Semana Santa

It's Semana Santa (Holy Week) and here in southern Spain for the past week, even before Palm Sunday, streets have been lined with crowds watching the processions of the Passion daily by various local congregations and nazarenos (members of the various brotherhoods). Schedules are posted with locations but when you've navigated your home town for the past 1.5 year and still don't have street names down, you just listen for the bands, sniff for the incense heavy air, and track the wax drippings on the street.

Perhaps the most striking (and shocking for most Americans) are those dressed in robes and a capirotes a tall conical hat which also covers their faces. First things first, no way associated with the KKK. The robes are worn by the people doing penance, keeping them unrecognizable by others as sinners. But you see, in a small town like Rota, everyone still knows each other and often you see hugs and waves being exchanged as the marches are standing still awaiting to advance.

Apart from the robe wearing participants, each procession has a paso (float), often cases two, depicting Jesus and also Mary decorated with fresh flowers and candles. These floats are carried by a team under the base, carrying the weight,  shuffling through the street periodically resting over the several hour procession. Being part of the team the men feel the pain and exhaustion experienced by Christ. When the paso is walked out of the church, raised from resting, or shuffled to make a turn, the crowd applauds in appreciation.

Music. You can't have a procession with music, or can you? Some of the events are silent with only the tapping of rods indicating that it's time to advance are heard as the group wanders through the streets. In other cases, the bands play from the back of line, a steady drum beat or a up tempo song. In the land of flamenco, it isn't uncommon to have someone break into song, expressing their emotions as the Passion float passes on the street as the crowd falls silent to listen.

This year in addition to seeing the tail end of the Good Friday late night processions in Rota, I also trekked up to Sevilla, where they are known for dramatic processions. Thousands of people made the visit and several events occur nightly. The costs? Putting on two pasos, in Seville will set you back €25,000 ($34,000)! The music bands alone cost up to €7,000 while the wreaths of flowers for the floats can cost €6,000. Add to that €5,000 to candles, up to €8,000 if you need to bring in extra muscle to carry your floats, and €800 for damage insurance in case it rains and Semana Santa is not a cheap affair.

Although pricey, as a non native, non Catholic, these events are spectacular and it's tough not to get caught up in the momentum leading to Resurrection Sunday.  The brass bands playing melancholy tunes with candles lighting up the street. The crowds of people walking through the streets, some barefoot, some carrying a cross, some masked. One of the most beautiful things is that fact that these are in fact community events. Even the processions that start at midnight are attended and participated in by entire families.

Should you ever find yourself in Spain, in particular Southern Spain, around Easter check out these events! Based on the region they may look a little bit different, but that's what happens with they've been in Spain since 1521!

Who Am I?

I find that with each trip back to America no matter where in the states I visit or who I see even with the euphoria of shopping my favorite shops, eating my favorite foods, and catching up with loved ones fades the feeling of I don't belong here sneaking in. It's something that I've often struggled with, but with each trip and the time on my 5 year clock ticking away I find that the concern continues to grow and it is a reality that I will have to face.

Don't get me wrong- spending time with family and friends is amazing. It's a reminder that there are people out there that have known me for more than just the past few years. It's a reassurance that there are in fact places I can talk about by name, rather than a geographic reference of "south of San Francisco" or describing a restaurant that made huge cakes that would be often consumed at dinner.

And for those that I've met since moving overseas the same applies- our little micro environment facilitates this acceleration of friendship. We understand the hardships of overseas living: resetting breakers daily during summer, restructuring our schedules to be able to eat out, cultural differences. We also understand that these are just minor setbacks for all we gain with the opportunity. We have our own language filled American terms/nicknames for everything but still maintain the lo siento and vale in our vocabs.

But what about the in between? I've never really been an one or another girl when it comes to things. I want ice cream with my cake. I'll get up extra early just to make sure that I can get everything done in a single day. I'll work a trade with my meal partner to make sure I can try the other dish I was looking at. Figuring out how to blend my lives from each location has always been a mystery to me.

Until recently.

Sitting in a restaurant overhearing several languages, looking at a menu with Italian, Spanish, & American traditional dishes in addition to a few surprises like tofu and falafels this feeling that I struggle often with was beautifully illustrated in front of me- right down to the Italian waiter living in Portugal with his Italian-American wife running this very much hipster restaurant!

At this point there is no blending the various life experiences I've had. And that's OK. There is no point trying to mix it all together...it would just get lost. Time to take the example found in the restaurant and mix-match my life.

Let's face it- I'll always want tofu (and other "hippie food"), my purses will be Italian (as will my driving), and for the foreseeable future that wine in my cup will be Spanish.

Festa: Día de la Virgen del Carmen

Virgen del Carmen and I live together, but I'm not too familiar with her story or who she watches over. Her tile is anchored firmly in my patio wall, under the stairwell that leads up to my roof. Weekly, I'll remember she's out there as I go in and out of the laundry room.

Needless to say when I heard about Virgen del Carmen and the blessing of the local fishing fleets I had to look into it, especially when I learned that she would be boarding a boat and going to sea! Not too bad of a way to spend her one day out from an alcove of a church- right?

Her Biblical importance is found in the Old Testament when prophet Elias, towards the end of his life, became a hermit in a cave on Mount Carmelo. Hundreds of years later, pilgrims trying to follow in the prophet’s footsteps, invoked the protection of the Virgin Mary of Mount Carmelo – Stella Maris, the Virgin of Carmen. Now, the Virgin is the patroness and protector of all seamen, fishermen.  Virgen del Carmen is believed to be keep the waters clean and safe. For many of older generations, they do not believe the sea to be fit for swimming in until after the 16th after she has blessed the water. 

On the evening of July 16, in the fishing villages and towns up and down the coast, la Reina de los Mares is paraded through the streets and taken out on the bay on a flower-adorned boat, accompanied by a flotilla of jábegas (fishing boats). A prayer is said for all those that spend time on the water.  Rota is no exception with a healthy fishing community and the local naval base. The crowds lined up along our beach path, port wall, watching the parade from shore was pretty impressive; especially as the sun began to set (you know, at 10pm) and the sunset illuminated the back drop for the procession.

Paella 101

Back in March on a trip to Valencia (no, you didn't miss a post- I still haven't blogged it) I purchased a paellera.

Why?

Well paella is said to come from Valencia so I figured why not buy one of the shallow round pans from its alleged home.

Fast forward to a few days ago while I was cleaning my kitchen and while dusting the never used pan hanging on the wall declared that I would make it soon.

Having no experience making the stuff, and still not even convinced that I like it, I did what anyone would do- pulled the recipe that came with the pan and recruited a friend.

Piezes, "property fried", inmediately. I mean HONESTLY, what could possibly go wrong with 2 Americans trying to make this stuff?

Granted, living overseas nothing is as simple as home. A trek to the local grocery store was in call for as the commissary doesn't carry rabbit, or mountain snails. (I know, right?) Feeling completely out of place as I hit the store filled with the vacationing Spanish doing shopping for their dinners at 8pm, I navigated the aisles similarly to a drive in Italy crossing between lanes, zig-zagging, and narrowly escaping collisions with carts. The man being the carne case reassured me that I wasn't crazy when my request of conejo y pollo was met with "paella?"

As for the dozen of mountain snails? Well, I translated that prior to departure. I knew I was in trouble when Google Translate asked if I meant "mountain soil." Um. No...come to think of it let's just hold the caracoles this time around.

With a recipe like the one we had, I'm happy I had an assistant and a bottle of wine. Despite all the dissections that I've done in my prior life that poor half of a bunny with head still attached nearly made me give up the effort and go grab pizza...

But I'm in Spain.
And I may have promised a friend on duty I'd take him dinner.
And I own an unused pallera!

Translating the poorly translated instructions, we made it through the steps until "recipient" became so distracting of the word I couldn't take it any longer. Making sure there was plenty of water in the pan I became a tad skeptical if we would need to go grab pizza, but we let it boil as we trip planned.

Plus, we had a Spanish supervising our efforts so how tough could this be? He even scored some of the innards of the rabbit...which he opted to share with the street kitties.

So, patiently we waited the "rice to dry."
And waited.
And then waited some more.

FINALLY the soupy mixture began to resemble the paella served in town. Well not really. The local variety is really orange, almost red with primarily seafood peaking out of the arroz. Ours? Lots of green stuff- green beans and lima beans mixed in with the chunks of meat, some still on bone with a realistic yellow color of rice.

The verdict?  Other than a pinch of salt and funny looking habas it was yummy! Not quite the yum factor of the street vendor in Valencia that I sampled, but better than what was served at a cafe on the same trip. The pan was gobbled up. Olé even sampled the few stray pieces of rice from the table after meal- it was a hit! So much so that now I believe Bar Nico will be hosting a monthly noche de paella that will rotate regional recipes. Of course I should probably look for a local cooking class that can teach me some of the variations for but now? We did good and I just may be brave enough to buy another rabbit in the near future.

Destination: El Bosque

It's no secret that I'm a carb girl. Most of you recall that when I departed for Naples I referred to it as my "no carb left behind tour" so the fact that I signed up for a foodie bread making tour should be no surprise. Before you roll your eyes and understand why I've put a few additional pounds on, at least hear me out on the wonderful flat roll we call el mollete. 

The mollete the most common of breads found in Andalucía. It's a soft white round, flatish roll toasted for breakfast before being topped with jamón y tomate and drizzled with aceite. The lightly floured exterior and light interior is very comparable to an English muffin, although the mollete is larger than most hamburger buns. Tienes hambre? Vale. 

This weekend's adventure through the white washed towns in la Sierra de Grazalema Natural Park the bus followed the signs through the green hills with fading sunflowers and we ended up in the tiny puebla of El Bosque. Like the town's name suggests it was situated at the foot of Mount Albarracin and trees dotted the streets and bridges spanned the streams trickling through town. 

Our first stop was desayuno, because we couldn't work on empty stomachs. Café con leche, zumo de naranja, y tostadas filled our tables. Tubs of lard, manteca colorá y zurrapa de lomo appeared on the table to spread on the toasted molletes. Plates of jamón followed with bowls of crushed tomatoes creating various options for the two halves of toast on my plate.

The next stop was to Molino de Abajo windmill that was built in the 18th century. For the past 300 years this mill has been grinding what for the use of making bread. In the beginning years of the windmill, a donkey would turn the wheels causing the wheels to spin, grinding the kernels into flour. Three generations ago, the family decided to draw water from the river and channel it off for hydraulic energery for 2 mills and also for large mixers for the bread dough.

When the water flows from the channel the wheels start spinning and although relatively quiet, the air quickly fills with a fine dust as the collection tub collects a mound of flour. The flour still has to be sifted prior to use but it's a simple, albeit messy process.

Once the dough was ready we each got a piece and got to work making a roll. Since we were the second group to visit the mill, they took the mollete dough, so we created a slightly crustier roll as the smell of fresh bread filled the air in the kitchen.

Yes, that's my attempt at a fish that made a yummy dinner paired with goat cheese also picked up in the town, some red wine from the north, and a splash of olive oil from the region. With a bag of molletes, two types of goat cheese, and a few more freckles from the sunny day I headed back home with plans of revolutionizing the egg McMuffin with these flat disks ready for toasting. Who needs a bagel when a freshly baked mollete can be found?

4th Year EU Resident

Flash back to March 2011, where I'm sitting in the HR office at NPS working through my acceptance paperwork for a job offer. The tone of the office quickly turns from laughter guessing the miles between the current duty station and new duty station to somber when my pen lands on the line for signature accepting a 3 year tour. 

3 years? That means I won't be in DC by 30. 
3 years? Sure I can do anything for 1 year, but 3?!
3 years? I don't even like Italian food. 
3 years? Oh, I really want out of Monterey, but is this how I should do it?

Well, those 3 years flew by- all in Naples. Somehow I even managed a second OCONUS location, and now that year 4 is complete it's hard to believe that the silly 5 YEAR RULE may now actually play into effect with my overseas tour. An extension has been requested as I work to update my resume and start testing the market. Fear and anxiety get the best of me when I think about having to move back "home."

See, the funny thing is most days the idea of moving back stateside terrifies me. Truth of the matter is when I'm feeling "homesick" I realize it's Naples I'm missing. How then am I going to fit in? Will I be able to afford to travel? How can I live without the local culture?

Then the reality kicks in...Katie. Are you kidding? You are American. You will still travel. If you afforded it a GS-5 you can afford it now Miss GS-DoubleDigits. They have the internet back at home, use it to find local events. 

Truth of the matter is, I've loved every minute of being overseas, yes, even in Rota. True it's been challenging at times.

Okay, more than a few "times," but to have this experience is worth more than the costs of long frustrating work hours, car issues, traffic jams, late dinner times, and limited social groups. In all honesty one weekend tasting tuna tapas before dancing in the streets to a neighborhood band erases the miserable week at work. And guess what? It will be the festival I remember, not the week of work.

Being over here has taught me so many lessons that I can't even begin to list them but I'll try just the same: patience, flexibility, resourcefulness, communication, cultural understanding, bargaining, trust, confidence, introspection. 

It's true that every location isn't a one size fits all, but I've said it before and I'll probably say it until I go to my grave- EXPLORE EXPLORE EXPLORE! There is so much more out there than your neighborhood, city, state, country. You may find that you like where you come from even more once exposed to other countries or, you may find that as much as things are good where you came from, there may be a better or preferred you pick up while traveling.  And when you can, ditch the weekend crazy itinerary (still need to learn this one) to slow down and explore the back roads! There's always an adventure to be found there. I promise.

~~~~~~~
Make sure you book your room(s) at Nico's B&B. Bar Nico has been restocked with Spanish wine and nightly entertainment is provided by local celebrity Olé. We'll be open for business until we're not...May 2016 is the next mile marker we're currently looking at.

Ruta de Atún

Sleepy beach town. Beautiful spring day. Food festival. Needless to say I kept feeling like I was walking through the streets of Pismo Beach, Capitola or any of my other California coast towns.

Zahara de los Atunes was the destination, with its annual tuna festival: Ruta de Atún.

Zahara de los Atunes dates back to the time of the Phoenicians and as the name suggests, known for their tuna fishing grounds. The 3,000 year old Phoenician almadraba style of fishing is still in use in this region when the tuna pass from the Atlantic Ocean back to the Mediterranean each year to spawn. Fishermen lower a maze of netting below the water and the red tuna swim in but cannot find the exit prior to the nets being raised from the sea.

Unfortunately for this Spain resident, around 80% of the fished tuna is exported to Japan for sushi. The extra layer of fat built in the stomach areas of the fish make the red tuna melt in your mouth. So yummy! Every May, after the the full moon the fleets hit the ocean to kick off the month long festival with the main event being the tapas weekend.

Local bars and restaurants take part by entering their tapa and letting participants vote. That's where we came in with our "ballot" and picture map showing us where to go. At each spot we paid our few euros for a tuna tapa and beverage. Talk about an easy day in Spain! There were no options, we just had to tell them how many orders we wanted and pick our drink of cerveza, tinto, o agua.

Our afternoon dabbling in food critiquing eventually turned to taking extra laps around the block inbetween stops just to give pace ourselves.

During our walks we stumbled upon a group performing at a little hole in the wall. Standing room only, people from the neighborhood took turns dancing sevillianas, the regional type of flamenco dancing. The lead singer had young and old alike moving from their chair or curb side to dance while the crowd joined in with singing. Yes, even these two Americans filled with tuna and beverages got caught up in the atmosphere clapped on the off beats and swayed with the music. 

Garlic Festival? Artichoke Festival? Squid Festival? Chestnut Festival? Gelato Festival? And yes, even the Fried Food Festival...I may have found the new favorito of you all.

It was only a matter of time...

...until I invited a local into my home and called him mine!

After weeks and months of being tempted by pictures on Facebook, spotting options around town, and even having a friend on the look out for me I caved. Last night I allowed the sweetest, blue eyed, cuddler into my home that I've ever met. 

Blame it on those sapphire eyes looking at me like I'm the only one in his world, but I knew from the moment I laid eyes on him that he would be mine.

And that's how I became the owner of dos gatos!  Let me introduce the newest member to my family- Gatito um... he actually doesn't have a name yet. Here I am 3.5 years later here I am asking for your help again in naming my kitten. (Read Nico's story here!)

Same ground rules apply, but with a slight twist:

• His title is Señor, vale?
• He's Spanish, so he needs a Spanish sounding name. 
• Other names off the table: Azul, Pico (or any other name that rhymes with Nico)

As far as this gatito's personality- he's a rambunctious little pipsqueak who likes charging me when I ignore him. He's determined to be Nico's friend and bravely faces each growl, hiss, and swat his big brother sends his way. Stairs taller than him? No big. Loves toy mice. Eats like it's his last meal.

Burro-Polo

For those of you that have doubted just how rural Rota is, this post is for you. Until some of you state side folks come and visit me and I drive you through areas that closely resemble Soledad, Greenfield, or San Juan Bautista let me use burro-polo as my supporting evidence on just how rural Rota really is...

Yes burro, as in donkey.
Yes polo, as in the team sport played on horse back with mallets and a ball.

Are you really imaginging what I'm talking about?

Two 3 person teams, each member riding a donkey, holding a push broom in one hand, and the reigns in the other.

Competitive adults riding stubborn jack asses trying to get him moving, while juggling ropes and a broom AND figuring out where the Dora the Explorer ball is to hit it into the tiny goal...without falling.

So in water polo all I had to do was stay above water, which is why it should be no surprise that my one and only goal of "do not fall off" was violated within 5 minutes of being on that stubborn gray spotted animal. He was in no mood to move 2 inches closer to the ball in the dirt and well, most of you know my competitive nature so I had to trust my balance and well, there's another reason I'm back in gym mode. 

So no, team Charlie's Angels did not have a win tonight but we were looking like a team by our second game almost running plays. Yeah, that's a gross exaggeration, but we weren't dropping our brooms as much and there were a few fast breaks in which 3+ donkeys basically squished our legs together as they insisted walking side by side to opposite side of the playing field. Give us a little more time and perhaps some more tinto and I see a title in our future, especially if I convince the coworkers we need to get out there and play!

Destination: Cartagena!

Shortly after arriving in Spain I recall looking up where the closest Roman ruins were in the event that I felt "home sick" and needed to stand on something really old. Well, it's a good thing that the Roman Empire was so vast because you can track down their history nearly everywhere. Okay, maybe not everywhere, but pretty much everywhere when you think about where I've called home for the last 4 years. Needless to say when my neighbor wanted to trek all the way to Cartagena (read 370 miles away if you take the inland route, which we didn't) I was somewhat skeptical about traveling that far to see a Roman Theater when I lived with 30 miles of several back in Italy but I have been missing Italy a lot and as the saying goes...when in (ancient) Rome...

Day two of our weekend road trip finally landed us in Cartagena. Don't bother looking for this town in the Murcia region in a tour book because Rick Steves doesn't even write about it. Although a kept secret from American tourists, the large harbor and tourist city feel makes one feel like it's a "local" tourist spot. Then again maybe it could be the debate one must have if it's really on the Mediterranean Sea or not. And although I hate to admit it, further research (as in looking at a million maps) my travel buddy was right, Cartagena is in fact located on the Med and not another sea. (I really hope he's not one of my readers.)

After drinks on the Med at sunset, we entered the walled city to find people lined up along the sidewalk. My parade radar went off immediately! It's still carnival and these people love to party. With lights strung up across the pedestrian areas, music filling the air it wasn't to long before women dressed in sequins, tulle, and feathers dancing down the street in heels. Groups of school aged children dressed in costumes followed. Old people. Babies. Everyone dressed in their costumes, covered in makeup, dancing to the looping soundtrack. The parade lasted over two hours. We however did not.

An hour into it someone decided it was time to grab another drink and some food so we crossed the parade path (the senior citizens group to be exact) and tried to push through the crowd, but I think most of you know my personal bubble thing. And we weren't going anywhere so a quick about face and I marched us into a tapas bar where we bellied up to the bar ordered our drinks and tapas appeared as we listened to the music still streaming in from outside and looked around to see who we were with: Beetlejuice, clowns, and I was sitting next to a rooster.

Sensory overload (with a little help from Cruz Campo) we sat there for a while making small talk with the bartenders and anyone willing to be frustrated with my lack of basic Spanish. There's something really exciting though about not know what exactly is going on around you as you sit at a bar. It's not to not understand the conversations being spoken so you have to really rely on body language and hope it translates the same as American body language does. It's so easy to just get lost in the people watching here, especially when everyone is in high spirits as the result of carnival. We called it an early night and left the princesses, cowboys, clowns, and other dressed up people still sipping their beverages, smoking, and spilling out of bars as the niños kicked soccer balls back and forth the each other at midnight.

Again, the next morning while most of the city had just gone to bed, we put our 'sploring gear on and went driving were we weren't supposed to go. Saved my cranky knee some serious uphill walking, but I'm pretty sure I heard the lady thinking "americanos estúpidos" as she explained where we needed to head to for the Roman Theater entrance. 

We finally ditched the car at the University's lot where the garbage situation in the parking lot that was the parade staging area the night before made my heart skip a beat for its Naples-like appearance and we walked along the wall to get to reason we (and when I say "we" I really mean my neighbor because someone still can't drive a manual transmission) had driven 400+ miles to see- the Roman Theater. 

Pretty impressive right? The iron rich stone against the blue sky. The juxtaposition of ancient and modern. Natural mixed with constructed. Best part? Traveling in the off season get you places like these nearly to yourself to take it all in and really imagine what it was like when the cavea carved directly on the rocks held its capacity of some 6,000 spectators who poured into the side aditus (passages) passing past the dedications to Gauis and Lucias Caesar, Augustus' grandsons and designated successors.

Destination: Málaga

Back in Málaga again, and still finding plenty to experience in this Costa del Sol city known for being the birthplace of Pablo Picasso and Antonio Bandera...   

Malaka may have been founded by the Pheonicians, but centuries of invasions and name changes left its mark on modern day Málaga. Architectural clues mark the history of Roman, Visigoths, Byzantine, Muslim Arabic reign over the port city found today.

As in years prior, carnival once again overlapped perfectly with our President's Day holiday weekend allowing the opportunity to see how various regions of these Catholic countries celebrate the last days before Lent. Still making up for the time lost between 1937 and 1977 when the people of Málaga kept their costumes packed away and refrained from meeting to practice and enjoy the carnival tunes together on account of the strictly enforced prohibition issued by Franco resulted in loud early hours of the morning for us sleeping Americans. However, the early hours of the morning (like 0900), while the party animals slept the morning away, we explored the sun coming up over the near empty streets.

We didn't get too far until the smell of baked goods beckoned us into a panadería for desayuno in an upstairs window peering out over the street. Convinced by the steady flow of locals pushing their carts to the market and re-emerging filled with fresh produce we opted to take a lap through the market. As in hundreds of other Saturday markets occurring at the same time, vendors sat in their stalls displaying produce, olives, eggs, meat, fish for the shoppers doing their daily shopping.

Fortified with jamon y queso the meandering walk through winding calles lead us the Alcazaba, the old Muslim palace built between the 8th and 11th centuries. Standing on a hill within the city it originally defended the city from the invasion of pirates. Like most of these Islamic fortresses in Andalucía this Alcazaba has a quadrangular plan protected by an outer and inner wall, both supported by rectangular towers. Exploring the pathways, gardens with chirping birds, and exploring the different rooms transported me back to a time before cars, electricity, and the daily fear of invasion was common.

At the base of the hill, I was little more impressed with the "old stuff" coming out from the hill, as it was a 1st century BC Roman theater that was re-discovered in 1951. I'm telling you if it's not thousands of years old I'm just not impressed...Italy totally ruined me! However, as the herds of tourists started to invade on our empty attraction sites we decided it was time to hit the road.

Next stop? Another Roman Theater but WAY up the coast in Cartagena!

Juanito!

Remember that black and white kitty that found its way to my front porch? Well, its back and getting braver with each passing day. Nico sits at the door each morning letting me know that Spanish kitty is on the other side. After breakfast Outside Kitty walks me to my car and rolls around the ground.  Each evening as I come through the gate his head pops up from his guard post or he comes running down the street to collect his day's wage of kibble.

Earlier this week when I came home to find him in his spot I notice someone had left food for him inside my gate. He didn't care for it and purred for me until his bowl was filled with Friskies.The next night I apparently didn't give him enough attention passing through the door because he scratched the front door until I talked with him more.

Tonight when I got home we went though our normal routine and the Spanish lady across the street came over to talk. Please note when I say "talk" it's more like talk at me and hope I understand what she's saying. Turns out like all the other cats in the area she has a name for this guy...Juanito. Juanito used to hang out at her house all the time, until I moved in. And well, le gusta my house. I confirmed that he belongs to the street and then proceeded to listen to the fact that when all the summer visitors come in they complain about the smell of the cats? Hey, Spanish is still not my forte but I do understand cats.

Signore Nico has not warmed up to the idea of a sibling, but he may need to. I still can't decide if Juanito could ever be an indoor kitty or not and then there's the issue of if I take him to the vet he has to get chipped which means he's really my responsibility. I have no idea if he and Neeks could get along, and can't try until I make sure he's a healthy kitty.

At least I know that he does in fact have at least one other home, so if he's just my front porch kitty for my time here he's got options for when I move out. In the mean time Señor Juanito is going to be a foster kitty who will get all the love and attention he wants and we'll take it day by day to see if he can be part of our immediate family.

Silly American Moment

 

So yesterday after having a chat about water in my garage and learning that the reason there is not only a drain down there, but also a hose (to wash your car...of course) I was already having a "hmmm, it's about time I start learning about the Spanish quirks in my house" sort of moment. 

I head up stairs eager to eat my healthy dinner of sweet potato fries and chicken strips (don't judge I could have gone straight for the Ben & Jerry's) I turn on the oven. In the time it takes for the oven to open I go feed my new kitty outside, prep my food, and then go to open my oven. That's just as cold as my fridge. Confused, I start playing with various switches confirming that the stove top is working. With one light indicating that the top coil was to be heating in the oven, but no light above the temp gauge. A few minutes later I decide that I can skip the fries, microwave the chicken and toss it in a tortilla for a just as fabulous meal as I email my property manager about the oven situation. 

He and the repair guy show up the following afternoon and the repair guy goes straight to the control pictured above. No, it's not a timer issue, it's a heating issue. I point to the light that doesn't illuminate as he moves the dial from 0 to the open hand before twisting the control I was pointing at, resulting in the orange light illuminating. 

What in the world? Are you kidding me? Someone couldn't have told me this over the phone? Am I going to have one of these situation is every country I live in? (Italy's Story) 

Despite answering my embarrassment, guilt, and shock with "how were you supposed to know?" I certain that he was really thinking...stupid woman, don't you know your way around the kitchen? No wonder you are 35 and single. No, I'm not 35 but he keeps thinking that I am.

Back in America

After a while back in the land of golden arches, strip malls, ginormous SUVs, I've got to confess- the American stereotype rings true.

Even at my first point of entry in Philly I knew I was back. If the casually dressed people taking up the entire seat and being spaced out like each were in a hamster ball sure did. And all the food options? The cafeteria like options gave way to the corporate logos promising grab and go options if sitting down for a rushed meal was too much time.

And can we talk mega stores? Actually not even mega stores. Let's just talk grocery stores. After hitting one for lunch with coworkers this week, I finally decided to brave one on my own. Despite hunger gnawing in my stomach, I wanted to make sure that walked up and down each of those aisles to look at all the available markets. 27 varieties of Triscuits. Are you kidding me?

Walmart was overwhelming. I ducked in to get a SIM card and I was so overwhelmed that I had to snatch a bag of Take5s on my way in, pay for it and my other items in the electronics department then make a run for it. (I returned a few days later, still overwhelmed but managed to put a dent in my paycheck.) 

What's a girl to do? I'm going to have to return to this way of life before too long. Will I be able to re-adjust or will I be able to acclimate back; reversing all I've picked up while living overseas? Will I continue my European habits while back in the states?

All I know is when the time comes to start job hunting (I swear I just did that) communities will be something I'm spending more time looking into. I want the walkable neighborhoods. I want to the few restaurants that I know the owner. I want the neighbors that check in with me and treats at the holidays are exchanged. I want the sense of community that often doesn't exist in the American way of thinking. Is this a sign I've been overseas too long? 

Festival de la Luna Mora

This weekend's adventure wasn't to another country or even continent, but a 3 hour drive directly across Andalucía, towards the Med to the tiny medieval town of Guaro. Like many of the white villages of the area, Guaro dates back to the Arabic occupation of Spain. The small community of some 2,500 people keeps its Moorish history very much alive with the annual Festival de la Luna Mora. 

Although the festival only began in 1997, the middle weekends in September attract 60,000 visitors when the streets turn into a large Moorish bazaar, filled with craftsmen, storytellers, performers, musicians, and Arab dishes. Besides a break from Spanish food, the draw of the festival was the 20,000 candles that line the streets in various designs and patterns as the sun sets. You see, for these weekends, the electric lights take a break, leaving the task of illumination to oil lamps and candles. Walking through the maze like streets, illuminated by only candle light, smelling incense on the warm night's air one can't help but humming Arabian Nights while looking for a fez wearing monkey at every intersection.

We spent our evening strolling the streets, drooling over the feast at each passing booth: kebabs, potatoes, sausage, churros, cheese, falafels, pastries, drinks, candy. And yes, trying more than we probably should have as we shopped the craft booths, watched the dancers in the street, and looked for all the candle displays through the the allies illuminated like a runway.

The event was amazing and several times throughout the evening I had to remind myself that I was in Spain and not elsewhere. People in costume milling through the streets. Families sitting at tea tables. Hooka pipes. Foreign music. Lack of English. I loved it. Every bit of it.


And you know I really did love it when I'm already talking about going back next year...yes ME, Little Miss Been There, Done That. Mid September 2015, any visitors expect to experience this fabulous festival!

Destination: Cueta, Spain

Ceuta is one of those peculiar areas of the world where cultures and rich history doesn't make it easy to figure out where you are if you were just dropped off. This tiny section of Africa's northern coast has seen more than its fair share of civilizations: founded by the Carthaginians (5th century BC), Roman's claimed it as part of their empire 42 AD, Visigoths used the port town during the Byzantine Empire. Muslim and Tunisian rulers took their turns invading and renaming the city over decades, until 1415 when the city was captured by Portugal.
 
Ceuta was the only city of the Portuguese Empire that sided with Spain when Portugal regained its independence in 1640 and has been Spanish land ever since. The city's ties to Portugal still remain strong to include the coat of arms and its flag containing the same background as Lisbon's city flag.

So why all the invaders? Primo location along the Straits of Gibraltar made it optimal for not only trade routes but also maritime tactics. And I mean, it's BEAUTIFUL!

The very much tourist city still maintains much of its history: fishermen casting lines of bread baited hooks into the canal, a strict siesta time, shops along the street with influences of various cultures, and the amazing fortifications walls protecting the peninsula from all the vulnerable coastal attacks.

Legends are still strong within the area and being that this is one of the closest pieces of land between Gibraltar, the southern Pillar of Hercules is thought to be in this city. The other nomination is across the mountain range in Morocco, Jebel Musa, and evidence is further supported by the silhouette the range hold.

According to ledgend, Hercules completed his 10th labor of collecting the cattle of Geryon and delivering them by punching through the mountain range with his mace that stood in his way. In doing so, he not only completed his task (leaving 2 more to complete) but also connected the Atlantic Ocean and Mediterranean Sea. Locals pointed out Jebel Musa the mountain range in the distance suggesting that it looked like a resting Hercules after his labors task. The northern pillar? The rock of Gibraltar of course!

The other plausible legend of this mountain? The locals call it La Mujer Muerta which gives you an idea. The story they told us goes like this- a young lady who was caught by her father bathing in the water, who after being warned not to do so, still continued to do so. So naturally her father put a curse on her, petrifying her right there at the spot. (Leave it to men to look at a mountain range and see boobs.)

To the Races!

Every August, the river's beach in Sanlúcar is packed for the annual horse races around sunset. The horses walk from the finish lines down the beach to their starting point giving the spectators lined up against the orange construction fence to check out the horses before rushing off to a decorated cardboard box to place their money down on their pick.

The bookie? A kid no older than 10 who gladly takes your euro, scribbles out your ticket, and then offers you a gift for placing a bet at his stand when the beach is populated with them. Name of the game? Pick the horse that will be in the lead when the pack crosses that meter marker.

The horses? From all over Europe as the winnings are large, and the races famous. The event officially dates back to 1845 when the the Sociedad de Carreras de Caballos de Sanlucar de Barrameda was formed. However, before this organization held its first official races, the event had been staged informally for years by locals who raced the horses used for transporting fish from local ports as they awaited the catch to be brought in.

So, how does one pick your favorite horse? For me it was no question- Sir Pepo was the only name in the list of 42 horses over 4 races that I knew would have my wager. When I saw him nearly prancing down the beach to the starting line we made eye contact and shared a special moment. As soon as he passed, I rushed to the booth behind us (through the pack of 20-something guys). Caballo number ocho, por favor. Ocho? Si. Ocho (holiding up 8 fingers). Uno euro. The little boy filled out my ticket and handed it through the cardboard box. His mom then grabbed a bag of bracelets and asked me which one I'd like. Um...time to start pointing because colors still come out in Italian.

As  I made it back to our spot along the fence I lost my buddy. She was just right here. Oh crapola. The group of guys had found her and were being rather attentive. As one saw that I was making my way back he asked which number I placed my bet on, numero ocho. Once the race started, all but one of the guys (he had picked a different horse) started chanting eight eight eight and when the horses passed the line in the sand? Sir Pepo was the first in line! And then? Well it was sort of like when you're the one that makes the final out, makes the final shot, or just won some major competition and the ENTIRE team, coaches too, storm the field and suddenly your feet are no longer on the ground.

Um really? I just won 3€ but as far as they were concerned with their celebration it might as well have been 3.000€. I did finally break my self free (talk about NO PERSONAL BUBBLE MOMENT), the bookie's family was laughing because clearly they knew I won. Shoot. I think the whole section of the beach knew that I won. 

Unfortunately, Sir Pepo was our only winning pick of the event, although we had called the first race but hadn't worked up the courage to figure out the betting system. I mean really? Handing money over to a kid? With the low bets (I think 1€ was the max) most people were betting euro cents on horses. Sort of like penny slots in the states. Our other picks included: Syrillus, Seminole Cry, & Face the Fact. Face the Fact was a much older horse and a long shot, but we liked the way he looked so placed our money down. At 2 booths. Those kids gladly took our money! Oh well, there's always next year and I'll be ready with my name selecting strategy down pat...so watch out niños I'll be looking to finance my cat's toy mice addiction. 

Nico Extraction After Action Report

Nico is my fur baby and as such that means I'm allowed to have proud momma moments. Today's adventure of 2 flights (about 4 hours flying time combined), lots of airport waiting, and 2 car rides stressed me out more than Nico. Don't get me wrong, I'm not sure who was holding on tighter as I had to walk him through security in Naples, but everyone commented on how calm he was. And on that first flight? He was way better behaved than some of the human babini!

I don't think world traveler is in his future but he has already been on 2 flights and in 2 countries. When you think of all the people in the world who may never get those opportunities my cat IS pretty spoiled. (Future kids just ask me how much this 2 day adventure cost if I ever say we can't afford tickets somewhere...)

He must have meowed most of his meows out with the Momma Mia soundtrack on the way to the airport because apart from a few meows once we landed he was silent. When he did meow? I'm pretty sure it was his Neapolitan telling me to be aggressive in getting in the aisle and getting him away from the Italian family clearly headed to Barcelona on vacation and talked the entire way in the only volume Italians know....loud.

I think with my heart resuming its normal rate once we landed in Barcelona he understood he was going to have to just chill out for several more hours. Our solution to passing the time? People watching, plane watching, and strolling him around on a cart so he could check it out. Yes. I did feel ridiculous strolling my cat through an airport but it kept him quiet...

On the second flight he became friends with the little girl behind us in line and an English speaking German who was impressed that Nico was so quiet. Of course this is the same person that asked if I the cat was going on holiday with me. Um no. We're moving. The crew also loved him, asking his name and finding it amusing that he was from Italy. One attendant even told him ciao when we disembarked, but Nico still remained quiet. 

Over all, today was an easier day than I was imagining but the thought if doing this again in less than 2 years seems WAY too soon.

Spain is Different

This week is ICR (intercultural relations) and unlike the week I spent in Naples, jet lagged and overwhelmed, this time around I feel like I've got this. Places Rosa tells us to visit are places we stopped at along the way. The idea of mañana meaning sometime in the future sure sounds like dopo domani to me. Late nights and late starts. Niños are king. No rush. No personal space? Not to brag but these aren't new concepts. Watching newly arrived classmates makes me laugh knowing that despite their reactions they too will adjust.

The one thing that does have me terrified? The pesky 50 question driver's license test not so much because it's different than Italia but more because of my past track record on written tests.

*Spoiler alert- I totally passed my test missing just one question. Woohoo. Now I have to wait for the temporary ID to come in before the real one. Yep. No NATO translation here, it even has a (terrible) picture on it!

Driving around town with locals (for housing appointments or on the tour) it cracks me up what their notion of "crazy drivers" is. One of the new DODs teachers just arrived from Turkey so it's nice to have someone I can look at and share the "if she only knew" look with as we wait 30 seconds for a scooter to move from its illegal parking spot blocking the bus' passage on the narrow cobblestone road.

A few things already stand out as very different when I catch myself comparing my new town from my old town:

Here in Rota, the locals truly see us as their neighbors. Despite our large cars, early dinning times, & at sometimes obnoxious behavior, we are not seen as outsiders. The families visiting from Sevilla during the summer? They're the foreigners. With NAVSTA Rota (that's Naval Station Rota for you non fluent militarese folks) being here for 50+ years much of the town has grown up with us Americans. Passing them along the street you still get an Hola, buenos dia. If you look lost they come up and try to help by pointing you to the street that leads to the base. Everyone has a home for rent that they'd love to show you. And refreshingly, charades is a last result as most of the real locals have a few key words of English down pat.

TRAFFIC LAWS MATTER. Pedestrians don't even look both ways prior to crossing as if some invisible shield projects up from the painted lines on the street, always protecting them from on coming traffic. They also are incredible thankful and polite when you wave someone in. Don't get me wrong, you can still hear the honks at the gate in the morning as a result of a cop directing traffic as a result of back to back round-a-bouts with a whole lot of cars pulling off some fancy maneuvering.

In the same way that traffic laws matter, there is just a whole lot more regulation. Take for example the process for my car registration. After producing license, registration and insurance I recieved my gate pass. I then I had to get a car inspection and for those of you familiar with the Naples inspection? Nothing like that. In fact Ravi failed at the first pass. He needed new tires. Got him new shoes; got the inspection paperwork. Back to security to submit the paperwork mentioned above with inspection certification. Wait for a week. Go back to "order" plates. Come back a day later. Get plates on car. Get registration sticker for windshield. As for said license? I still have a temp one. The real deal take 3 months.

I guess that pretty much summarizes why Spain feels so different than Italy ever did. Here, we are really living like the Spanish do. We go through the same steps they do, follow the same rules. So many more steps, rules, regulation that despite feeling that I remained a semi decent rule follower in Naples, that means nothing when there were so few rules to adhere to. It will all come together and it is a great 2 year transition before heading back to the states where rules really do matter.

Culture Shock

I'm sure not in Italy anymore. As we headed north and made our way down to Rota I started to see little things that in a past life were normal but now looked out of place. But now? A week in Rota, as I am settling in I realize there isn't a day that goes by without me stopping dead in my tracks in awe and shock of something. Here are the ones that have stuck with me:

• It is safe to park on the street. Even along the beach in the high season. 
• While still smiling about the sidewalk I was running on, I realized the only obstacles I was dodging were other joggers, bikers, and pedestrians. 
• Congested intersections are honk free zones. 
• Hairdryer works without an adapter. As in the 220v plug really is standard!
• Cilantro cost a mere $1.61! 4 pink lady apples? $2! Although still ridiculously high, about 1/2 the cost of the commissary in Naples.
• I can drink tap water!
• "Soft" water which probably is still a tad on the "hard" range but my hair is loving it!
• Mosquitoes are a rare species here. 
• Ice. It's plentiful and pretty standard.
• People stand in lines.
• Cars park within the designated lines.
• I'm pumping my own gas and paying with a credit card.

Of course there are things that I'm homesick for:

• Church bells at all hours of the day telling me what time it is. 
• Coffee that actually caffinates my body (cáfe con leche just isn't the same as a good cappuccino).
• Bright red, flavorful, juicy tomatoes.

I know the lists will grow as time passes on, as I de-Italianfy. For those here that were also once in Naples, I now understand this whole "transition" concept they spoke of. Most of the items on the list were standard back in the states, but after 3 years in Naples? You really begin to appreciate the little things...like clean air.