely apartment, I figure, it's probably heated -- in all the rooms.  First I thought,  gosh the vents must be closed.  Then I looked around and, guess what? No vents!  And no Gaggenau-million-dollar-stove-that-stays-on all-the-time-and-heats-the-kitchens-in-European-country-homes either.

And I know that when I pose the question of heat to my landlord -- through an interpreter, of course -- that he will pfff the air of dismissal through his lips and remind me that nowhere in our rental agreement does it state that all rooms are heated.   

And now it's time for me to run from my warm and cozy bedroom into my freezing cold bathroom for a frosty shower.  I know, some of you are thinking, stop wining and enjoy your European plazas and fountains.  And I will...just as soon as I can get up the nerve to get out from under this warm blanket.

Giving thanks

Puerta Alcala

When some delightful new Spanish friends (A&A) asked me recently (after reading my blog) whether or not I liked Spain, I realized that my love for Madrid and my appreciation of all things Spanish weren't exactly translating in the blogosphere. Sometimes my dry sense of humor is, cough, too dry; Sometimes, it's just not funny. So, here it is straight-up:

Even with the electrical issues, the phone working intermittently, not being able to use the iron and the oven at the same time and with the cable working when the moon is in the 7th house and Jupiter aligns with Mars;  even though I've been stuck in the elevator several times and lost my son for half a night in a soccer scrum and can't remember how to work the TV, I couldn't be happier to be here in Madrid.

Despite having eaten a couple of mouthfuls of god knows what, and maybe having eaten spiced bunny, and definitely having eaten rooster, I've enjoyed some of the most delicious food in Spain that can be found on the planet.  And tomorrow is another day when I will possibly try another of the tastiest treats I'll ever eat.

In spite of the fact that I have no ear for language whatsoever and have to repeat where I'm going to every cab driver; even though I look like Rainman watching people's lips forming their words so that I can approximate Spanish pronunciation, I know that someday soon, I'll utter a passable Spanish sentence.

Even though my children sometimes love us for introducing them to this new home and often hate us for pulling them away from their friends; and even with the longing for our dearly-loved friends and family back home, I cherish every day here with my babies, and am thankful to my language-impaired husband who's allowing us to live this dream, in this gorgeous country, with my new and fascinating "speed-friended" friends.

Regardless of the fact that I'm still trying to figure out where I'm going and how to get there, I have the biggest thrill every time I walk out the door and see the plazas and the fountains, the new and the different...

Thanks for listening; thanks for reading (and for, um, commenting...) I hope you have many things to be thankful for this week!

Hello Tick-y

During Spanish class today I felt a bug crawling between my eye and my brow. I tried to brush it away, but there was nothing there.  The creepy-crawly facial sensation got worse when my classmate, Tex, wondered aloud if I didn't remember seeing some advanced tense of the verb Olvidar (to forget) in a text we'd read two weeks ago.  Hello Kitty, a new student from Korea decked in apparel by the same name, was humming a soft melody as I was was trying to remember the verb, "to forget".  No, I told Tex, I have absolutely no memory of that verb.  I forget! With that, Hello Kitty, humming her ancient tune, widened her eyes and rifled through her Hello Kitty stuffed animal pencil bag.  It was then that the facial tickle turned into a full-fledged tick.


I rushed home to explore exactly what my medical issues are.  Here's the Google definition:

The causes of facial tics are still poorly understood,but some things are thought to trigger or worsen the symptoms. Tics ... can also very often be symptoms of other conditions such as Tourette syndrome, whose causes are most likely neurological... Stress and anxiety have also been shown to provoke and significantly increase the frequency of facial tics.


I have the following symptoms:

1. The urge to lunge at Hello Kitty when she hums incessantly from 9:30 am to 1:30 PM
2. The urge to lunge at Tex for showing off her photo brain every chance she has.
3. The Urge to swear uncontrollably (when learning Spanish).
4. Uncontrollable facial tics (while in class).

Symptoms disappear after 1:30 PM when class is over.

Finca Fantasy

Recently, Chip and I were invited to a finca, a Spanish farm that is roughly the equivalent of a horse farm. In truth, we weren't fully invited, but there was promise of a future invitation, as in, some day you'll have to join us at our finca.   A nice Spanish couple -- FOFOF's (friends of friends of friends) -- described how, every fall, they spend weekends on their 4,000 hectares of land with a distant view of Madrid, enjoying the countryside while the autumn leaves change color.  At the time, I didn't speak hectare and didn't know whether it was half an acre or a cajillion acres. Later, I whip out my iphone iconvert application and find that 4,000 hectares actually equals 9,884.215 acres!!!  Now THAT is a finca, amigos!

The next morning we discuss our potential invitation with the kids, imagining hunting in the rugged plains surrounding Madrid.  They agree it sounds exotic.  We ladies wonder what we'll wear and decide on an imaginary tweed ensemble with custom leather riding boots.  But, as a person who once took up golf to justify buying a fetching pair of navy Ralph Lauren golf shoes, only to experience the agony of hacking a ball around a course for four plus hours while wearing them, I decide to dig deeper into my finca fantasy.  Will we walk to the hunt or ride vast distances on horseback? Will we dine at an antique oak table that seats 50 and enjoy trays of food delivered by Chicas?  Or, will we recline in the open air, fireside, with an exceptional Ribera del Duero and the finest pata negra, wrapped in monogrammed cashmere blankets while our wild boar crackles on the spit?

Maybe it'll look like this.

We're deeply excited, merry even!  While we're salivating and making little clapping sounds and practically packing, someone (and by someone, I mean one of our children) decides to put a damper on things. Here's the conversation:

"Does this mean we'll have to shoot an animal?"

"Man up!" another one says, "this is a weekend at a finca, bro!"

"Tio (Spanish for "Dude"), the three of us watched Bambi together."

The B word brings silence to the table as we try to forget the orphaned baby deer.  Slowly, we realize that although we love our fantasy finca, and as much as we think we like guns, we like animals even more.  There's no way we can shoot one and watch it die.  We're still gonna play paintball, eat meat, wear leather shoes, and one of us may even wear fur (but only when it's really cold or when we attend a dressy occasion -- sorry Alison), but we can't harm the animals.

I'm mentally unpacking when, luckily, someone has another great idea.

"What if we shoot our guns into the air and miss everything?"  And with that it's settled. We will, if ever invited, simply pretend to shoot things and miss, perhaps even scaring the animals away from the hunt, while we stay warm in our tweeds and leathers in the European countryside and let rip our cries of Bwaahaahaahaa!

Our doorman is very LOUD!

In three months we've had three doormen.  The permanent doorman was having a lung removed when we arrived in Madrid.   Marco, the temporary one, busied himself with all kinds of physical labor showing management that no man, one lung or two, could possibly compare to him.  With unemployment in Spain hovering somewhere around 24%, Marco had no problem mopping the steps, opening the door and watering the grass on our rooftop everyday.  Nonetheless, labor laws prevailed and the sweet, permanent doorman and his good lung returned in September. He tried, but bless him, he didn't have enough stamina to walk, let alone mop and open doors.  Now we have a new guy, Sever!

He looks exactly like Mr. Bean with a 2000 kilowatt smile and the enthusiasm of Ed McMahon telling you that that you've just won the Publisher's Clearing House Sweepstakes.  His voice starts out blaring and obtrusive, then cresendos into a thunderous clamor at the end of every banal sentence.  If you aren't prepared, when you walk into our building, he will scare you and you will wet yourself:
Senora! HOLA!!!  I saw... your HUSBAND!!!

Oh...really?  Great.
He just went into... THE ELEVATOR!!!

Um. Ok.

Sometimes, he's so enthusiastic that he answers his own questions before you have a chance to answer yourself.

Que tal? Bien? Bien,  Bien!!!

And you can forget about whatever pressing engagement you have if you're unlucky enough to be caught by Sever. No amount of non-verbal communication, such as looking at your watch, positioning your feet and body towards the elevator, tapping your foot and looking bored -- nope, none of that, will dim Sever's smile and enthusiasm. Verbally communicating your time restraints won't do much either.  He will acknowledge that you have something going on -- oh, SI, SI, SI!!!!! -- but he will still position himself between you and the elevator and will happily regale you with stories of the time he lived in America.

Lately, I've been walking into my building with my dead cellphone to my ear.  I put a finger to my lips in the briefest of shushes, and wave lightly while pointing to the phone indicating that someone important is on the line.  I try to convey that I am in the midst of a huge business deal and that grave issues are at stake.  He nods knowingly and brushes his fingers across his own lips, suggesting compliance.  Then, right as I'm about to make it to the elevator, he can't help himself:

Senora!  I saw your CHILDREN!!!!

School Daze

 (chimp brain)

When, on a Saturday night, you can't adequately tell the Spanish police that your son is missing -- yo busco mi hijo! I look for my son! -- the first thing you do on Monday is re-enroll in the intensive Spanish program at International House.

You sit yourself down next to two twenty-somethings, one German and one Texan, and you hope for the best.

La Profesora speaks no English, but hey you're in Spain! You get it! You're supposed to be speaking Spanish by now. You're ready to engage.  Your new metal pencils from the cool Japanese store at the airport are leaded and ready to escritor.  But you're like the animal in a Far Side comic.  You see the teacher's lips moving, but nothing makes any sense... just a word here, a word there.

Did she just say Quesadilla? I'm pret-ty sure. What, we're talking Tex-mex?  No wait, she isn't talking food ...  maybe she said, "que es dia" or  "que sa dia?" but that doesn't make any sense. What is day??? Maybe if I listen.  Huh?  Something about preterito perfecto... 


... What's that Texan doing in this class anyway? Gimme a break. Every Texan I've ever met is secretly fluent in Spanish.  She practically lives in Mexico. No she did-INT just say she has a photographic memory! HATE her. Why not stay home and read the Spanish dictionary? Why don't I have a photographic memory?  What if I have a brain disease? What if my brain is shriveling with age and it's too late to learn another language... 


... Wonder if that laser hair removal appointment is tomorrow or Friday.  Better check.  Either way, I'm outta here at 1:30, home by 2, then I apply the cream.  I'll just have an hour to numb.  Hope it doesn't hurt... Yikes. She's looking at me... God, I hope she doesn't call on me... her lips are moving.  Do I say, "I'm sorry I wasn't listening", or "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you", or "No se?"


Luckily, the Texan answers for me.

A Gift To My Commenters

Thank you for restoring my faith in the blogosphere people!

Here are some visual cyber-gifts for expressing concern over our lost child AND for taking a step on the wild side with your witty comments.

Muchos gracias!

 I gift you pictures of CINDY in Spanish Vogue this month!!!

GO girl!

Sultry...

Pant-astic

She doesn't act like this in the states, does she?

If you happened to see the pics of Sharon Stone topless in Spanish Vogue a few months ago, you know that one thing they do really well here in Spain is Photoshop.  Unfortunately, they photoshopped Cindy's lips right off...

Have a great weekend!

An Incredible Soccer Night...Turned Nightmare

Last night we attended our first futbol game in our adopted city of Madrid. New Yorkers, you got nothin' on the rivalry between Real Madrid and Atletico fans.  Jets vs. Giants, Mets vs. Yankees: add vast amounts of alcohol, latin tempers, cigarette smoking in the stadium seats, celebratory red and white smoke bombs to start the game (red and white for the Atletico stadium) and world class group swearing (in song) and you have just a taste of what we experienced.  Here's a recap of the game:


The sound track in this video is so very misleading.  Instead, imagine inserting the song the mob crowd sang when Real Madrid's number 4, got a red card and was tossed out of the game: Adios hijo de Puta, Adios, hijo de Puta, Adios  ... well you get the idea.  Translation?  Goodbye, son of bitch!  That's the only one I can actually print on a family blog...


So how did this festive night turn nightmare?  Leaving the stadium, the five of us had to grab 2 cabs.  The crowd surged (did I just say, "the crowd surged"?) and there were distractions: One fan, so drunk he literally couldn't walk, fell off a motorcycle and was crawling around the street.  There was a mad dash for cabs, so we hopped into our two, drove the 15 minutes home and arrived realizing that neither Chip, nor I, had Clark. Clark was still in the mob somewhere on the other side of town with no phone, no money and no keys. Frantic, Chip and Lucia grabbed another cab back to the stadium. Sam stationed himself at the door to our building with 20 euros in case Clark had taken a cab and couldn't pay and I waited upstairs by the phone.  No words can describe the amount of despair we felt when 2 hours later, neither we, nor the police, could find Clark.  During that time, Chip, Lucia and some riot police (who spoke no English) had been driving around the stadium.  An hour later, when there was still no sign of him, the police took a description of Clark, dropped Chip and Lucia back where they'd last seen him, and drove off, wishing them buen suerte (good luck)!  We've never been more terrified.

Just as I was getting through to the emergency person at the US Embassy in the wee hours of the morning, I heard the elevator ascending.  There was Clark with two police officers, looking pale, but no worse for wear.  He'd had a crazy adventure involving being pushed over a barrier, waiting for us on a pole in the middle of the mob, panicking after time went by, trying to run home and realizing he didn't know where he was, and finally finding two policemen in the streets who put him in the back of the heavily plasticized police car.  What took so long to get home?  Twice, the police stopped the car, turned to Clark and said, "Lo siento, un momento, por favor." Then they took out their guns and proceeded to break up big street brawls. They were "bros" as Clark calls them, great guys who cracked jokes all night and entertained him by driving on the center medians with their sirens on and cracking themselves up.  Twice they went down one way streets the wrong way. "Wow, just like in the police car scene in Superbad!" Sam said with admiration.


The fallout: Sam and Lucia have vowed to tatoo "Clark" onto their forearms.  I suggest that, instead, we tattoo Clark with: "Reward offered for safe return", along with his address and phone number.

Blogging 101- a rant

YO, it's called BLOGGING people!!! Sooooo, by definition, you're supposed to put your thoughts under the comment section!  

What usually happens is, someone EMAILS me to tell me that they liked one thing or another.  Ok, I'll admit, Delora likes (no, loves) that more than a total freakin' comment shut out, but how about going for the real thing? Just a little "LOL" in the comment box or a "ZZZZZzzzzz" -- I'll take anything.  Give my big three commenters, Tay, Chip and Mental P, a break.  How about it?  No one will judge you!

You don't have to spend hours thinking up the wittiest thing you'll ever say.  No need to manufacture Faulkner type comments or David Sedaris caliber humor (well maybe a few comments like this would be good.)  Quick -- first thing that pops into your mind -- bang!  Type it in!  It's that easy folks.

What? Afraid someone's going to seek out your cyber-identity and your off-color comment will be a blight on your important career or your admission to Harvard Divinity School? Go anonymous!

Throw me a bone people...it's lonely in cyberspace!

What is this?

I've been slathering this on my skin for a week...

An Oddity.

This is odd.  This is my (grown) friend KK chasing the stately blue peacock on the grounds of the Alcazar in Seville -- but she's not the oddity I refer to above.

This is odd (for Spain, but not for NYC).  This is my friend Jamie, who can never be too far from his Blackberry, even when on vacation with close friends, even when taking a private tour with a private tour guide. He is not the oddity I refer to above.

This is really, really odd.  Behold La Muher Barbuda (1631).  KK and I spied this painting on a tour of a private home, now open to the public, in Sevilla.  The subject, Magdalena Venture, is 52 years old here. At age 37, she began to grow a thick beard, a surprise, no doubt, to Felici de Amici, her husband.  If you look closely, you'll see that Magdalena is breast feeding a child (at 52?).  She looks exactly like her husband standing in the background -- minus the breast.

Imagine what laser hair removal could have done for her.

Courtyards of Cordoba, Spain

How beautiful are these Courtyard patios?  The Romans built the original city of Cordoba in 206 BC on the Guadalquivir River.  These designs are made with river rocks from the Guadalquivir.  I was lucky enough to see these ancient beauties with two of my favorite people, KK and Jamie on their recent visit with us. Thinking that Cordoba would be merely a good place to stay for a night on our way to Sevilla, I wasn't prepared for how beautiful and unspoiled the small city is.   I would tell you more, but our guide had a very quiet voice and Jamie was on a conference call with his head set during our tour...

Copy Editors Needed...

This is the t-shirt that's not on sale...

The Royal Cougar

In the United States, Hollywood is the closest thing to royalty; but in Spain, we have actual royals to obsess over.  Most of the time, the Spanish royal family behaves properly. They wear lovely, conservative clothing, they cut ribbons, somberly attend funerals, mingle with other Spanish nobility and generally act regally in front of their subjects. Sometimes, a princess has her nose altered ever so slightly. Or, there's a scandal when it's revealed that this same Princess had a bit of a "past" before marrying the Prince, but generally, the Spanish Royal Family behaves well.

The one big exception to the rule: Cayetana Fitz-James Stuart y DeSilva, the 18th Duchess of Alba.  According to the Guiness Book of World Records, she holds more titles than any other royal in the world, including the Queen of England. At times, it seems, her picture is on the cover of almost every magazine in Spain. Framing her unforgettable, wrinkle-free 83 year-old face, is her signature, white, fluffy mane of hair.  Preferring bohemian garb, she typically wears colorful clothing, dozens of ankle bracelets, necklaces and other bohemian trinkets, eschewing the designer labels.

Some call her one of the most loved celebrities in Spain.

Her bohemian fashion sense seems to be in keeping with her philosophy about life. Always a free spirit, she consoled herself by marrying a Jesuit Priest after her first husband died.  Sometime after her second husband died, she became involved with Alfonso Diez Carabantes, 24 years her junior.  When it was revealed that the Duchess would marry him, the royal family and Cayetana's six children had to step in and put a stop to their secret plan. A couple years ago, The Duchess had a shunt in her head and was in a wheelchair recovering from a serious illness.  But the thought of putting on her Pucci inspired bathing suit and frolicking on the beach with her boyfriend, must have gotten her back on her feet, surfing the waves.

Recently, she confided that "el crisis economique" has affected her too.  It takes mucho dinero to guard her spectacular art collection of Goyas and Velazquezes and to maintain many palatial estates, so she's watching her euros. And she's having fun.  She has the voice of a kitten...




But she's a royal cougar.

Hemingway's Madrid

“In Madrid on cold nights you can drink sherry brandy and go to bed. To go to bed early at night in Madrid marks you as a little queer. For a long time your friends will feel a little uncomfortable about it.

Nobody goes to bed in Madrid until they have killed the night. Appointments with a friend are habitually made for after midnight at the earliest. In no other town that I have ever lived in is there less going to bed for sleeping purposes.”  -Ernest Hemingway Happy Friday!

Best Dinner Ever (For Foodies)

Another meal, another 3 star Michelin tasting menu -- this time it's dinner at the famed Restaurante Martin Berasategui (#33 in the San Pellegrino world's 50 Best Restaurants), just outside of San Sebastian in Gipuzkoa.  Having just finished lunch at Arzak (#8 on the list), we're still pretty full.

Chip and I totter into this elegant restaurant, pleased by the lit garden walkway, the high ceilings and the floor to ceiling glass vistas to the garden.  We're greeted by a lovely, English-speaking maitre d' and after intense debate, we place our orders and the first courses arrive.

See this fork?  It's normal size.  The asparagus is mini.  According to the chef, it took 10 people to make this mini salad of vegetables in gelatin!

That's only the start to a parade of teeny-tiny food courses, mystery foods and courses that come with instructions and warnings.  We're advised by a white gloved waiter not to bite down on our black squid ink ball until our mouths are fully closed.  One of us didn't follow directions at lunch and spewed orange liquid onto the tablecloth. I'm alarmed. Is this literally one of a squid's balls?  Is it literally filled with ink?  Will my teeth be black if I smile afterwards?  I imagine someone milking a little squid teat somehow, to get the ink out.  I resist the urge to hurl my mini salad, batten the hatches and swallow something I don't want to ponder further, and it's, actually, quite good!

C. and I discuss many controversial topics, like: was that a grape skin filled with chocolate or a chocolate jello ball we ate for lunch?  We debate whether or not we've eaten our weekly caloric intake in this one meal.  Is this a ball 'o some'um or some'um else?  Clam or mussel? Morel or truffle? What exactly is a sweetbread? Blissfully unaware that the top chefs in the world spend years studying the chemistry of coagulation and molecular gastronomy, we struggle with how to classify certain items -- animal vegetable or mineral.

Martin himself appears from the kitchen and greets us.  We take pictures, he signs the menu and we're invited into the kitchen.  What a place! Seeing the group of men and women in their flawless white aprons and toques prepare the last courses of the evening brings a tiny tear to my eye.  Here stand the very people have toiled over my mini meals, carved and poached my mini asparagus, and possibly, milked my squid.

Back at the table, the mini desserts keep coming and the cholesterol keeps building until we're like a couple of wax figures with mechanical elbows.  Conversation devolves. Will the children pass any of their classes?  Will they forgive us? Will we learn Spanish?  Soon, all I really want is to brush my teeth and go to bed.  Please! No more chocolate, I'm thinking.  Finally, the courses stop coming and I dart into the ladies room on the way out and there is the proverbial icing on the cake: mini toothbrushes and toothpaste!  Promising not to eat anything that isn't super healthy for the next 2 weeks, I grab a toothbrush and my husband, and we collapse into the back of a cab hoping that the cab driver will understand our pronunciation.

Best Lunch Ever! (For Foodies)

Really, if you're happy with Burger King, don't waste your time on this post.  Re-watch Tina's video; you'll have more fun.

I, on the other hand, come from a family that spent every breakfast deciding what we'd eat for lunch and dinner.  Food is in my blood; it's past of my family heritage.  My father is a fantastic cook of mostly quirky Asian food (sea urchin delicacies, etc.), but he can make anything.  My Grandparents were all gourmet cooks and bakers and my Paternal Grandfather was the Director of Nabisco Labs way back when.  After Dad and Mom split, he with his wok, and Mom remarried, we were a motley mix of half, step and full siblings with a mother who was much more successful in the business world than in the kitchen. (I emphasize MUCH.)  Consequently, we ate at restaurants most nights, where we talked about, yep, the food.

So here I am in San Sebastian, a city that, according to The Lonely Planet Guide,  has more restaurants with Michelin Stars than Paris! (Actually a quick fact check on the Michelin website seems to prove that that's not the case, but whatever.) We only have a couple of days here and one of them has already been, ahem, frittered away with Jacques-oh-lee, so that leaves us with one day.  We throw caution to the wind and decide to eat at 2 different 3-star Michelin restaurants in one day!  What the heck!  We get the tasting menu -- that's 20 or more (!) courses of food -- all within 10 hours!

Friends tell us we can't miss Arzak, a restaurant run by a father/daughter chef team.  We can´t get dinner reservations, but we manage to score for lunch.  A stucco flat-front building with an awning just three feet from the roadway, the place is nothing to look at from the outside, but inside is different.  Actually, it's not that much different, but it's kind of sleek with shaped-cement walls inlaid with impressions of forks and spoons.  Subdued, gray tones and fine linens give the impression that we could be in fancy cave in Manhattan or Paris.   Before we know it, small plates of delicacies are being brought to our table four at a time.  We sample fried lotus root chips held together like a teepee by a fish cream in the middle, tiny shish kabobs of seafood with, what looks like spun sugar around them, but isn´t.  Thin disks of fig are served crispy with a sliver of Foie gras and tiny pommegranite seeds -- heaven.

(No earthly idea what that is, pictured above, but it has a liquid middle.)

We discuss the proposed health care plan and other worldly matters most of the time, then spend inordinate amounts of time debating what we just swallowed.  We love food alot, but are squeem-ish about a few things.  Asking for clarification in Spanish doesn't help, so some of the questionable things get washed down our gullets with some other good things.  Sometimes we eat a bite of something, like this foamy chip below, and find out that it's our vegetable -- eggplant!

Hours later, having eaten some of the best food ever and having solved all the world's problems, except for how to make the dollar go a bit farther against the euro, we emerge from our sleek gray cave back into the sunlight, blinking like a couple of moles, wondering why Europeans think that all Americans are obese.

If you see this woman, run!

I haven't posted much lately because I've been a binge -- a glutinous foodie binge -- through San Sebastian on the Northern coastal border of Spain.

San Sebastian is one of the most beautiful small cities I've ever seen. Where else will you find a delightful grid of narrow cobblestone streets, filled with charming shops and fantastic restaurants, next to some of the finest beaches in Europe? As one guide book put it: It's impossible to lay eyes on San Sebastian and not fall madly in love!  One reason people feel the love is that the city is known to have the best pintxos, a variety of small appetizers, in the world.  Most pintxos are composed of a slice of bread with some delicious concoction on top.   Eating pintxos is accomplished by dropping into the bar that looks best to you, and choosing from a vast "buffet" of treats laid out on the bar.   Check this out:

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Just one thing to be aware of: a little drink called Txacoli (Jacques-oh-Lee).  This regional "wine" looks, to the untrained eye, like a cava or a champagne and tastes somewhat like Pinot Grigio.  Watching it be poured -- just one or two stingy inches -- into a rocks glass, is entertainment in itself.  The bartender takes the bottle up high and leaves the glass on the bar.  This is what she looks like:

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Sometimes she yells: Txacoli!

One can easily wonder what all the fuss is about for such a tiny glass of wine.  One can easily order two more tiny glasses while eating some of the best appetizers ever on the planet!  And, I've heard, one can even find herself face down on her bed with her shoes on in the late afternoon wondering what the heck happened...I'm just saying.

Speed Friend-ing

You know speed dating: 5 minutes at a table with a stranger blurting out your deepest secrets before the bell rings and you move to the next table? At the end of the hour, you decide which guys you want to see again, right? That can be what it's like to move to a foreign country and make new friends -- if you're using the Streator Moving Method, that is.  Ms. KK Streator, who has moved many times in her life and can barely touch foot in an outpost of Tanzania without running into an old friend or roommate from Brown, has very specific ideas about moving.

Thanks to this friend, I came to Madrid armed with tips about how to make friends.  She knows very, very well that I can amuse myself happily for months without another human being.  She doesn't think that's healthy.  She warns me: you must be the one to make the effort!  She chides me: people already have a life with their own friends, you have to be the one to make it happen.  Apparently the days of the welcome wagon are behind us.  Now, new city dwellers, it's up to us to send up a flare and let others know how lucky they are to have us darkening their doorways.  KK says we can do this by collecting lists of contacts from our real friends and following through with friends of friends (FOFs) once we arrive.  We can host endless dinner parties, join endless clubs, take tours, join museum groups, take Flamenco lessons, learn to make tapas, call our mother's old garden club friends and see if they're still living... God, I'm tired.

So, I started with the Streator Moving Method months ago.  I made spreadsheets, I called, emailed and invited the FOFs!  Several times, I mistook one FOF's kid for another, or paired the wrong husband with the wrong wife.  I thought one FOF was a friend of Jeanne's from college when he was really someone's old boyfriend's friend.  Soon, I'm introduced to friends of FOFs and now there's a whole new level -- FOFOFs. Geez!  Do you see how confusing this is?  And it's coinciding with the period when I'm trying to learn Spanish and blurting out some long forgotten French words and calling my children by my dog's name.

But guess what?  The Streator method works!  I've done my speed-friending and I'm enjoying an occasional lunch here and dinner there with some really great people and just when Chip worries that I'm becoming way too attached to my computer, I announce that I'm headed to the museum with so and so, the one who does such and such...unfortunately, I can't remember her name.

Apropos absolutely nothin'

Sometimes when you move to a new country you find yourself with some extra time on your hands. You can't talk to your old friends, you don't have that many new ones, you don't know the language in the new country and since nothing really works, except for the internet, intermittently, you find yourself trolling a lot.  And sometimes, when you're stressed, you enjoy a tidbit like this that makes you laugh.

Keep It Short

If you plan on calling me, just know that there's a 98% chance that we'll be disconnected after a minute or two.

The electricity cuts off approximately 2 dozen times a day leaving us with the impression, sometimes, that we live in a very beautiful part of Beruit.  The electrical company says that the apartment may not be wired to handle the amount of electricity that we need to live in the apartment....did you get that?  Luckily, there is a way to "open a case", to test whether the apartment is fit to live in, electrically speaking... It will take several months, but in Spanish terms, that's the blink of an eye.

The following is a sample conversation that I've had many times recently:

Delora: Hi, how are you?  I'm so sorry that we got cut off earlier!

Friend:  No problem. What a pain in the #$@ though!  Everytime I call you we get disconnected.

Delora: Yeah, it's really a drag.  So quick, how are you?  Silence...

Lately, I haven't even been able to enjoy these short conversations. Why?  Because of a nice little monopoly called TELEFONICA.  Telefonica reminds me of the ATT monopoly in the US about 25 years ago.  Although our local phone service has been out for 8 days, and we're on the EMERGENCY list, it will take between 8-15 days until the technician will be able to make it to our house. Telefonica provides our landline service and our cable service.  Just one glitch: when you plug in the phones, it blows out the line.  Oops.  And the microfilters that they suggest you buy to keep from blowing out the line?  They don't work either.

Watch your back, César Alierta, Executive Chairman of Telefonica.  There's a new cowboy in town gunning for your job.  He's a man of few words, but he's customer-oriented, focused on service and highly intelligent.  From what I've seen, there's no way he couldn't do a better job.  Here he is:

Thundér Pérkins,  future Executive Chairman of Telefonica

Shopping Sleuth

Millions visit the city of Madrid to see the traditional tourist attractions -- the exquisite museums, the gorgeous architecture, the open air markets, the Flamenco dancers and the bullfights, among other things.  Not so for my friend Taylor, who makes her first visit to Madrid to decipher the grocery market.


Being the gem that she is, she spends her first full day here accompanying me to Él Corte Ingles. A store the size of Minneapolis, our version of Bloomingdales houses a giant supermarket in its basement. Entering the store, Tay puts on her game face.  Gone are any visible signs of jet lag. Instead, this bright-eyed woman capable of heading a G7 conference takes in the scene. She scans my shopping list, scrap paper, used as a general guide, something to remind us we're out of milk. She chastises me gently: you haven't grouped the like items together. 


We start in the produce department, where I've been yelled at twice these past weeks for touching the peaches and pears. Only the fruit picker, a woman who stands on a raised platform with the fruit bins around her, is allowed to touch. After ordering our fruit, Tay decides that our best strategy is to divide and conquer.  We're looking for items for a specific recipe. She offeres to search for Sherry, something I've been trying to find for 6 1/2 weeks.  When she returns, victorious, 10 minutes later, she is amazed that I'm still in produce. (See annoyingly chipper photo with Sherry -held like a trophy - below.) She shrugs and tells me that this place isn't too different from the Stop & Shop back home. Again, she tells me gently, if I had grouped the items on the list...

Next we pick up eggs.  Oddly, (to Tay anyway), they're not refrigerated.  Are they usually, I ask? This tips her off to the fact that I don't have a clue about groceries in any country. She's irked that she can't check the eggs to see if they're broken because they're wrapped in a protective sleeve (BTW, all six were broken in one of the packs we bought). Milk and juice aren't refrigerated either, I point out.  This, she explains patiently, is because I'm buying ultra, ultra pasteurized milk. Unwittingly, we've been drinking the stuff that comes in cartons in the US and is used in fall-out shelters from Chernobyl to Secaucus.  An hour later, when we're still near produce trying to find unsalted cashews, she concedes that sometimes, even she makes substitutions.  We grab the salted nuts.


Next we hit the meat department where, with her beginner's luck, she points to a package with a hen on it.  There's the chicken!  Moments later, she staggers backwards clutching her heart after seeing a small purple chicken fetus with eyes staring back at her from a package. We're not in Kansas anymore.

I mean really, where's the pig leg (with hoof) aisle in Westport, Miss smarty pants?

This entire counter, almost a 1/4 mile, is full of cheeses.  And it's only one of THREE places you can buy cheese in this store:


Let's just say that, after a couple hours in the store, Taylor's eyes start to glaze over a bit. When two Él Corte Ingles employees can't tell us where the tea aisle is, we agree to leave without a few items. Leaving cornstarch, Earl Grey tea, dried cherries and frozen waffles (are there frozen waffles in Spain?) behind, we happily leave the food maze.


Eating, resting for the afternoon, and enjoying an early evening glass of Rioja allow us to better assess the shopping issues. Here's what we Taylor identifies:

1. Some items can be found in several sections of the market -- creating confusion.  Olive oil, for example, is found in: "Products from Andalucia", the sale aisle, the "olive oil" aisle AND the other oil aisle.  No such thing as one long aisle that is filled with oils. Nuts can be found in produce, nuts, specialty items and sales...you see the problem?  People like me, who have a rare form of shopper's Alzheimer's end up seeing the nuts and saying, oh yeah, I need nuts!  I end up with 3 or 4 packs when I'm unloading the bags at home.
2. MINI AISLES -- the worst thing ever!  I never thought twice about the long cereal aisle or canned vegetable aisle back home, but here, I long for them! It's like a cruel game of concentration to find anything. Why? because little areas hold food unrelated to the food in the next mini aisle.  So cereal is one place, but cereal bars? God only knows where...
3. Taylor suggests using the signs, high up and in Spanish, to guide me.  Um, did I mention I don't know Spanish.

Él Corte Ingles- take notice - you need organizational help! Tay might just be the woman for the job. 

Language "Barrier"

I drank the Berlitz Kool Aid.  I believed that if I applied myself for 2 and a half hours a day, twice a week, for 4 months this past Spring, that I would be passably fluent in Spanish by the time we moved here.  Chip figured he'd just absorb the language when we arrived.

We've been here almost 2 months and are just now becoming proficient at stating our address to cab drivers. (We do have a tough address.)  We hid in our apartment for a few weeks after realizing how dire the situation was, venturing out only with the help of our interpreter.  Unfortunately, she has a life and refuses to accompany us 24/7, so now we're out there on our own sometimes.

Bravely, Chip walks to the "la farmacia" in search of Advil.  No such thing, so he tries the generic name of Ibuprofin.  He even throws in a little spanish accent for good measure.  The lady behind the counter finally seems to understand and puts a small white box on the counter.  Chip looks down and tries to tell her that he wants the giant size bottle.  "Mas grande -- mas, mas grande!" Holding his hands wide apart, he indicates the huge economy size bottle he's looking for.  She's embarrassed for him and gives him a quizzical look.  She stares directly at his torso, before going behind the counter to retrieve another box of the same size.  Chip recognizes the "XL" on the new box, picks it up, and realizes for the first time that she's given him a box of condoms.

In this country, famous for its Latin lovers, does he admit, he really didn't need want the XL box of condoms and then try for the Advil, or does he take the XL's and go elsewhere in search of pain medication?

The Addams Family

The Spanish are wringing their hands over this picture that appeared recently in the local Spanish papers after being leaked from the U.S.  In it, the Spanish Prime Minister, José Luis Rodriguez Zapatero, appears with his wife, their two daughters, and, of course, the Obamas.


The word around town is that the Prime Minister struck a deal with the Spanish press years ago not to publish pictures of his children,  but now that this one has been leaked, all bets are off.  The poor girls will be photographed mercilessly.


But some say that the real reason everyone's upset is that they cannot believe that the Spanish teens were allowed to meet with the President of the United States in Goth attire.  Sticklers for protocol, many Spaniards are embarrassed by a Prime Minister who wouldn't instruct his family to dress properly for such an important picture.


My brilliant 20-something Spanish teacher (who has just completed a 10 year Goth phase herself) sees it slightly differently: why, she asks, when there are so many beautiful goth clothes and shoes available, did they have to represent us in those goth boots?