We returned to Madrid for a visit in the spring of 1997. Mike had made partner at Price Waterhouse, as he had hoped. The Scarritts had moved to a different house—their previous landlords had wanted their lovely garden back so their daughter could get married in it. But everyone else was pretty much the same, though Julie’s friends had moved on to middle school and were seeming very grown up. We took a trip to San Sebastián, the beautiful seaside town in Basque country, which we had been too scared to visit before because of the separatist terrorism that plagued the area. But we had a safe and relaxing time there.
That summer we had visits from the Liepmanns and Rosanne Kruger, and then people started to move. The Liepmanns went to Lake Forest, Illinois, just a few minutes from my mother’s house, so I knew we’d be able to see them regularly. The Scarritts moved to San Juan, Puerto Rico, and we went to see them soon after they got settled. The Krugers went home to Pretoria, and Julie went to visit them when she was a freshman in high school. And the Santaularias moved to Frankfurt, where Mike visited them while on a business trip.
We went to see the Douglases in Colorado Springs, and we saw the Gronningsaters often in New York. In fact, Eric eventually went to work for Price Waterhouse. Anna Gronningsater and Julie took a summer trip to Israel and Kenya, and the Scarritts came to Lisa’s bat mitzvah in 2000.
Finally, the Scarritts moved to Winston-Salem, North Carolina, and the Douglases to Leesburg, Virginia. “Everyone’s moving closer!” Lisa told me one day.
“Yep,” I said, “if we wait long enough, everybody will end up right on the block here.”
And then, in 2002, the Liepmanns left for Osaka, Japan, and we moved to Richmond, Virginia, bringing us closer to the Scarritts and the Douglases. It has been hard to start over again in Richmond, but having Clarice and Ana available—as long as I’m willing to get into the car—has been a tremendous help to me.
When I meet new people, as I often do now, I try to work our two years in Spain into the conversation. It seems to me that they make us special, memorable.
“Wow, two years in Spain!” they often say. “What was that like?”
“It was more fun than anyone should be allowed to have,” I say.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Going Back, part 3
We did have a wonderful trip through Eastern Europe, which eased our transition back to the U.S. Prague was as beautiful as we had always heard, with only a few bullet holes on buildings revealing the strife that had occurred there. Most of the ancient castles and forts were well preserved, supposedly due to the fact that whenever invaders threatened, the Czechs said, “Come on in!” We had a tense evening when we foolishly took a tram out to a suburban movie theater to see 12 Monkeys in English without thinking about how we would get back. We had a long, scary walk through dark streets toward a brightly lit “Hotel” sign. The counter man there called us a taxi and asked us to eat in his restaurant in return for his help.
Budapest was still more foreign, with few English speakers, but people were friendly and helpful anyway. The 1996 Olympics were on, and we sometimes watched it on the Eurosport channel in our hotel. Things looked very different without the bias of an American TV network—the view of the athletes and the sports was much more balanced than our usual jingoistic approach.
Vienna was exciting, with a great contrast between the classical and the modern. As the gateway to the east, it had the feeling of a jarring clash between times and cultures.
At last we flew home, where we quickly bought a car, received our furniture, and headed north to see the girls at camp. Life in the U.S. had started anew for us. But I was determined to do it differently this time. I had seen people in Spain who worked to live instead of living to work, people who took a walk after lunch, people who knew much more about enjoying life than I did. I knew it would be hard, but I wanted to live a less crazy life than most of my American friends did.
Budapest was still more foreign, with few English speakers, but people were friendly and helpful anyway. The 1996 Olympics were on, and we sometimes watched it on the Eurosport channel in our hotel. Things looked very different without the bias of an American TV network—the view of the athletes and the sports was much more balanced than our usual jingoistic approach.
Vienna was exciting, with a great contrast between the classical and the modern. As the gateway to the east, it had the feeling of a jarring clash between times and cultures.
At last we flew home, where we quickly bought a car, received our furniture, and headed north to see the girls at camp. Life in the U.S. had started anew for us. But I was determined to do it differently this time. I had seen people in Spain who worked to live instead of living to work, people who took a walk after lunch, people who knew much more about enjoying life than I did. I knew it would be hard, but I wanted to live a less crazy life than most of my American friends did.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Going Back, part 2
The plan for returning was that the kids would fly by themselves from Madrid to Newark, where Mike’s parents would pick them up and, a few days later, meet up with my friend Charlotte, who would drive them to camp in New Hampshire. Meanwhile, Mike and I would supervise the packing up of the house and then take a couple weeks to travel through Eastern Europe before flying home. The plan was to fly to Prague, take a train to Vienna and then to Budapest, and fly to New York from there.
As for getting the kids through the airport, there was the problem of the police checkpoint. When you approached the gates in Barajas airport, there was a booth you could go past only if you had a boarding pass. I knew someone who had sent a kid home, though, who had managed to talk her way to the gate by saying that the kid was a minor and needed her help, so I planned to do the same.
But when I got to the police booth, the cop shook his head. I was as forceful as I could be, but he wasn’t going to let me through that checkpoint. The kids were already on the other side. I looked at them in panic, and panic looked back at me. “Just find the gate number! The signs are up above!” I said. I watched in despair as they disappeared into the crowd.
Later I learned that Julie freaked out immediately and started crying. A kind English-speaking lady offered to help, and she took the girls to their gate, where they waited, shaken but safe. Their trip home was uneventful, and they found Mike’s parents outside of Customs in Newark.
There was more trauma in store for me. I had been numb with fear when the movers had come to my Stamford home two years before, to take away two of my three piles of belongings—those going to storage and those going in the air shipment to Spain. And even though I was now moving to a place that was known to me, unlike the unknown adventure Spain had been at that time, I was just as numb. This was not fear about the future, as I was going back to a familiar place. But I felt numb with sadness to be leaving Spain, which had been a place of tremendous fun, adventure and challenge for me. And I was numb with sadness at leaving some of the finest friends I could ever have met. Ana was gone already, and I would always be able to see the Gronningsaters easily, as they were returning to New York City. But I still had to take my leave of the Scarritts and the Krugers.
I sat in my tiny, dark TV room near the front door of the house, with the movers and packers swarming all over. It was just a little move, no furniture involved, but the change was so big and so wrenching for me that I was immobilized. By the end of the day the house was picked clean, my Alfa had been sold, Mike’s Mercedes had been turned in. I sadly left the house for the last time and took a taxi to the Hotel Inter-Continental, near Mike’s office.
We had planned to have a farewell dinner that night with our closest friends. It was a scorching Madrid summer day, with temperatures over 100 degrees. But in the evening, as the sun started to set well after 9, it began to cool down.
We met the Scarritts, Krugers, Liepmanns and Gronningsaters for dinner on the outside patio of a restaurant. The gentle breeze of the evening cooled us, well turned out for our evening, the women in long sleeveless dresses, the men in polo shirts. It was one of those great Spanish evenings out of time—no rush, no reason to go anywhere or do anything but just be there, enjoying the people, the food, the wine. One of the omnipresent street signs blinked the time and temperature from the sidewalk, but only the temperature got my notice as the air cooled—30 degrees Celsius, 29, 28. We had our favorite dishes—lomo and chorizo, Manchego cheese and jamón, piquillos rellenos, boquerones. I relaxed and soaked up those last few hours with my dear friends, sometimes working to banish the thought of leaving in the morning. The night stretched on and on, full of the joy of being there.
As for getting the kids through the airport, there was the problem of the police checkpoint. When you approached the gates in Barajas airport, there was a booth you could go past only if you had a boarding pass. I knew someone who had sent a kid home, though, who had managed to talk her way to the gate by saying that the kid was a minor and needed her help, so I planned to do the same.
But when I got to the police booth, the cop shook his head. I was as forceful as I could be, but he wasn’t going to let me through that checkpoint. The kids were already on the other side. I looked at them in panic, and panic looked back at me. “Just find the gate number! The signs are up above!” I said. I watched in despair as they disappeared into the crowd.
Later I learned that Julie freaked out immediately and started crying. A kind English-speaking lady offered to help, and she took the girls to their gate, where they waited, shaken but safe. Their trip home was uneventful, and they found Mike’s parents outside of Customs in Newark.
There was more trauma in store for me. I had been numb with fear when the movers had come to my Stamford home two years before, to take away two of my three piles of belongings—those going to storage and those going in the air shipment to Spain. And even though I was now moving to a place that was known to me, unlike the unknown adventure Spain had been at that time, I was just as numb. This was not fear about the future, as I was going back to a familiar place. But I felt numb with sadness to be leaving Spain, which had been a place of tremendous fun, adventure and challenge for me. And I was numb with sadness at leaving some of the finest friends I could ever have met. Ana was gone already, and I would always be able to see the Gronningsaters easily, as they were returning to New York City. But I still had to take my leave of the Scarritts and the Krugers.
I sat in my tiny, dark TV room near the front door of the house, with the movers and packers swarming all over. It was just a little move, no furniture involved, but the change was so big and so wrenching for me that I was immobilized. By the end of the day the house was picked clean, my Alfa had been sold, Mike’s Mercedes had been turned in. I sadly left the house for the last time and took a taxi to the Hotel Inter-Continental, near Mike’s office.
We had planned to have a farewell dinner that night with our closest friends. It was a scorching Madrid summer day, with temperatures over 100 degrees. But in the evening, as the sun started to set well after 9, it began to cool down.
We met the Scarritts, Krugers, Liepmanns and Gronningsaters for dinner on the outside patio of a restaurant. The gentle breeze of the evening cooled us, well turned out for our evening, the women in long sleeveless dresses, the men in polo shirts. It was one of those great Spanish evenings out of time—no rush, no reason to go anywhere or do anything but just be there, enjoying the people, the food, the wine. One of the omnipresent street signs blinked the time and temperature from the sidewalk, but only the temperature got my notice as the air cooled—30 degrees Celsius, 29, 28. We had our favorite dishes—lomo and chorizo, Manchego cheese and jamón, piquillos rellenos, boquerones. I relaxed and soaked up those last few hours with my dear friends, sometimes working to banish the thought of leaving in the morning. The night stretched on and on, full of the joy of being there.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Going Back
Time was running short by now. Though Mike and I would happily have extended our stay in Spain, and though Price Waterhouse would have let us do it, we knew we should go back to the U.S. For one thing, the kids felt they were missing stuff they didn’t want to miss—American culture, movies and TV shows and the like. For another, Mike was pretty sure that in order to make partner at PW he would need to be in New York, or else he would be easily overlooked. So we prepared to go home.
I made a couple of excursions with my women friends—a trip with Clarice and Amy to the town of Sigüenza, where we saw storks nesting in chimneys on a sunny day, and a ride up a mountain with Sandra, Clarice and Christiane to the “weavers’ town”. This was a place Sandra knew where some German women had come to teach the local Spanish women the trade of weaving. It was an economic development effort, to help the women achieve financial independence, and it was also an effort to preserve the fine craft. We toured the workshop, saw work in progress, and bought some beautiful scarves and shawls.
The Douglas family was getting ready to return to the U.S., too. Troy was set to start college at the University of Richmond, and Phil was retiring from the Air Force. He, Ana and Carmen had decided to live in Colorado Springs, where many of their retired Air Force friends were.
Their lease was finished before the end of June, but they wouldn’t be leaving for another week, so they came across the street to stay with us in the interim. We didn’t see much of them—they had a lot of Ana’s family to say goodbye to—but we did spend a couple of lazy evenings together, sitting by the pool, enjoying our wine and olives and chorizo.
One morning Troy was sleeping late in the basement guestroom, but Lisa was up early as usual. “You have to say happy birthday to Troy when he gets up,” I told her. “He’s eighteen!”
“Really?” she said. “How old is he?”
I looked at her, puzzled. “I just told you—he’s eighteen!”
“But how old is he?” She stopped herself for a moment. “Oh, I get it!” she said. “I thought you said ‘He’s a teen’!” We laughed for ten minutes over that one.
I made a couple of excursions with my women friends—a trip with Clarice and Amy to the town of Sigüenza, where we saw storks nesting in chimneys on a sunny day, and a ride up a mountain with Sandra, Clarice and Christiane to the “weavers’ town”. This was a place Sandra knew where some German women had come to teach the local Spanish women the trade of weaving. It was an economic development effort, to help the women achieve financial independence, and it was also an effort to preserve the fine craft. We toured the workshop, saw work in progress, and bought some beautiful scarves and shawls.
The Douglas family was getting ready to return to the U.S., too. Troy was set to start college at the University of Richmond, and Phil was retiring from the Air Force. He, Ana and Carmen had decided to live in Colorado Springs, where many of their retired Air Force friends were.
Their lease was finished before the end of June, but they wouldn’t be leaving for another week, so they came across the street to stay with us in the interim. We didn’t see much of them—they had a lot of Ana’s family to say goodbye to—but we did spend a couple of lazy evenings together, sitting by the pool, enjoying our wine and olives and chorizo.
One morning Troy was sleeping late in the basement guestroom, but Lisa was up early as usual. “You have to say happy birthday to Troy when he gets up,” I told her. “He’s eighteen!”
“Really?” she said. “How old is he?”
I looked at her, puzzled. “I just told you—he’s eighteen!”
“But how old is he?” She stopped herself for a moment. “Oh, I get it!” she said. “I thought you said ‘He’s a teen’!” We laughed for ten minutes over that one.
Old Hands, part 23
I had told my pregnant friend Christiane Santaularia to think of me if she needed any help when the baby came. “I’ll take you to the hospital, I’ll come and pick up Laura—anything you need, any time of the day or night,” I said. So I was not surprised when I got a call around 11 one evening that the time had come. “Would you take Laura?” Ramón asked.
“Of course!” I said.
“We’ll drop her off on the way to the hospital,” he said in a rush, and before we knew it, she was on our doorstep.
We found out the next morning that Christiane had had a little girl, now named Iris. Mother and baby were doing fine.
“What a great name for your sister!” we told Laura. “Named after a flower!”
She stayed with us for the day or two till the baby came home. We were all thrilled to see the tiny infant. The days were already warm enough to sit out in the backyard with her, at Christiane’s house or wherever the gang gathered for the kids to swim.
“Of course!” I said.
“We’ll drop her off on the way to the hospital,” he said in a rush, and before we knew it, she was on our doorstep.
We found out the next morning that Christiane had had a little girl, now named Iris. Mother and baby were doing fine.
“What a great name for your sister!” we told Laura. “Named after a flower!”
She stayed with us for the day or two till the baby came home. We were all thrilled to see the tiny infant. The days were already warm enough to sit out in the backyard with her, at Christiane’s house or wherever the gang gathered for the kids to swim.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Old Hands, part 22
The next suggestion from Mike’s Price Waterhouse colleagues was to take a bodega (winery) tour. They had even gone so far as to book one for us, at La Rioja Alta, one of several major wineries lined up on a road south of the town of Haro. It had been founded in 1890, and it made some very good wines.
Our tour was not very different from winery tours in New York State or California, except for being in Spanish. The guide was knowledgeable and personable, and the group was small—just twelve people. Our Spanish was adequate to the task of understanding him as he showed us the barrel workshop, the smelly fermentation room, the chilly storage areas and the bottling machine. Afterward the tour the guide poured two different wines for us to taste in the bar of the bodega, and we bought several bottles.
The third recommendation was for a restaurant in Haro, so we drove into the town from the bodega. After lunch there we drove to see several sights in the area, including a walled town, a church and a monastery, and then we made it back to the parador in time to watch a special bullfight on TV. Cristina Sánchez fought in the Roman amphitheater in Nîmes, France, which we’d visited the month before. Her success in the fight resulted in her elevation to full-fledged matador status—the first woman ever to achieve that. She received an ear from the bull and was carried out of the ring on the shoulders of the aficionados (fans).
Again on a Price Waterhouse recommendation, we drove back to Ezcaray for dinner at a hotel restaurant. The place was low on ambience—just cold, Band-Aid-colored walls—but the food was good. And on the way out we ran into someone Mike knew—a consulting client. I was amazed that by now Mike had such a wide acquaintance in Spain that he could bump into people he knew when he was away from home.
The last day we visited the monasteries of Suso and Yuso. Suso, on a hillside, was a Romanesque ruin under renovation. Yuso, by contrast, was a perfectly preserved 16th-century building. Nestled in a gorgeous little green valley with hills all around, viewed in the early morning mist, it was one of the most beautiful places I had ever seen.
The monastery’s claim to fame was that it was the place where both Castellano (Spanish) and Euskadi (the unique Basque language) were first codified. Monks at the monastery made notes in their Latin prayerbooks to help translate the Latin into the local dialects of the day. This was done not in the existing 16th-century building, but in an earlier Romanesque monastery on the site. We toured the place with an excellent guide whose Spanish was easy for us to understand.
On the way home we decided to take some back roads southward. After spending a couple hours doing this, we realized we weren’t making much progress. “These roads are a little smaller and twistier than they seem from the map,” I told Mike.
“Yeah, I think we’ve been through this town before,” he said. “I know I went around that dog sleeping in the middle of the street a half an hour ago.”
Eventually we found our way through the Sierra de la Demanda, a mountain range with a river running through its canyon, sometimes narrow and rocky, sometimes wide and placid. We stopped for lunch, got to the nearest major highway, and sped home in time for dinner.
Our tour was not very different from winery tours in New York State or California, except for being in Spanish. The guide was knowledgeable and personable, and the group was small—just twelve people. Our Spanish was adequate to the task of understanding him as he showed us the barrel workshop, the smelly fermentation room, the chilly storage areas and the bottling machine. Afterward the tour the guide poured two different wines for us to taste in the bar of the bodega, and we bought several bottles.
The third recommendation was for a restaurant in Haro, so we drove into the town from the bodega. After lunch there we drove to see several sights in the area, including a walled town, a church and a monastery, and then we made it back to the parador in time to watch a special bullfight on TV. Cristina Sánchez fought in the Roman amphitheater in Nîmes, France, which we’d visited the month before. Her success in the fight resulted in her elevation to full-fledged matador status—the first woman ever to achieve that. She received an ear from the bull and was carried out of the ring on the shoulders of the aficionados (fans).
Again on a Price Waterhouse recommendation, we drove back to Ezcaray for dinner at a hotel restaurant. The place was low on ambience—just cold, Band-Aid-colored walls—but the food was good. And on the way out we ran into someone Mike knew—a consulting client. I was amazed that by now Mike had such a wide acquaintance in Spain that he could bump into people he knew when he was away from home.
The last day we visited the monasteries of Suso and Yuso. Suso, on a hillside, was a Romanesque ruin under renovation. Yuso, by contrast, was a perfectly preserved 16th-century building. Nestled in a gorgeous little green valley with hills all around, viewed in the early morning mist, it was one of the most beautiful places I had ever seen.
The monastery’s claim to fame was that it was the place where both Castellano (Spanish) and Euskadi (the unique Basque language) were first codified. Monks at the monastery made notes in their Latin prayerbooks to help translate the Latin into the local dialects of the day. This was done not in the existing 16th-century building, but in an earlier Romanesque monastery on the site. We toured the place with an excellent guide whose Spanish was easy for us to understand.
On the way home we decided to take some back roads southward. After spending a couple hours doing this, we realized we weren’t making much progress. “These roads are a little smaller and twistier than they seem from the map,” I told Mike.
“Yeah, I think we’ve been through this town before,” he said. “I know I went around that dog sleeping in the middle of the street a half an hour ago.”
Eventually we found our way through the Sierra de la Demanda, a mountain range with a river running through its canyon, sometimes narrow and rocky, sometimes wide and placid. We stopped for lunch, got to the nearest major highway, and sped home in time for dinner.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Old Hands, part 21
As the time for us to return to the U.S. got nearer, I figured I’d better cash in my gift certificate. A year earlier Mike had given me a birthday present that was a homemade certificate good for a weekend at the parador of my choice. Since we hadn’t been to the wine-making region of La Rioja, I thought it would be good to use my parador certificate for that. There was only one parador in the province of La Rioja, and that was in the village of Santo Domingo de la Calzada, so I booked our weekend. Dolores, the school’s gym teacher, stayed with the kids, and Mike and I headed out of Madrid on a Friday night.
The drive up was pleasant and sunny. As we drove north we left the dry plains of Castilla y León and moved into greener country. A patchwork of different crops was laid out over gently rolling hills. We reached Santo Domingo at 9 p.m., and the sun was still up, giving a golden light to the old stone buildings.
The parador was built around what was left of an old hospital for pilgrims on the route of St. James, and it was next door to the town’s cathedral, so that was our first stop on Saturday. Its distinguishing feature was the live, caged rooster kept inside as a reminder of a legend. Centuries ago a German family had traveled the pilgrimage route, and they stayed overnight with a family in the town. The daughter of the house fell in love with the son of the pilgrim family, and she told him so. He rejected her, and in revenge she hid a silver cup in his backpack, then told the authorities that he had stolen it. He was hanged, and his parents sadly traveled on to Santiago.
But the boy didn’t die on the gallows, because Santo Domingo protected him. When the parents returned from Santiago they found him alive, and they went to tell the local judge. The judge was just having his lunch—a roasted hen and a roasted rooster. Hearing the story, he declared, “That story is no more true than if I said these chickens could get up and crow,” which they promptly did. Descendants of the pair have been kept in the cathedral ever since.
Mike’s Price Waterhouse colleagues, hearing that we were going to La Rioja, had been generous with suggestions for shopping, dining, and wine tasting. The first suggestion we followed was to go to Ezcaray, a small town where there was a store that sold locally made mohair blankets. We got there before the shops opened, so we drove to a park to get a view of the area—and what a view it was. It was a clear, sunny day, and the hill was covered with tiny wildflowers. We could see a narrow river in a wide riverbed below. Crickets chirped everywhere, and we heard the sound of cowbells from a nearby hill. It was so peaceful and so lovely, we lingered there for half an hour.
Back down in the town we realized that we didn’t know the name or address of the blanket store. “What should we do?” I asked Mike.
“Let’s park and ask somebody,” he said. He left the car at the curb and walked right up to an old lady who was heading toward the shops. “Estamos buscando la tienda de mantas,” he said—We’re looking for the blanket store.
“Bueno, sígame,” she said without hesitation—Well, follow me. She took us right to the shop, which had no sign in the window. We would never have found it without help.
Inside the proprietor proudly showed us what he had. There were beautiful plaid mohair blankets in every color combination, and the prices were great—about $65 for a generous-sized throw, and not much more for a king-sized blanket that we bought as a wedding gift for Mike’s sister, who was going to be married in a few months. The dueño (owner) showed us a loom he had on display, and he explained that the goats that provided the wool were kept in the area, near the river we had seen. The actual weaving was done there, too, near the raw materials.
We decided that we needed a lot of blankets—they’d make great gifts for lots of people over the next few years, and we could ship them back with our household goods. So we bought about a dozen. Some were blue and white, some were red and white, and the most colorful were gold, blue and red. “These will keep us warm in Connecticut,” I told Mike.
The drive up was pleasant and sunny. As we drove north we left the dry plains of Castilla y León and moved into greener country. A patchwork of different crops was laid out over gently rolling hills. We reached Santo Domingo at 9 p.m., and the sun was still up, giving a golden light to the old stone buildings.
The parador was built around what was left of an old hospital for pilgrims on the route of St. James, and it was next door to the town’s cathedral, so that was our first stop on Saturday. Its distinguishing feature was the live, caged rooster kept inside as a reminder of a legend. Centuries ago a German family had traveled the pilgrimage route, and they stayed overnight with a family in the town. The daughter of the house fell in love with the son of the pilgrim family, and she told him so. He rejected her, and in revenge she hid a silver cup in his backpack, then told the authorities that he had stolen it. He was hanged, and his parents sadly traveled on to Santiago.
But the boy didn’t die on the gallows, because Santo Domingo protected him. When the parents returned from Santiago they found him alive, and they went to tell the local judge. The judge was just having his lunch—a roasted hen and a roasted rooster. Hearing the story, he declared, “That story is no more true than if I said these chickens could get up and crow,” which they promptly did. Descendants of the pair have been kept in the cathedral ever since.
Mike’s Price Waterhouse colleagues, hearing that we were going to La Rioja, had been generous with suggestions for shopping, dining, and wine tasting. The first suggestion we followed was to go to Ezcaray, a small town where there was a store that sold locally made mohair blankets. We got there before the shops opened, so we drove to a park to get a view of the area—and what a view it was. It was a clear, sunny day, and the hill was covered with tiny wildflowers. We could see a narrow river in a wide riverbed below. Crickets chirped everywhere, and we heard the sound of cowbells from a nearby hill. It was so peaceful and so lovely, we lingered there for half an hour.
Back down in the town we realized that we didn’t know the name or address of the blanket store. “What should we do?” I asked Mike.
“Let’s park and ask somebody,” he said. He left the car at the curb and walked right up to an old lady who was heading toward the shops. “Estamos buscando la tienda de mantas,” he said—We’re looking for the blanket store.
“Bueno, sígame,” she said without hesitation—Well, follow me. She took us right to the shop, which had no sign in the window. We would never have found it without help.
Inside the proprietor proudly showed us what he had. There were beautiful plaid mohair blankets in every color combination, and the prices were great—about $65 for a generous-sized throw, and not much more for a king-sized blanket that we bought as a wedding gift for Mike’s sister, who was going to be married in a few months. The dueño (owner) showed us a loom he had on display, and he explained that the goats that provided the wool were kept in the area, near the river we had seen. The actual weaving was done there, too, near the raw materials.
We decided that we needed a lot of blankets—they’d make great gifts for lots of people over the next few years, and we could ship them back with our household goods. So we bought about a dozen. Some were blue and white, some were red and white, and the most colorful were gold, blue and red. “These will keep us warm in Connecticut,” I told Mike.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Old Hands, part 20
I had formed the habit of buying El País, the liberal national newspaper, every day. As I did at home, I only read certain sections—a little politics, a little foreign relations, most of the arts coverage. And I had become a regular reader of the back-page columnists—a group of five or six writers who rotated according to a schedule.
One of these was Vicente Verdú. I had read him enough to recognize his name, though I hadn’t really paid enough attention to figure out what his position was—until he published El planeta americano. This was a book he wrote about the U.S. and its worldwide influence after having lived in Philadelphia for a few years. Some of his views leaked into his column, and I became intrigued. He wasn’t exactly anti-American. Rather, he suggested that the rest of the world was entirely too eager to adopt elements of American culture—Hollywood films, fast food—and that perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to do so.
I found this notion thought provoking, especially after a year and a half of life in Spain, so I bought the book. It was reasonably readable by me—I kept my Spanish-English dictionary handy—and I became more entranced the more I read. Verdú talked about Americans’ quest for money above all and cited a contrary Spanish example—the bar owner who closed his doors every night when the neighboring theater let out its audience. “Too many people,” he grumbled. This was one of the many fundamental differences I had noticed between Americans and Spaniards. The book cited many more.
I read the book’s back cover, too, and found that Verdú had been in Philadelphia because his wife, a psychology professor, had been working in the psychology department at the University of Pennsylvania. Well, I had worked in that department, too—as a part-time secretary for my psych prof, Marty Seligman, while I was a student at Penn. I knew Seligman was still there—he had become a well-known author—and that meant that maybe Verdú and I had someone in common. I thought Verdú and his ideas were just brilliant, and I wanted to be connected to him.
I knew how to get this done. Every year, at Retiro Park in Madrid, there was a book fair. Each publisher had a booth, and many authors made personal appearances. My friend Lorraine, who was a successful writer, had appeared there. “How would I find out when a certain author is going to be there?” I asked her.
“The best way is to go there in the first days of the fair,” she said. “Go to his publisher’s booth. They’ll have a schedule there, and you can come back when he’s appearing.”
I followed her advice and made my first trip to the fair. As Lorraine had said, there was a printed schedule, and I saw that my guy would be there two days later, in the afternoon. So I made my plan to return.
I was so excited to meet him, I got there early. I asked about him at the booth, but he hadn’t arrived yet. My heart was pounding as I walked around the fair killing time. I was going to meet him! I was going to ask him about Seligman! This would be so cool!
When I returned, there he was. Just a guy, a few years older than I was, chatting with people and signing books. I got in the short line. I was sweating and practicing my Spanish in my head. I felt like a stalker.
“Me llamo Susie Haubenstock,” I said, introducing myself, and I went on to explain in my overexcited Spanish that I loved his book and wanted an autograph. He seemed a little puzzled that an American would like it, but he signed my book.
“Tengo una pregunta,” I went on—I have a question. While at Penn, had he met Marty Seligman?
“Si, lo conozco bien,” he said—I know him well. And I explained that I’d known him years before, and then I ran out of things to say. So I said thanks and goodbye.
It took hours for me to calm down, and days for me to stop looking at that signature in my book, but I was incredibly proud of myself for getting it.
One of these was Vicente Verdú. I had read him enough to recognize his name, though I hadn’t really paid enough attention to figure out what his position was—until he published El planeta americano. This was a book he wrote about the U.S. and its worldwide influence after having lived in Philadelphia for a few years. Some of his views leaked into his column, and I became intrigued. He wasn’t exactly anti-American. Rather, he suggested that the rest of the world was entirely too eager to adopt elements of American culture—Hollywood films, fast food—and that perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to do so.
I found this notion thought provoking, especially after a year and a half of life in Spain, so I bought the book. It was reasonably readable by me—I kept my Spanish-English dictionary handy—and I became more entranced the more I read. Verdú talked about Americans’ quest for money above all and cited a contrary Spanish example—the bar owner who closed his doors every night when the neighboring theater let out its audience. “Too many people,” he grumbled. This was one of the many fundamental differences I had noticed between Americans and Spaniards. The book cited many more.
I read the book’s back cover, too, and found that Verdú had been in Philadelphia because his wife, a psychology professor, had been working in the psychology department at the University of Pennsylvania. Well, I had worked in that department, too—as a part-time secretary for my psych prof, Marty Seligman, while I was a student at Penn. I knew Seligman was still there—he had become a well-known author—and that meant that maybe Verdú and I had someone in common. I thought Verdú and his ideas were just brilliant, and I wanted to be connected to him.
I knew how to get this done. Every year, at Retiro Park in Madrid, there was a book fair. Each publisher had a booth, and many authors made personal appearances. My friend Lorraine, who was a successful writer, had appeared there. “How would I find out when a certain author is going to be there?” I asked her.
“The best way is to go there in the first days of the fair,” she said. “Go to his publisher’s booth. They’ll have a schedule there, and you can come back when he’s appearing.”
I followed her advice and made my first trip to the fair. As Lorraine had said, there was a printed schedule, and I saw that my guy would be there two days later, in the afternoon. So I made my plan to return.
I was so excited to meet him, I got there early. I asked about him at the booth, but he hadn’t arrived yet. My heart was pounding as I walked around the fair killing time. I was going to meet him! I was going to ask him about Seligman! This would be so cool!
When I returned, there he was. Just a guy, a few years older than I was, chatting with people and signing books. I got in the short line. I was sweating and practicing my Spanish in my head. I felt like a stalker.
“Me llamo Susie Haubenstock,” I said, introducing myself, and I went on to explain in my overexcited Spanish that I loved his book and wanted an autograph. He seemed a little puzzled that an American would like it, but he signed my book.
“Tengo una pregunta,” I went on—I have a question. While at Penn, had he met Marty Seligman?
“Si, lo conozco bien,” he said—I know him well. And I explained that I’d known him years before, and then I ran out of things to say. So I said thanks and goodbye.
It took hours for me to calm down, and days for me to stop looking at that signature in my book, but I was incredibly proud of myself for getting it.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Old Hands, part 19
A big event for the sixth graders was their three-day trip to Mérida. It was done every year—a treat for the kids who were going to move up from the Lower School to the Upper School. They would visit all the Roman sites in the town, but there would also be social occasions. “We have to bring nice clothes for dinner both nights,” Julie said. “And one night the girls each have to invite a boy to dinner, and the other night the boys have to invite the girls.” There was much giggling and speculation before leaving as to who would ask whom to dinner.
We thought about this often while Julie was on the trip, and when she got back it was the first thing we wanted to know. “How did the dinner thing go?” Mike asked.
Julie rolled her eyes. “It was so ridiculous! The first night the boys had to invite the girls. Álvaro and Anna went together, because they’re going out. Martin ended up asking me.” Her disgusted expression made it clear that this was not a desirable outcome. “We had to take their arms and everything—Mr. Peterson made us! Then they had to pull out our chairs for us.
“There were pitchers of water on the table, and Álvaro poured water for Anna. My glass was empty, so Álvaro punches Martin and says, ‘Give the lady some water!’ Then Martin takes the pitcher and starts pouring, but he forgets to look at what he’s doing. The glass gets full and he keeps pouring, and all of a sudden the water’s all over the table and running onto my lap! What an idiot!” We were laughing hysterically, but she seemed not to find the story so funny.
We thought about this often while Julie was on the trip, and when she got back it was the first thing we wanted to know. “How did the dinner thing go?” Mike asked.
Julie rolled her eyes. “It was so ridiculous! The first night the boys had to invite the girls. Álvaro and Anna went together, because they’re going out. Martin ended up asking me.” Her disgusted expression made it clear that this was not a desirable outcome. “We had to take their arms and everything—Mr. Peterson made us! Then they had to pull out our chairs for us.
“There were pitchers of water on the table, and Álvaro poured water for Anna. My glass was empty, so Álvaro punches Martin and says, ‘Give the lady some water!’ Then Martin takes the pitcher and starts pouring, but he forgets to look at what he’s doing. The glass gets full and he keeps pouring, and all of a sudden the water’s all over the table and running onto my lap! What an idiot!” We were laughing hysterically, but she seemed not to find the story so funny.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Old Hands, part 18
The next morning we had breakfast near the hotel, choosing the place because it had a fresh orange juice machine, which had become a favorite of Brian and the kids. There was sort of a holding pen for a couple dozen oranges, which dropped down into the juicing mechanism when the waiter needed to make a glass of juice. “This is the best orange juice in the world!” Lisa said.
After breakfast Mike and Brian went to see an exhibit on the 500th anniversary of the University of Santiago de Compostela, and I took Julie and Lisa on a souvenir quest. We wanted little scallop shells, the symbol of St. James and the pilgrimage. The kids got them in silver, on silver chains, and I got one in gold.
We met back at the hotel and piled into the car for a trip around the first of three peninsulas we planned to see. Galicia has several rías (rivers) that empty into the Atlantic, to the west, and between them are peninsulas with pretty scenery, beaches, and little fishing towns. This first day we drove to O Grove and had lunch in a seafood place by the water, then went to La Toja, an island resort nearby with astonishingly junky souvenir stands.
The next day we drove south to the next peninsula, with many beautiful views of the ría along the way. The weather was better than we had expected—Galicia was normally a rainy place, but we had lots of blue skies. We stopped in Pontevedra, a small city with a well-kept old quarter. We walked around a bit and visited the provincial archaeology museum. Then we headed out on the peninsula and found an empty sand beach in Vilanova. Brian, Mike and I settled down on the warm, white sand, and Julie and Lisa played at the water line, dipping a toe in and running back up the beach. “This is fantastic!” Julie said. “Look at all the shells,” Lisa shouted, scooping up dozens of them to bring home.
In the village of Cangas we had a huge seafood lunch, and then we drove on to Vigo, a big fishing town. We checked into our hotel there and split up again. This time Brian took Lisa to dinner while Mike, Julie and I went to see the movie The Birdcage in Spanish. “I’m really proud that your Spanish is good enough for you to understand a whole movie in Spanish,” Mike said.
“It’s not even hard,” Julie told him.
In the morning we drove to the next peninsula down the way, stopping first to look at the ruined castle at Balona. We walked along the castle walls and looked out at the Atlantic Ocean, which was sparkling and white-capped. Then we went to La Guardia, where we drove up Santa Tecla, a mountain that provided great views and housed some fascinating Celto-Iberic ruins. These were the stone walls of circular houses built around 100 B.C. Two houses had been reconstructed with thatch roofs to show what they had looked like in the period.
We were a short distance from Portugal by this time. In fact, our surroundings had seemed more and more Portuguese as we moved south. Most signs were in Gallego, the Galician dialect, which looked a lot like Portuguese, and the quiet little fishing towns looked like those in Portugal. “Could we go across the border for lunch?” Brian asked. “I’ve never been there.”
“Sure,” Mike said. So we crossed a bridge and drove gingerly through three narrow gateways into Valença, a walled fortress city that turned out to be a whitewashed shopping town. The place was filled with Spaniards looking for sheets and towels, which were of a better quality in Portugal than what you could get in Spain. We walked out to the pousada—similar a Spanish parador, a pousada is a government-run hotel in a building of historic interest—and had a great lunch there, with a stunning view of the hills around us. We drove back into Spain, stopped to see the little cathedral in Tui, and returned to Vigo.
“Can we go to the Virgin Megastore?” Brian asked when he saw its billboard by the highway. “I bet I can get import-only CDs there I could never find at home.” The kids loved this idea, so we shopped for a while and then went out for tapas.
“What was everyone’s favorite part of the trip?” Mike asked.
“I loved the cathedral and the basilica in León,” I said.
“My favorite was playing on the beach,” Julie said.
“Sleeping,” Lisa told us.
Mike thought for a minute. “My favorite thing was lunch,” he said.
“My favorite was singing along to the Kid Creole CDs in the car,” Brian said.
We got on the road early the next day and made a morning stop at the castle of Monterrei, which was built by the duke who had founded Monterrey, Mexico and Monterey, California. An old caretaker there showed us around the place. Then Mike, Brian and Julie went into a nearby antiques shop while Lisa and I waited in the car for what seemed like hours. When they finally came out, we were steaming mad.
“What were you doing in there for so long?” Lisa demanded.
“We bought two ox yokes!” Mike said happily. “They’ll be delivered to us at home tomorrow. One for Brian and one for us.” We were not amused.
After breakfast Mike and Brian went to see an exhibit on the 500th anniversary of the University of Santiago de Compostela, and I took Julie and Lisa on a souvenir quest. We wanted little scallop shells, the symbol of St. James and the pilgrimage. The kids got them in silver, on silver chains, and I got one in gold.
We met back at the hotel and piled into the car for a trip around the first of three peninsulas we planned to see. Galicia has several rías (rivers) that empty into the Atlantic, to the west, and between them are peninsulas with pretty scenery, beaches, and little fishing towns. This first day we drove to O Grove and had lunch in a seafood place by the water, then went to La Toja, an island resort nearby with astonishingly junky souvenir stands.
The next day we drove south to the next peninsula, with many beautiful views of the ría along the way. The weather was better than we had expected—Galicia was normally a rainy place, but we had lots of blue skies. We stopped in Pontevedra, a small city with a well-kept old quarter. We walked around a bit and visited the provincial archaeology museum. Then we headed out on the peninsula and found an empty sand beach in Vilanova. Brian, Mike and I settled down on the warm, white sand, and Julie and Lisa played at the water line, dipping a toe in and running back up the beach. “This is fantastic!” Julie said. “Look at all the shells,” Lisa shouted, scooping up dozens of them to bring home.
In the village of Cangas we had a huge seafood lunch, and then we drove on to Vigo, a big fishing town. We checked into our hotel there and split up again. This time Brian took Lisa to dinner while Mike, Julie and I went to see the movie The Birdcage in Spanish. “I’m really proud that your Spanish is good enough for you to understand a whole movie in Spanish,” Mike said.
“It’s not even hard,” Julie told him.
In the morning we drove to the next peninsula down the way, stopping first to look at the ruined castle at Balona. We walked along the castle walls and looked out at the Atlantic Ocean, which was sparkling and white-capped. Then we went to La Guardia, where we drove up Santa Tecla, a mountain that provided great views and housed some fascinating Celto-Iberic ruins. These were the stone walls of circular houses built around 100 B.C. Two houses had been reconstructed with thatch roofs to show what they had looked like in the period.
We were a short distance from Portugal by this time. In fact, our surroundings had seemed more and more Portuguese as we moved south. Most signs were in Gallego, the Galician dialect, which looked a lot like Portuguese, and the quiet little fishing towns looked like those in Portugal. “Could we go across the border for lunch?” Brian asked. “I’ve never been there.”
“Sure,” Mike said. So we crossed a bridge and drove gingerly through three narrow gateways into Valença, a walled fortress city that turned out to be a whitewashed shopping town. The place was filled with Spaniards looking for sheets and towels, which were of a better quality in Portugal than what you could get in Spain. We walked out to the pousada—similar a Spanish parador, a pousada is a government-run hotel in a building of historic interest—and had a great lunch there, with a stunning view of the hills around us. We drove back into Spain, stopped to see the little cathedral in Tui, and returned to Vigo.
“Can we go to the Virgin Megastore?” Brian asked when he saw its billboard by the highway. “I bet I can get import-only CDs there I could never find at home.” The kids loved this idea, so we shopped for a while and then went out for tapas.
“What was everyone’s favorite part of the trip?” Mike asked.
“I loved the cathedral and the basilica in León,” I said.
“My favorite was playing on the beach,” Julie said.
“Sleeping,” Lisa told us.
Mike thought for a minute. “My favorite thing was lunch,” he said.
“My favorite was singing along to the Kid Creole CDs in the car,” Brian said.
We got on the road early the next day and made a morning stop at the castle of Monterrei, which was built by the duke who had founded Monterrey, Mexico and Monterey, California. An old caretaker there showed us around the place. Then Mike, Brian and Julie went into a nearby antiques shop while Lisa and I waited in the car for what seemed like hours. When they finally came out, we were steaming mad.
“What were you doing in there for so long?” Lisa demanded.
“We bought two ox yokes!” Mike said happily. “They’ll be delivered to us at home tomorrow. One for Brian and one for us.” We were not amused.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Old Hands, part 17
Mike’s brother Brian came back to Spain for a second visit in May. We had planned a trip to Galicia in the northwest corner of Spain, just above Portugal. My former Spanish teacher, Dolo, was from there, and she had given me her ideas on what a good itinerary would be.
The girls were delighted to have their Uncle Brian along. “It’s always more fun when he’s around,” Julie said with delight. He gave them “bonecrushers,” extra-big hugs, and they had a long-standing routine in which, for reasons long forgotten, he would insist (in a French accent) “You must know!” and they would each respond, “I don’t know!”
We piled into the Mercedes on a Tuesday afternoon—it was another big puente holiday—and drove three and a half hours to León, in the province of Castilla y León. León was part of the ancient pilgrimage route of St. James, which the faithful had walked and ridden for years to get to Santiago de Compostela, where the Apostle James was buried. “Look,” I said to the girls, pointing to people walking alongside the road. “Those people are pilgrims, just like centuries ago!” It had become fashionable, we knew, to walk the route, even if you broke it up into weekend-long chunks, each time returning to the place you’d left off the weekend before.
It was late when we arrived, so we had dinner at the hotel and went to bed. The next morning we looked around León a bit, seeing the cathedral, with acres of beautiful stained glass windows and Gregorian chant playing in the background.
From there we walked to the Basílica de San Isidoro, which we had studied extensively in Everett Rice’s Spanish art history class. It was a very old Romanesque church with beautifully preserved frescoes from the 1100s. “Everett’s shown these slides a million times,” I whispered to Mike, “but it’s nothing like seeing it in person.” The life of Jesus was painted in a charmingly primitive style on the ceiling, along with a famous farmer’s calendar that showed the parishioners of the day what kind of work they should be doing each month. The lively colors made everything look brand new despite its age.
We drove on to Astorga, also on the Route of St. James, where the Museum of the Way displayed many artifacts related to the pilgrimage in a building designed by Barcelona’s Gaudí. Then we headed on into Galicia, noticing as things got considerably greener due to the greater rainfall near the coast. Some of the hillsides were covered with yellow and purple wildflowers. “Mom, I see a palm tree!” Lisa exclaimed. There were vineyards everywhere, and unlike the stumpy vines we’d seen in France and Italy just a month before, these vines were growing and greening up.
We got into Santiago de Compostela and found our hotel, then took the twenty-minute walk to the cathedral. The main doors were closed, but we found a side door open and entered there. Most of the visitors had left for the day, so it was nice and quiet inside. As we had learned from Everett, this cathedral was not spectacular in that it was not a high-reaching Gothic church. It was a darker, less fancy romanesque design, but quite grand for a church of that period.
What I wanted to see most was the Portal de Gloria, the heavily carved entrance Everett had described. There was a famous pillar there where pilgrims had put their hands for centuries. The handprint area was indented and shiny. “When you put your hand in there,” Mike told the girls, “think of all the millions who have done the same over the ages.” We all felt a chill as we touched the smooth stone.
We walked behind and under the altar to see the silver casket that held the remains of St. James. “When I was here last summer with Jon Powell, there were lines around the whole cathedral, so we didn’t even bother to wait,” Mike whispered. But we were able to take our time and view the shiny box in quiet.
We left the cathedral and walked through the nearby plazas and narrow streets, which were filled with lively shops and restaurants. We chose a restaurant, had dinner, and walked back in the dark to see the cathedral lit up.
The girls were delighted to have their Uncle Brian along. “It’s always more fun when he’s around,” Julie said with delight. He gave them “bonecrushers,” extra-big hugs, and they had a long-standing routine in which, for reasons long forgotten, he would insist (in a French accent) “You must know!” and they would each respond, “I don’t know!”
We piled into the Mercedes on a Tuesday afternoon—it was another big puente holiday—and drove three and a half hours to León, in the province of Castilla y León. León was part of the ancient pilgrimage route of St. James, which the faithful had walked and ridden for years to get to Santiago de Compostela, where the Apostle James was buried. “Look,” I said to the girls, pointing to people walking alongside the road. “Those people are pilgrims, just like centuries ago!” It had become fashionable, we knew, to walk the route, even if you broke it up into weekend-long chunks, each time returning to the place you’d left off the weekend before.
It was late when we arrived, so we had dinner at the hotel and went to bed. The next morning we looked around León a bit, seeing the cathedral, with acres of beautiful stained glass windows and Gregorian chant playing in the background.
From there we walked to the Basílica de San Isidoro, which we had studied extensively in Everett Rice’s Spanish art history class. It was a very old Romanesque church with beautifully preserved frescoes from the 1100s. “Everett’s shown these slides a million times,” I whispered to Mike, “but it’s nothing like seeing it in person.” The life of Jesus was painted in a charmingly primitive style on the ceiling, along with a famous farmer’s calendar that showed the parishioners of the day what kind of work they should be doing each month. The lively colors made everything look brand new despite its age.
We drove on to Astorga, also on the Route of St. James, where the Museum of the Way displayed many artifacts related to the pilgrimage in a building designed by Barcelona’s Gaudí. Then we headed on into Galicia, noticing as things got considerably greener due to the greater rainfall near the coast. Some of the hillsides were covered with yellow and purple wildflowers. “Mom, I see a palm tree!” Lisa exclaimed. There were vineyards everywhere, and unlike the stumpy vines we’d seen in France and Italy just a month before, these vines were growing and greening up.
We got into Santiago de Compostela and found our hotel, then took the twenty-minute walk to the cathedral. The main doors were closed, but we found a side door open and entered there. Most of the visitors had left for the day, so it was nice and quiet inside. As we had learned from Everett, this cathedral was not spectacular in that it was not a high-reaching Gothic church. It was a darker, less fancy romanesque design, but quite grand for a church of that period.
What I wanted to see most was the Portal de Gloria, the heavily carved entrance Everett had described. There was a famous pillar there where pilgrims had put their hands for centuries. The handprint area was indented and shiny. “When you put your hand in there,” Mike told the girls, “think of all the millions who have done the same over the ages.” We all felt a chill as we touched the smooth stone.
We walked behind and under the altar to see the silver casket that held the remains of St. James. “When I was here last summer with Jon Powell, there were lines around the whole cathedral, so we didn’t even bother to wait,” Mike whispered. But we were able to take our time and view the shiny box in quiet.
We left the cathedral and walked through the nearby plazas and narrow streets, which were filled with lively shops and restaurants. We chose a restaurant, had dinner, and walked back in the dark to see the cathedral lit up.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Old Hands, part 16
I was not any kind of a shopper—that was one of the real bonds between me and Amy Levine. She had met many American women during her early weeks in Spain, but all of them seemed to be on a mission to shop for and acquire as much Spanish merchandise as they could. Amy and I preferred to spend our time at museums or walking in the city.
But Mike was on a mission to buy Oriental rugs. I had mentioned years before that sometime in the future I’d like to replace our dhurrie rugs (which seemed like the kind of thing young people had) with Oriental rugs (which seemed like the kind of thing grownups had). Mike had heard that you could get a good deal on Oriental rugs in Spain, so he started shopping—something he loved to do.
At first he tried to get me to go along with him, but taking me shopping was like dragging around a whiny four-year-old. It was hot, I was bored, I didn’t want to be there. There weren’t many rugs that were big enough for us, because Spanish room sizes were smaller than the rooms in our house in Connecticut. And the majority of rugs had a bright red background, which I hated. “Look, why don’t you go around and find what you like, narrow it down, and I’ll come and look at your choices,” I said. He was happy with that idea.
After a few weeks he gave me a list of stores to visit and items to view. On the list was a large, fancy shop on Serrano, near my art history class, so I walked over after class one day. Though I wasn’t crazy about any of his selections, I did see a rug hanging on the wall that I thought was beautiful, so we agreed to go back to the store together.
An elegant Frenchwoman waited on us when we returned. “You like the rug on the wall?” she said. “You really must see it on the floor. Let me take it down for you.”
“No, no,” I said nervously, not wanting to be pushed into buying. “That’s okay. We can see it from here.”
“Oh, but to have the real experience of the rug, you must see it on the floor.”
“No, that’s all right,” Mike said.
“Please, let me take it down for you,” she persisted.
“No, thanks,” I started, but before I could finish I heard the ripping sound of Velcro and then the loud thump of the rug hitting the floor. It was done.
We looked closely at the rug, with its beautiful wine-colored background, its fine weave, the many colors of its design, and the unusual shine of white silk mixed in with the wool. “The very finest work from Iran,” the saleslady said proudly.
“Iran?” Mike said. “We’re American. We can’t take home a rug from Iran. There’s an embargo against importing Iranian goods.”
“Did I say Iran?” the lady countered smoothly. “I meant India. It’s from India.” Quickly we began to understand that it was from wherever we wanted it to be from, and besides that, she would make up a bill of sale that had any price we wanted on it, in case we wished to minimize the duty we’d have to pay. She wanted to make the sale.
“Let us think about it,” Mike said, remembering our miserable rug purchase in Marrakesh. With great intestinal fortitude we got ourselves out of the shop, but we kept thinking about the rug.
It was actually a month later that I saw the rug again. Mike had bought it and hidden it in the basement shower until my birthday. He and the kids took me downstairs to surprise me. “Oh, my God, I can’t believe you bought it!” I screamed, knowing the price as I did.
“I knew you loved it, and I love it, too,” Mike said. I still love that rug every time I look at it.
But Mike was on a mission to buy Oriental rugs. I had mentioned years before that sometime in the future I’d like to replace our dhurrie rugs (which seemed like the kind of thing young people had) with Oriental rugs (which seemed like the kind of thing grownups had). Mike had heard that you could get a good deal on Oriental rugs in Spain, so he started shopping—something he loved to do.
At first he tried to get me to go along with him, but taking me shopping was like dragging around a whiny four-year-old. It was hot, I was bored, I didn’t want to be there. There weren’t many rugs that were big enough for us, because Spanish room sizes were smaller than the rooms in our house in Connecticut. And the majority of rugs had a bright red background, which I hated. “Look, why don’t you go around and find what you like, narrow it down, and I’ll come and look at your choices,” I said. He was happy with that idea.
After a few weeks he gave me a list of stores to visit and items to view. On the list was a large, fancy shop on Serrano, near my art history class, so I walked over after class one day. Though I wasn’t crazy about any of his selections, I did see a rug hanging on the wall that I thought was beautiful, so we agreed to go back to the store together.
An elegant Frenchwoman waited on us when we returned. “You like the rug on the wall?” she said. “You really must see it on the floor. Let me take it down for you.”
“No, no,” I said nervously, not wanting to be pushed into buying. “That’s okay. We can see it from here.”
“Oh, but to have the real experience of the rug, you must see it on the floor.”
“No, that’s all right,” Mike said.
“Please, let me take it down for you,” she persisted.
“No, thanks,” I started, but before I could finish I heard the ripping sound of Velcro and then the loud thump of the rug hitting the floor. It was done.
We looked closely at the rug, with its beautiful wine-colored background, its fine weave, the many colors of its design, and the unusual shine of white silk mixed in with the wool. “The very finest work from Iran,” the saleslady said proudly.
“Iran?” Mike said. “We’re American. We can’t take home a rug from Iran. There’s an embargo against importing Iranian goods.”
“Did I say Iran?” the lady countered smoothly. “I meant India. It’s from India.” Quickly we began to understand that it was from wherever we wanted it to be from, and besides that, she would make up a bill of sale that had any price we wanted on it, in case we wished to minimize the duty we’d have to pay. She wanted to make the sale.
“Let us think about it,” Mike said, remembering our miserable rug purchase in Marrakesh. With great intestinal fortitude we got ourselves out of the shop, but we kept thinking about the rug.
It was actually a month later that I saw the rug again. Mike had bought it and hidden it in the basement shower until my birthday. He and the kids took me downstairs to surprise me. “Oh, my God, I can’t believe you bought it!” I screamed, knowing the price as I did.
“I knew you loved it, and I love it, too,” Mike said. I still love that rug every time I look at it.
Old Hands, part 15
The Centro Storico (historic center) of Genoa was on our agenda the next day. We went down Garibaldi Street, which was lined with elegant old palazzi (palaces). We followed a guidebook tour through several old churches, and we saw a little square that was completely surrounded by beautiful medieval buildings. Then we did a kid-oriented afternoon at Genoa’s aquarium, the largest in Europe.
We drove back to France the next morning, stopping first at St-Paul de Vence, a medieval hilltop town north of Cannes. It was full of touristy-looking shops, but there were not hordes of visitors at this cool time of year, so things felt pretty relaxed. “We’re going to a crêpe restaurant for lunch,” we told the kids.
“I don’t think I want that,” Lisa said.
“Me neither,” said Julie.
“You’ve never even had a crêpe!” I said. “Don’t be so silly! We’ll do what we usually do—we’ll order a few different kinds, and you can eat whichever you like the most.” They were grumpy till we actually got to the restaurant and tried the food.
“This isn’t bad,” Julie said of her crêpe filled with curried chicken.
“Wait till you try a dessert crêpe,” Mike said, smiling.
We made another stop at La Napoule, on the coast just west of Cannes, where the guidebook advised us to see the castle built in the early 1900s by an American and his French wife. They were fans of the Middle Ages and of the grotesque, and Mike especially enjoyed their collection of gargoyles, since he was a fellow collector. Finally we arrived at our destination, Nîmes, passing its huge Roman amphitheater on the way to our hotel.
We walked to the amphitheater the next morning, though the brutal Mistral made the sunny day cold. We also saw the Roman temple, the modern art museum, and the pedestrian shopping area of the town. We were disappointed that the city museum didn’t have any fabrics on display—Nîmes had been a textile manufacturing town, the birthplace of denim (“de Nîmes”).
We drove across the Rhône to see a castle, thinking we’d picnic outside, but when we got out of the car the cold Mistral forced us back in. We ate in the car with the wind roaring around us. Then we drove up to Les Baux de Provence, a ruined medieval hilltop fortress. The wind there was fierce, and the signs in French warned of a vent violent (violent wind). From there we drove to Avignon, arriving just in time for a fine hour-long tour of the Pope’s palace. This had been the residence of seven Avignon-dwelling Popes and the two anti-Popes. The Old Palace section was very plain, built by a Cistercian monk, but the New Palace section was decorated more elaborately, with frescoes and Gothic ornamentation. We also saw the pont d’Avignon of the children’s song, a half-built bridge that hung over the river.
By Good Friday the Provence villages were full, not of tourists, but of French people at their weekend homes. In Uzes and Île sur la Sorgue we saw antiques fairs and people lingering in sidewalk cafés. Everyone seemed friendly—not like Parisians at all. And outside Uzes we ran across Mike’s idea of a pot of gold: an architectural salvage yard. This was the kind of place where he liked to look for gargoyles, and he found a real prize—a carved stone monster that had been part of the gutter system for the building it had come from, designed to carry water off the roof and away from the building’s foundation.
“I want to buy it,” Mike said.
“How will we get it home?” I asked. “We have to go on a plane.”
“Well, maybe it can be shipped,” Mike suggested. “Ask the guy!”
“Oh, God, my French is not equal to this,” I whined. But I tried.
Pretty quickly we agreed on a price equivalent to $300, which we would pay if the guy could arrange for shipment to Madrid. Unfortunately, he could not get hold of his trucker using the mobile phone, so there was no way to assure shipping. However, he said he’d been thinking about driving down to Spain later in the spring, so maybe he’d bring it down to us. We exchanged names and addresses, and he gave Mike a plaster gargoyle as a parting gift.
We stopped again, this time at Fontaine de Vaucluse. This was the point at which an underground river sprang out of a mountain and became a regular river. It was an unusual sight, with the pure, clear water spraying right out of the rock.
Finally we reached our last base, Aix-en-Provence. We’d spent a little money on our hotel, which was a renovated 15th-century abbey. It was comfortable, pretty and well located, just off the Cours Mirabeau (known as the Champs-Elysées of Aix), which was lined with shops and restaurants.
The town of Aix was not especially old, but it was beautiful, with harmonious architecture and color everywhere, from the flower and vegetable markets to the shop awnings. We walked through the pedestrian shopping area of the town the next day, buying a few items. We drove the Route Cézanne, which took us through some of the landscapes the artist had painted. The day was sunny and warm, and the red earth and green fields really looked like their Cézanne-rendered counterparts.
Finally, on Easter Sunday, we drove back to Marseille and spent an hour walking around the picturesque harbor, looking at the fishmongers there, hearing the church bells. “The logistics of traveling with the kids really worked on this trip,” I told Mike.
“It’s the dinner time,” he said. “When you can eat at 8 p.m. instead of 10 p.m., everything goes smoothly.”
“It was the menus, too,” I said. “They could get pizza or pasta almost anywhere we went. You can’t do that in Spain.”
We drove back to France the next morning, stopping first at St-Paul de Vence, a medieval hilltop town north of Cannes. It was full of touristy-looking shops, but there were not hordes of visitors at this cool time of year, so things felt pretty relaxed. “We’re going to a crêpe restaurant for lunch,” we told the kids.
“I don’t think I want that,” Lisa said.
“Me neither,” said Julie.
“You’ve never even had a crêpe!” I said. “Don’t be so silly! We’ll do what we usually do—we’ll order a few different kinds, and you can eat whichever you like the most.” They were grumpy till we actually got to the restaurant and tried the food.
“This isn’t bad,” Julie said of her crêpe filled with curried chicken.
“Wait till you try a dessert crêpe,” Mike said, smiling.
We made another stop at La Napoule, on the coast just west of Cannes, where the guidebook advised us to see the castle built in the early 1900s by an American and his French wife. They were fans of the Middle Ages and of the grotesque, and Mike especially enjoyed their collection of gargoyles, since he was a fellow collector. Finally we arrived at our destination, Nîmes, passing its huge Roman amphitheater on the way to our hotel.
We walked to the amphitheater the next morning, though the brutal Mistral made the sunny day cold. We also saw the Roman temple, the modern art museum, and the pedestrian shopping area of the town. We were disappointed that the city museum didn’t have any fabrics on display—Nîmes had been a textile manufacturing town, the birthplace of denim (“de Nîmes”).
We drove across the Rhône to see a castle, thinking we’d picnic outside, but when we got out of the car the cold Mistral forced us back in. We ate in the car with the wind roaring around us. Then we drove up to Les Baux de Provence, a ruined medieval hilltop fortress. The wind there was fierce, and the signs in French warned of a vent violent (violent wind). From there we drove to Avignon, arriving just in time for a fine hour-long tour of the Pope’s palace. This had been the residence of seven Avignon-dwelling Popes and the two anti-Popes. The Old Palace section was very plain, built by a Cistercian monk, but the New Palace section was decorated more elaborately, with frescoes and Gothic ornamentation. We also saw the pont d’Avignon of the children’s song, a half-built bridge that hung over the river.
By Good Friday the Provence villages were full, not of tourists, but of French people at their weekend homes. In Uzes and Île sur la Sorgue we saw antiques fairs and people lingering in sidewalk cafés. Everyone seemed friendly—not like Parisians at all. And outside Uzes we ran across Mike’s idea of a pot of gold: an architectural salvage yard. This was the kind of place where he liked to look for gargoyles, and he found a real prize—a carved stone monster that had been part of the gutter system for the building it had come from, designed to carry water off the roof and away from the building’s foundation.
“I want to buy it,” Mike said.
“How will we get it home?” I asked. “We have to go on a plane.”
“Well, maybe it can be shipped,” Mike suggested. “Ask the guy!”
“Oh, God, my French is not equal to this,” I whined. But I tried.
Pretty quickly we agreed on a price equivalent to $300, which we would pay if the guy could arrange for shipment to Madrid. Unfortunately, he could not get hold of his trucker using the mobile phone, so there was no way to assure shipping. However, he said he’d been thinking about driving down to Spain later in the spring, so maybe he’d bring it down to us. We exchanged names and addresses, and he gave Mike a plaster gargoyle as a parting gift.
We stopped again, this time at Fontaine de Vaucluse. This was the point at which an underground river sprang out of a mountain and became a regular river. It was an unusual sight, with the pure, clear water spraying right out of the rock.
Finally we reached our last base, Aix-en-Provence. We’d spent a little money on our hotel, which was a renovated 15th-century abbey. It was comfortable, pretty and well located, just off the Cours Mirabeau (known as the Champs-Elysées of Aix), which was lined with shops and restaurants.
The town of Aix was not especially old, but it was beautiful, with harmonious architecture and color everywhere, from the flower and vegetable markets to the shop awnings. We walked through the pedestrian shopping area of the town the next day, buying a few items. We drove the Route Cézanne, which took us through some of the landscapes the artist had painted. The day was sunny and warm, and the red earth and green fields really looked like their Cézanne-rendered counterparts.
Finally, on Easter Sunday, we drove back to Marseille and spent an hour walking around the picturesque harbor, looking at the fishmongers there, hearing the church bells. “The logistics of traveling with the kids really worked on this trip,” I told Mike.
“It’s the dinner time,” he said. “When you can eat at 8 p.m. instead of 10 p.m., everything goes smoothly.”
“It was the menus, too,” I said. “They could get pizza or pasta almost anywhere we went. You can’t do that in Spain.”
Friday, May 8, 2009
Old Hands, part 14
Soon it was time again for Semana Santa (Holy Week), the big spring vacation. We had decided to go to Provence, and to run across the border into Italy for a few days, too. “I want to take the kids someplace really impactful, someplace they’ll remember,” I said.
“What about Venice?” Mike suggested. It was a great idea, but it looked a little too far away from where we’d be concentrating our time.
“Pisa?” he said. That looked a little more feasible, according to the map, and the tower should be a memorable sight, I thought. So we added it to the plan.
We flew from Madrid to Marseille on a Saturday at the end of March. It was windy when we got off the plane—“Le Mistral,” said some elderly Frenchmen returning from Spain, referring to the famed wind of the area.
We picked up our rental car, a gray Toyota Carina diesel hatchback, and drove about two hours through the sunny, hilly scenery on the way to Grasse, just north of Cannes. It was in a flower-growing and perfume-manufacturing area, so we stopped in to see the Fragonard factory. It was just a tourist thing—it made only enough perfume to sell to the visitors that went there—but there were interesting displays of the manufacturing process, and the kids liked it.
We had lunch at the McDonald’s around the corner, to make the girls happy, and I got a salad with a little packet of Dijon vinaigrette. After one taste of my salad I said to Mike, “This is as good as any Dijon dressing I’ve ever had, and we’re in McDonald’s! How come we can’t get this at home?”
From Grasse we drove down to Cannes and followed the coastal road to Nice, past dozens of hotels and apartment buildings. Not that pretty, I thought, though the Mediterranean looked beautiful. I was coming to the conclusion that coastal towns in general were ugly to me, with their masses of condos oriented to the beach. I found the inland towns prettier, and usually less crowded.
Our hotel in Nice was truly a dump. I generally went for the cheap on these trips, but it was a strategy that was failing. We had two ugly rooms with marginally clean bathrooms. The room where Mike and I would sleep was right next to the lobby, and its walls did not go all the way up to the ceiling, so we could clearly hear every sound as people came and went near the front desk.
Eager to be out of the rooms, we went out right away for a walk to Place Massena, the central square, and looked at the Palais de Justice and the pebbly beach. We ate at a restaurant nearby.
The next day we drove to Nice’s Musée des Beaux Arts, housed in a small palace, which had a lovely collection of French paintings. Then we hit the highway toward Italy, switching to the coastal road once we crossed the border. We drove through several Ligurian towns along the coast, stopping in San Remo for lunch on the beach. The weather was sunny and cool, and the views of the blue Mediterranean on one side and the steep mountains rising on the other were striking. As we drove on we found that the road was all viaducts and tunnels—no flat land anywhere. We stopped again in Cervo, a medieval hilltop town. It was getting colder and starting to drizzle, but we climbed up to the town’s church, shopped for souvenirs nearby, and got the kids some ice cream.
Then we drove on toward Genoa, which was to be our base for a few days. It was Sunday, and the Genovese were returning from their weekend trips, so the traffic was miserable, but we found our hotel—ugly but more comfortable than the one in Nice—and walked to a nearby restaurant for dinner. It was just a neighborhood trattoria, but the food was marvelous. Julie and Lisa had the first of several meals of trofiette al pesto—trofiette are short noodles—a Genovese specialty.
The next day we went to Pisa, south of Genoa, in Tuscany. The tower was really amazing, as we had hoped, and the kids were definitely impressed. “It leans way out there!” Lisa said, astonished. We took a short drive to the charming town of Lucca, where the cathedral boasted columns of different designs—striped, checked, spiral. On the way back to Genoa we stopped in the Cinqueterre, five little fishing towns, each nestled on its own stretch of beach between flanking mountains. In one of the towns we parked at the beach and watched a wetsuited surfer negotiate the lackluster waves.
“What about Venice?” Mike suggested. It was a great idea, but it looked a little too far away from where we’d be concentrating our time.
“Pisa?” he said. That looked a little more feasible, according to the map, and the tower should be a memorable sight, I thought. So we added it to the plan.
We flew from Madrid to Marseille on a Saturday at the end of March. It was windy when we got off the plane—“Le Mistral,” said some elderly Frenchmen returning from Spain, referring to the famed wind of the area.
We picked up our rental car, a gray Toyota Carina diesel hatchback, and drove about two hours through the sunny, hilly scenery on the way to Grasse, just north of Cannes. It was in a flower-growing and perfume-manufacturing area, so we stopped in to see the Fragonard factory. It was just a tourist thing—it made only enough perfume to sell to the visitors that went there—but there were interesting displays of the manufacturing process, and the kids liked it.
We had lunch at the McDonald’s around the corner, to make the girls happy, and I got a salad with a little packet of Dijon vinaigrette. After one taste of my salad I said to Mike, “This is as good as any Dijon dressing I’ve ever had, and we’re in McDonald’s! How come we can’t get this at home?”
From Grasse we drove down to Cannes and followed the coastal road to Nice, past dozens of hotels and apartment buildings. Not that pretty, I thought, though the Mediterranean looked beautiful. I was coming to the conclusion that coastal towns in general were ugly to me, with their masses of condos oriented to the beach. I found the inland towns prettier, and usually less crowded.
Our hotel in Nice was truly a dump. I generally went for the cheap on these trips, but it was a strategy that was failing. We had two ugly rooms with marginally clean bathrooms. The room where Mike and I would sleep was right next to the lobby, and its walls did not go all the way up to the ceiling, so we could clearly hear every sound as people came and went near the front desk.
Eager to be out of the rooms, we went out right away for a walk to Place Massena, the central square, and looked at the Palais de Justice and the pebbly beach. We ate at a restaurant nearby.
The next day we drove to Nice’s Musée des Beaux Arts, housed in a small palace, which had a lovely collection of French paintings. Then we hit the highway toward Italy, switching to the coastal road once we crossed the border. We drove through several Ligurian towns along the coast, stopping in San Remo for lunch on the beach. The weather was sunny and cool, and the views of the blue Mediterranean on one side and the steep mountains rising on the other were striking. As we drove on we found that the road was all viaducts and tunnels—no flat land anywhere. We stopped again in Cervo, a medieval hilltop town. It was getting colder and starting to drizzle, but we climbed up to the town’s church, shopped for souvenirs nearby, and got the kids some ice cream.
Then we drove on toward Genoa, which was to be our base for a few days. It was Sunday, and the Genovese were returning from their weekend trips, so the traffic was miserable, but we found our hotel—ugly but more comfortable than the one in Nice—and walked to a nearby restaurant for dinner. It was just a neighborhood trattoria, but the food was marvelous. Julie and Lisa had the first of several meals of trofiette al pesto—trofiette are short noodles—a Genovese specialty.
The next day we went to Pisa, south of Genoa, in Tuscany. The tower was really amazing, as we had hoped, and the kids were definitely impressed. “It leans way out there!” Lisa said, astonished. We took a short drive to the charming town of Lucca, where the cathedral boasted columns of different designs—striped, checked, spiral. On the way back to Genoa we stopped in the Cinqueterre, five little fishing towns, each nestled on its own stretch of beach between flanking mountains. In one of the towns we parked at the beach and watched a wetsuited surfer negotiate the lackluster waves.
Old Hands, part 13
During the spring my riding teacher, Elena, moved to a much nicer stable, and most of her students followed her. This place was big and clean, with many privately owned horses and plenty of school horses. There was a nice office, a tidy bar, and reasonably pleasant grooms to help you get your horse ready.
My three-woman class started a rotation schedule. One week we’d do dressage in the ring, the next week we’d do a little jumping, and the third week we’d go out for a trail ride. I was enjoying the variety until the day when my horse shied at an insect and threw me. I landed hard on my right shoulder.
I was pretty shaken and decided to go home, but I found that my shoulder wasn’t working too well—I couldn’t move the gearshift of the Alfa. I was suddenly stricken with fear. Mike was away, some friends were due to arrive from the States the next day, and I couldn’t drive.
I worked out a way to shift gears two-handed—not too safe, but effective enough to get me home. I went into the house, took a shower, and called my friend Clarice to say I wouldn’t be coming over for lunch as planned.
“You know, you should really come here now,” she said. “My friend Lili is here, and she can work on you.” Lili was an Italian friend of Clarice’s, a healer—so Clarice said—who had special talents to help injured people. “Amy Levine was coming over to have her shoulder worked on, but she canceled.” Amy had been in physical therapy for a shoulder problem, and her recovery had been slow, so she overcame her natural skepticism and was ready to try Lili.
By now I was in a lot of pain and similarly ready to try anything that might help, so I used my two-handed shifting method to drive over to Clarice’s. Lili was a pleasant-looking, friendly woman around my age who took me back into Clarice’s spare room and started to ask me questions. We struggled with our languages—she spoke Italian and Portuguese, and I had Spanish, English, and a little French—but somehow we were able to communicate. We did some deep breathing, and she put her hands on me very gently for a while, and then I was sent home.
I was anticipating a miserable night with my swollen arm, and I expected that it would be even worse in the morning, but it was much better. I called Clarice. “I’ve got to see her again!” I said. “My friends are arriving this afternoon. I have to be able to drive them around!” She told me to come ahead, and I had another treatment, and that was it. I was fine!
“Lili is really something,” I told Clarice later.
“Yeah, she’s amazing,” Clarice said. “She was just a regular physical therapist, but she was always getting better results than anyone else. So she started studying with different healers. She’s very gifted.”
A few weeks later Lili was along when both we and the Scarritts were over at the Liepmanns’. The men were playing tennis, and Mike wrenched his knee badly. “You should let Lili help you,” Clarice told him. He rolled his eyes, but we badgered him till he let her try.
“How do you feel?” Clarice asked after he’d been treated. “I don’t know,” he said. “Fine.” He looked unconvinced, but he stayed fine.
My three-woman class started a rotation schedule. One week we’d do dressage in the ring, the next week we’d do a little jumping, and the third week we’d go out for a trail ride. I was enjoying the variety until the day when my horse shied at an insect and threw me. I landed hard on my right shoulder.
I was pretty shaken and decided to go home, but I found that my shoulder wasn’t working too well—I couldn’t move the gearshift of the Alfa. I was suddenly stricken with fear. Mike was away, some friends were due to arrive from the States the next day, and I couldn’t drive.
I worked out a way to shift gears two-handed—not too safe, but effective enough to get me home. I went into the house, took a shower, and called my friend Clarice to say I wouldn’t be coming over for lunch as planned.
“You know, you should really come here now,” she said. “My friend Lili is here, and she can work on you.” Lili was an Italian friend of Clarice’s, a healer—so Clarice said—who had special talents to help injured people. “Amy Levine was coming over to have her shoulder worked on, but she canceled.” Amy had been in physical therapy for a shoulder problem, and her recovery had been slow, so she overcame her natural skepticism and was ready to try Lili.
By now I was in a lot of pain and similarly ready to try anything that might help, so I used my two-handed shifting method to drive over to Clarice’s. Lili was a pleasant-looking, friendly woman around my age who took me back into Clarice’s spare room and started to ask me questions. We struggled with our languages—she spoke Italian and Portuguese, and I had Spanish, English, and a little French—but somehow we were able to communicate. We did some deep breathing, and she put her hands on me very gently for a while, and then I was sent home.
I was anticipating a miserable night with my swollen arm, and I expected that it would be even worse in the morning, but it was much better. I called Clarice. “I’ve got to see her again!” I said. “My friends are arriving this afternoon. I have to be able to drive them around!” She told me to come ahead, and I had another treatment, and that was it. I was fine!
“Lili is really something,” I told Clarice later.
“Yeah, she’s amazing,” Clarice said. “She was just a regular physical therapist, but she was always getting better results than anyone else. So she started studying with different healers. She’s very gifted.”
A few weeks later Lili was along when both we and the Scarritts were over at the Liepmanns’. The men were playing tennis, and Mike wrenched his knee badly. “You should let Lili help you,” Clarice told him. He rolled his eyes, but we badgered him till he let her try.
“How do you feel?” Clarice asked after he’d been treated. “I don’t know,” he said. “Fine.” He looked unconvinced, but he stayed fine.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Old Hands, part 12
There was so much talk about the wild nightlife of Madrid that we felt left out. Even a dinner-and-movie night often lasted till 2 a.m., since dinner was at 10 and the movie would be at midnight. But that was still too early for nightclubbing. Clearly we were too old to sample this aspect of Madrid.
“Nonsense!” said Huibrecht as we discussed this one day. “We have to do it. We can do it together. We’ll all keep each other awake.”
“How are we going to do it?” I asked. It was still a mystery to me how anyone stayed up that late.
“We should take a nap,” Amy Levine said. “Take a nap around 8. Go to dinner on the late side, maybe 11. Go someplace for drinks afterward. And maybe after that it will be late enough to try a nightclub.”
“We can go to the rodizio place,” Clarice suggested. We’d been talking about going to Plataforma, a Brazilian barbecue place. “You can spend a lot of time there, and it’s fun and lively. It will keep us awake!” Huibrecht, who had lived in Brazil, was in favor of that.
Plataforma was busy and pulsing with music and energy. The Gronningsaters, Krugers and Scarritts were with us. With white walls, colored lights and huge windows, it looked nothing like a barbecue joint, but rodizio was not an ordinary barbecue. Waiters came by with huge skewers of meat and cut off portions for each diner. Every kind of meat came by—beef, sausage, lamb, pork, chicken—and it kept coming and coming. There was salad, too, and beans and rice. We ate until we were stuffed. And to wash it all down we had caipirinhas—the Brazilian drink made of fermented sugar cane juice, lime juice and sugar. A lethal combination, especially in people our age: “Will it make us crazy or just put us to sleep?” Eric asked.
By the time we left Plataforma it was late enough that we saw the streets being washed. We staggered on to somebody’s idea of a nightclub—maybe it was a young Price Waterhouse colleague who had suggested it. This place had several rooms with different décors—one futuristic with blue light, one beige and heavily ornamented, and so on—in which younger people would probably be dancing at some future hour, but we were pretty much alone in there.
Undaunted, Amy goaded us to dance. “We’re here, we paid the cover charge, we may as well enjoy ourselves!” she insisted. So the eight of us did our fortysomething dances for an hour or so before giving up, laughing, and heading home.
“Nonsense!” said Huibrecht as we discussed this one day. “We have to do it. We can do it together. We’ll all keep each other awake.”
“How are we going to do it?” I asked. It was still a mystery to me how anyone stayed up that late.
“We should take a nap,” Amy Levine said. “Take a nap around 8. Go to dinner on the late side, maybe 11. Go someplace for drinks afterward. And maybe after that it will be late enough to try a nightclub.”
“We can go to the rodizio place,” Clarice suggested. We’d been talking about going to Plataforma, a Brazilian barbecue place. “You can spend a lot of time there, and it’s fun and lively. It will keep us awake!” Huibrecht, who had lived in Brazil, was in favor of that.
Plataforma was busy and pulsing with music and energy. The Gronningsaters, Krugers and Scarritts were with us. With white walls, colored lights and huge windows, it looked nothing like a barbecue joint, but rodizio was not an ordinary barbecue. Waiters came by with huge skewers of meat and cut off portions for each diner. Every kind of meat came by—beef, sausage, lamb, pork, chicken—and it kept coming and coming. There was salad, too, and beans and rice. We ate until we were stuffed. And to wash it all down we had caipirinhas—the Brazilian drink made of fermented sugar cane juice, lime juice and sugar. A lethal combination, especially in people our age: “Will it make us crazy or just put us to sleep?” Eric asked.
By the time we left Plataforma it was late enough that we saw the streets being washed. We staggered on to somebody’s idea of a nightclub—maybe it was a young Price Waterhouse colleague who had suggested it. This place had several rooms with different décors—one futuristic with blue light, one beige and heavily ornamented, and so on—in which younger people would probably be dancing at some future hour, but we were pretty much alone in there.
Undaunted, Amy goaded us to dance. “We’re here, we paid the cover charge, we may as well enjoy ourselves!” she insisted. So the eight of us did our fortysomething dances for an hour or so before giving up, laughing, and heading home.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Old Hands, part 11
As we moved into spring there were more wonderful trips for us, both inside Spain and out. Late in February Mike and I took the kids back to Sevilla, which we had seen just for half a day two years earlier, when we were deciding whether to move to Spain. This time we drove down, stopping at Carmona to see a Roman amphitheater, and at Itálica, a large, well-preserved site that had been a retirement community for Roman soldiers. Itálica had several large and beautiful floor mosaics in place, and we saw more of those the next day when we went to Sevilla’s archaeological museum.
We visited the Alcázar in Sevilla, the palace where King Juan Carlos stayed whenever he visited the city. It was built after the Moors had been expelled from Spain, but the style was entirely Moorish, with dripping plaster ornamentation and colorful tiles. The gardens were beautiful, and the kids had fun running through the outdoor maze and watching fish in the many ponds.
In Sevilla’s central park, Parque María Luisa, we went to the Pabellón Mudejar, which housed re-creations of a blacksmith’s shop, a potter’s workshop, and similar evocations of the past. We took a long walk from there to the Plaza de España, where we sat near a huge fountain, enjoying the sun for a while. We took a taxi back to the cathedral area and had a pizza lunch, then walked through a sun-splashed neighborhood of white houses with yellow trim and wrought-iron balconies. We climbed the Giralda, the famous Moorish bell tower of Sevilla’s cathedral—36 ramps to the top—rewarded by a lovely view of the town and the Patio de los Naranjos, the church’s courtyard, filled with orange trees.
We went to the island of La Cartuja, where Expo 92 had taken place. Many of the exposition buildings were still there, and we went to see two films at the Imax theater there. The kids enjoyed them even thought they didn’t understand much of the Spanish voice-overs.
For dinner we chose a Moroccan restaurant. The girls looked doubtfully at the menu. “I don’t think there’s anything I want to eat here,” Julie complained.
“Let’s just order a bunch of different things. If you taste something you like, it’s yours,” I said. And we were surprisingly successful with that strategy. Julie ate some bean soup and a lemon chicken dish, Lisa liked the lamb couscous, and I had a lamb kebab. Mike ate assorted Moroccan salads and a pigeon pie.
The next day we drove northwest almost to the Portuguese border and visited a large cave, the Gruta de las Maravillas. There were six lakes to see in the cave, and many stalagmites and stalactites. The temperature was warmer in the cave than outside, and it was very humid. The girls loved exploring the place.
On the way back to Madrid I drove through a speed trap at 140 kilometers per hour (about 84 mph). The speed limit was 120 km/hr (72 mph). A policeman pulled me over, and I was terrified, thinking of my nonexistent residence card.
“Dieciseis mil pesetas,” the cop told me—about $120. We had about a third of that with us, we explained to the cop. He understood, and he took my driver’s license and directed us back to the small town we’d just passed, where we visited the cash machine. I drove back, gave the cop the money, and got my license back.
“I guess he didn’t care about our immigration status,” I said to Mike.
“No, he just wanted the money,” Mike said.
“You know, that could just as easily have been you as me,” I said. “You drive even faster than I do.”
“I know,” Mike said. “You just got lucky.”
We visited the Alcázar in Sevilla, the palace where King Juan Carlos stayed whenever he visited the city. It was built after the Moors had been expelled from Spain, but the style was entirely Moorish, with dripping plaster ornamentation and colorful tiles. The gardens were beautiful, and the kids had fun running through the outdoor maze and watching fish in the many ponds.
In Sevilla’s central park, Parque María Luisa, we went to the Pabellón Mudejar, which housed re-creations of a blacksmith’s shop, a potter’s workshop, and similar evocations of the past. We took a long walk from there to the Plaza de España, where we sat near a huge fountain, enjoying the sun for a while. We took a taxi back to the cathedral area and had a pizza lunch, then walked through a sun-splashed neighborhood of white houses with yellow trim and wrought-iron balconies. We climbed the Giralda, the famous Moorish bell tower of Sevilla’s cathedral—36 ramps to the top—rewarded by a lovely view of the town and the Patio de los Naranjos, the church’s courtyard, filled with orange trees.
We went to the island of La Cartuja, where Expo 92 had taken place. Many of the exposition buildings were still there, and we went to see two films at the Imax theater there. The kids enjoyed them even thought they didn’t understand much of the Spanish voice-overs.
For dinner we chose a Moroccan restaurant. The girls looked doubtfully at the menu. “I don’t think there’s anything I want to eat here,” Julie complained.
“Let’s just order a bunch of different things. If you taste something you like, it’s yours,” I said. And we were surprisingly successful with that strategy. Julie ate some bean soup and a lemon chicken dish, Lisa liked the lamb couscous, and I had a lamb kebab. Mike ate assorted Moroccan salads and a pigeon pie.
The next day we drove northwest almost to the Portuguese border and visited a large cave, the Gruta de las Maravillas. There were six lakes to see in the cave, and many stalagmites and stalactites. The temperature was warmer in the cave than outside, and it was very humid. The girls loved exploring the place.
On the way back to Madrid I drove through a speed trap at 140 kilometers per hour (about 84 mph). The speed limit was 120 km/hr (72 mph). A policeman pulled me over, and I was terrified, thinking of my nonexistent residence card.
“Dieciseis mil pesetas,” the cop told me—about $120. We had about a third of that with us, we explained to the cop. He understood, and he took my driver’s license and directed us back to the small town we’d just passed, where we visited the cash machine. I drove back, gave the cop the money, and got my license back.
“I guess he didn’t care about our immigration status,” I said to Mike.
“No, he just wanted the money,” Mike said.
“You know, that could just as easily have been you as me,” I said. “You drive even faster than I do.”
“I know,” Mike said. “You just got lucky.”
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Old Hands, part 10
The day I returned to Madrid was a holiday, and we had planned to go to Burgos with the Gronningsaters. I had told Mike by phone from Chicago that I still wanted to do that. “Are you sure?” he asked. “It would be no problem to cancel.”
“No, I really want to go,” I said. “It will keep my mind off my troubles.” So he and the kids picked me up at the airport, and we headed north right away. I was tired, of course, and I slept in the car for an hour or so.
The Gronningsaters went in their own car, with their daughters Sarah and Anna and a visitor, Matty Shepard, who had been Julie’s and Anna’s schoolmate in fifth grade and had returned to the U.S. the previous summer. When we met them in the cathedral town, Julie was delighted to see her old friend.
“I’m so sorry about your dad,” Amy said. “Are you sure you’re okay for this?”
“I am, thanks,” I said. “I really wanted to come, and I think this will be good for me.”
Our first stop was the cathedral, but there wasn’t too much for us to see there, as it was being restored. En obras, the sign said—under construction. That sign was familiar to us from many, many tourist sites in the country—everything needed work, and we could at least be happy that the work was being done. But for the Burgos cathedral at that moment En obras meant that the exterior was covered with scaffolds and most of the interior was covered with netting.
It was damp and cold outside, but we decided to walk across the old town anyway, to see the Monasterio de Las Huelgas Reales. This convent had been founded around 1200, and according to the guidebook it had been renovated in 1988, but there were cement mixers and piles of construction materials all around it anyway.
My Fodor’s guide had hardly ever let me down, but its description of the convent turned out to be an understatement. “The convent was conceived in the Romanesque style and housed a royal mausoleum; the tombs of its founders are still there,” it read. This in no way prepared me for what we actually found there—an ancient and beautiful collection of tombs of medieval Spanish monarchs. I thought about the much more famous mausoleum at El Escorial, housing the remains of Spanish kings and queens of the last four centuries, shiny with marble and gold—what a contrast with this more modest, yet more moving place. Each tomb was individual, some with sculptured marble decorations, and the dates on them shook me—the 12th century, the 11th century, and older.
“All but one of the royal coffins kept at Las Huelgas were desecrated by Napoleon’s soldiers,” the guidebook continued, “but this last contained clothes that form the basis of the medieval textile museum housed in part of the convent complex.” And the textile museum was equally stunning, with beautifully lit robes and ecclesiastical garments displayed in climate-controlled cases. The experience of seeing those tombs and those textiles brought me immediately back through the centuries. In Burgos I experienced the medieval period more dramatically than I ever had.
“No, I really want to go,” I said. “It will keep my mind off my troubles.” So he and the kids picked me up at the airport, and we headed north right away. I was tired, of course, and I slept in the car for an hour or so.
The Gronningsaters went in their own car, with their daughters Sarah and Anna and a visitor, Matty Shepard, who had been Julie’s and Anna’s schoolmate in fifth grade and had returned to the U.S. the previous summer. When we met them in the cathedral town, Julie was delighted to see her old friend.
“I’m so sorry about your dad,” Amy said. “Are you sure you’re okay for this?”
“I am, thanks,” I said. “I really wanted to come, and I think this will be good for me.”
Our first stop was the cathedral, but there wasn’t too much for us to see there, as it was being restored. En obras, the sign said—under construction. That sign was familiar to us from many, many tourist sites in the country—everything needed work, and we could at least be happy that the work was being done. But for the Burgos cathedral at that moment En obras meant that the exterior was covered with scaffolds and most of the interior was covered with netting.
It was damp and cold outside, but we decided to walk across the old town anyway, to see the Monasterio de Las Huelgas Reales. This convent had been founded around 1200, and according to the guidebook it had been renovated in 1988, but there were cement mixers and piles of construction materials all around it anyway.
My Fodor’s guide had hardly ever let me down, but its description of the convent turned out to be an understatement. “The convent was conceived in the Romanesque style and housed a royal mausoleum; the tombs of its founders are still there,” it read. This in no way prepared me for what we actually found there—an ancient and beautiful collection of tombs of medieval Spanish monarchs. I thought about the much more famous mausoleum at El Escorial, housing the remains of Spanish kings and queens of the last four centuries, shiny with marble and gold—what a contrast with this more modest, yet more moving place. Each tomb was individual, some with sculptured marble decorations, and the dates on them shook me—the 12th century, the 11th century, and older.
“All but one of the royal coffins kept at Las Huelgas were desecrated by Napoleon’s soldiers,” the guidebook continued, “but this last contained clothes that form the basis of the medieval textile museum housed in part of the convent complex.” And the textile museum was equally stunning, with beautifully lit robes and ecclesiastical garments displayed in climate-controlled cases. The experience of seeing those tombs and those textiles brought me immediately back through the centuries. In Burgos I experienced the medieval period more dramatically than I ever had.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Old Hands, part 9
Again we flew to the states to visit family and friends, but we were worried about my dad and how he would be. Chicago was our first stop, and the days spent there were surprisingly upbeat. Dad was often tired and clearly not feeling very well, but we passed a lot of time just sitting and visiting in the living room. He was a little cranky—he spoke sharply to Lisa for sticking out her tongue—and he seemed concerned that we not cause more trouble for Mom than his illness was already causing. “He’s actually doing much better than I expected,” I told Mike back in our hotel room, relieved.
We went on to New Jersey to see Mike’s folks for a couple days, and then we spent a few days in Stamford. There was a lot of running around there, getting Julie and Lisa together with their school friends while Mike and I tried to see as many of our friends as we could fit in. The culmination was the traditional New Year’s Eve party at the home of Judy Harris and Mark Kaufman, with several families in attendance. The adults chatted and relaxed upstairs, and we made our yearly predictions—where would the Dow be next year, who would win the World Series—and read the ones we had made the year before. The kids were in the basement preparing their annual show for us—dancing, singing, flicking the lights on and off, and whatever else they could think of to amuse us.
We were back in Madrid by January 6, the end of the holiday and a time for parades. It was amazing to stand on the sidewalk of Pozuelo Estación and watch the nighttime procession of lighted floats illuminate the drab little village. The kids scrambled for candy thrown from the floats sponsored by El Corte Inglés and other local merchants.
Once I was back in Spain I started to think about how I could help Mom, when I should return for another visit to Chicago. I called my dad’s oncologist for some advice. “I wish I could tell you how long this will last,” he said sympathetically, “but there’s no way to do that. It could be weeks, it could be months.” Somehow I decided in my own mind that Dad was going to last about four more months, so I would plan to go back in about two months and again two months later, when he died.
So it was a shock when I was wakened in the middle of the night a week later by my mother’s call, but I knew what she would say before she said it. My dad died on January 13. Mom and Sally had been there, but not in the room; a hospice nurse had been there the last few days, and she was the one with him when he died.
Putting my sorrow aside, I called TWA immediately and made my reservations to fly home in the morning. My sister Sally had a terrible cold and would go back to Indiana at once. I would help Mom with whatever arrangements had to be made. Mike would call my friends to let them know what had happened.
In Chicago, Mom was of course shaken and sad, but very determined about how things were going to go. No funeral, no memorial—Dad wouldn’t have wanted it, and she didn’t want it. My grandmother had to lean on her to allow even one night for friends to come and give their condolences. Mom showed me the obituary in the Chicago Tribune, which detailed his years in the newspaper business and the community service he had done. She had already made arrangements to have the body cremated, and we worked together on getting copies of the death certificate and having cards made up to thank people for their sympathy. We ordered cookies for the evening when people would come over. We found out that Sally had promptly been diagnosed with pneumonia and was out of commission for a while.
Mom and I went through all these motions quietly and efficiently, with feelings mostly under wraps, because that was the way we usually did things. I steeled myself for the trip to the funeral home to pick up Dad’s ashes; the box was shockingly heavy, and I had to still my mind in order to be able to pick it up, knowing what was inside.
I followed my mother’s lead and tried to be helpful whenever I could. She was focused on tying up financial loose ends, which was a big and detailed job. I stayed about a week and then went back, grateful that my sister and my aunt Jill would still be there to help.
We went on to New Jersey to see Mike’s folks for a couple days, and then we spent a few days in Stamford. There was a lot of running around there, getting Julie and Lisa together with their school friends while Mike and I tried to see as many of our friends as we could fit in. The culmination was the traditional New Year’s Eve party at the home of Judy Harris and Mark Kaufman, with several families in attendance. The adults chatted and relaxed upstairs, and we made our yearly predictions—where would the Dow be next year, who would win the World Series—and read the ones we had made the year before. The kids were in the basement preparing their annual show for us—dancing, singing, flicking the lights on and off, and whatever else they could think of to amuse us.
We were back in Madrid by January 6, the end of the holiday and a time for parades. It was amazing to stand on the sidewalk of Pozuelo Estación and watch the nighttime procession of lighted floats illuminate the drab little village. The kids scrambled for candy thrown from the floats sponsored by El Corte Inglés and other local merchants.
Once I was back in Spain I started to think about how I could help Mom, when I should return for another visit to Chicago. I called my dad’s oncologist for some advice. “I wish I could tell you how long this will last,” he said sympathetically, “but there’s no way to do that. It could be weeks, it could be months.” Somehow I decided in my own mind that Dad was going to last about four more months, so I would plan to go back in about two months and again two months later, when he died.
So it was a shock when I was wakened in the middle of the night a week later by my mother’s call, but I knew what she would say before she said it. My dad died on January 13. Mom and Sally had been there, but not in the room; a hospice nurse had been there the last few days, and she was the one with him when he died.
Putting my sorrow aside, I called TWA immediately and made my reservations to fly home in the morning. My sister Sally had a terrible cold and would go back to Indiana at once. I would help Mom with whatever arrangements had to be made. Mike would call my friends to let them know what had happened.
In Chicago, Mom was of course shaken and sad, but very determined about how things were going to go. No funeral, no memorial—Dad wouldn’t have wanted it, and she didn’t want it. My grandmother had to lean on her to allow even one night for friends to come and give their condolences. Mom showed me the obituary in the Chicago Tribune, which detailed his years in the newspaper business and the community service he had done. She had already made arrangements to have the body cremated, and we worked together on getting copies of the death certificate and having cards made up to thank people for their sympathy. We ordered cookies for the evening when people would come over. We found out that Sally had promptly been diagnosed with pneumonia and was out of commission for a while.
Mom and I went through all these motions quietly and efficiently, with feelings mostly under wraps, because that was the way we usually did things. I steeled myself for the trip to the funeral home to pick up Dad’s ashes; the box was shockingly heavy, and I had to still my mind in order to be able to pick it up, knowing what was inside.
I followed my mother’s lead and tried to be helpful whenever I could. She was focused on tying up financial loose ends, which was a big and detailed job. I stayed about a week and then went back, grateful that my sister and my aunt Jill would still be there to help.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Old Hands, part 8
The Madrid part of our Christmas holiday was much like the year before, with the kids buying little gifts at the American School’s Holiday House sale and Lisa again having “Breakfast with Santa” at school on a Saturday.
By the time the ASM students reached sixth grade, they planned their own holiday parties, so it was no big deal for me to be a room mother, as I was for Julie’s class. All I had to do was coordinate the food donations with the other mothers—to decide who would send in candy, chips, and so on. The kids would plan and carry out their own activities, and the room mother was free to attend the party or stay home.
I decided to go in for the Christmas party in Julie’s sixth grade classroom, just to see if I could be helpful. But Sibley Labandeira, the teacher, told me when I arrived that the kids just wanted to chat, so she had let them move their desks around. All the girls were on one side of the room, and all the boys were on the other.
“Do you have any younger children?” Ms. Labandeira asked me over the din of the kids’ voices.
“Yes, a third grader,” I said.
“Boy or girl?” she asked.
“A girl,” I said.
“Well, then you might enjoy pulling a chair up on the boys’ side of the room and listening to what they talk about,” she advised. “I promise you’ll hear things you’ve never heard before.”
“Okay,” I said doubtfully, and I did as she had suggested. I started to eavesdrop in the middle of a conversation. Michael Kapsch, my neighbor, was speaking. “I don’t know which I should be when I grow up—a bullfighter or an international terrorist.”
Mrs. Labandeira had been right.
By the time the ASM students reached sixth grade, they planned their own holiday parties, so it was no big deal for me to be a room mother, as I was for Julie’s class. All I had to do was coordinate the food donations with the other mothers—to decide who would send in candy, chips, and so on. The kids would plan and carry out their own activities, and the room mother was free to attend the party or stay home.
I decided to go in for the Christmas party in Julie’s sixth grade classroom, just to see if I could be helpful. But Sibley Labandeira, the teacher, told me when I arrived that the kids just wanted to chat, so she had let them move their desks around. All the girls were on one side of the room, and all the boys were on the other.
“Do you have any younger children?” Ms. Labandeira asked me over the din of the kids’ voices.
“Yes, a third grader,” I said.
“Boy or girl?” she asked.
“A girl,” I said.
“Well, then you might enjoy pulling a chair up on the boys’ side of the room and listening to what they talk about,” she advised. “I promise you’ll hear things you’ve never heard before.”
“Okay,” I said doubtfully, and I did as she had suggested. I started to eavesdrop in the middle of a conversation. Michael Kapsch, my neighbor, was speaking. “I don’t know which I should be when I grow up—a bullfighter or an international terrorist.”
Mrs. Labandeira had been right.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Old Hands, part 7
At major attractions like the Saadian Tombs our street guide would leave us and we would be taken up by a separate (usually unofficial) guide inside the place, so everyone would get a little money from us. On our way out our street guide would find us again. We went to El Badi, a ruined palace stripped of its mosaics and marbles, and the Mellah, the very poor-looking Jewish quarter. There were supposedly still 3,000 Jews in Marrakesh, and with persistence and some cash our guide got us into the synagogue. It was decorated like something out of the 1950’s, with seating for about 200 people, and it was clearly still in regular use. Then we went to the jewelry and spice souks of the Mellah and bought some peppercorns.
We had our guide take us to El Bahia palace, built in the 1800s in imitation of traditional Moorish style by a wealthy government minister. We had a superb guide there who explained much about Moorish art and architecture and about Islam.
“The four elements of Moorish architecture are air, light, water, and symmetry,” he said. He showed us that many false doors had been placed in the palace to create symmetry, but the symmetry was rarely perfect—“because only God is perfect,” he said. The elaborate decoration included painted doors and ceilings, carved wood marquetry, mosaics, and always a fountain or basin to provide the sound of trickling water.
Around the corner we saw Maison Tiskiwin, once the home of a Dutchman who lived in Marrakesh for forty years. The house was now a museum displaying his collection of Moroccan handicrafts—pottery, rugs, belts.
We stopped for a cheap ($5) couscous lunch, watching perplexed as one guy after another came into the place jingling coins, then leaving. It took us a while to figure out that they were selling cigarettes by the cigarette, one dirham (about 12 cents) apiece.
On Friday we hired a private car and driver to take us south into the High Atlas mountains, where the Berbers live. The weather was good and the guide, Mohammed, was pleasant. We drove to Asni and the Ourika Valley, looking at snow-covered Mount Toukbal. There were small Berber villages, hard to spot because their mud huts matched the earth around them. We stopped at a Berber market on the way home—a big mud pit full of merchants. We were the only tourists there at the moment, and our guide did not go through the place with us, so people were hanging on us pretty intensely. When we first arrived there Mike got about twenty feet ahead of me, and I started to feel really scared. “Mike!” I called, but he didn’t hear me. “Mike! Mike!” Finally I yelled “MIKE!” at the top of my lungs, and he turned around and came back for me. But after that everybody in the market seemed to know Mike and suggested to Mike that Mike buy some silver bracelets for Mrs. Mike.
The next day we got up early for a bus tour to Ourzazate, “the gateway to the Sahara.” The bus took us through the High Atlas to the only pass between northern and southern Morocco. The mountain road made hairpin turns and dizzying drops as it rose above the snow line. Once we negotiated the pass and descended the mountains we began to see Arabs. We went to Ait Ben Haddou, a kasbah (fortifed residence) from medieval times. A maze of rooms and alleys made up the place, famous for having been filmed for Lawrence of Arabia and The Jewel of the Nile.
We continued on to Ourzazate, the starting point for journeys into the Sahara. It was dry and brown, but not shifting-sands-type desert. We were told that you have to travel several days into the Sahara to see that. We took a walk through the old part of the city and were amazed to see some women making flat, round loaves of bread in a primitive-looking bakery, and a Tuareg woman with green tattoos on her face.
It was a long, dark ride on those mountain roads to get back to Marrakesh, but on our descent we could see a million stars in the black sky. It felt as if we were very far from ordinary life.
On our last day we wanted to see some of the sights we’d missed in the northern Medina, so we got a guide and went to Dar Si Said Museum, with more good Moroccan handicrafts, and the Ben Youssef Medersa. The latter was an important stop, because it had once been a student residence adjacent to a mosque. Non-Muslims cannot enter a mosque, but the Medersa had architecture and decoration similar to what would be found in a mosque. There were mosaics and plaster carvings and marble columns that were quite beautiful. Upstairs was a warren of small rooms that had housed the Koran students.
Then we asked our guide to take us to one of the town’s tanneries, because the guidebook said they were both colorful and amazingly primitive. We saw some people at work in the open-air shop, taking skins out of vats and scraping hair off hides. It was dirty and smelly, but also striking, with many vats full of brightly colored dyes. We walked through some more souks, looking at ironwork and woodwork, then went back to Djemaa el Fna for lunch. We sat on a terrace overlooking the plaza and watched women selling baskets, water-sellers posing for photos, fortune tellers, medicine men, dentists, Koran chanters, dancers, snake charmers, and monkeys. “I could sit here forever and never get bored,” I told Mike. But eventually we found a taxi and went to see Jardin Majorelle, the garden of Yves St. Laurent’s house. It was like a little botanical garden, and there was another small museum of beautiful Moroccan crafts.
By 10 o’clock that night we were back in the house, saying goodbye to Dolores. “Did you have a good time with her?” I asked the kids.
“She was so much fun!” said Lisa. “And we watched all her Esther Williams movies. They were great!”
We had our guide take us to El Bahia palace, built in the 1800s in imitation of traditional Moorish style by a wealthy government minister. We had a superb guide there who explained much about Moorish art and architecture and about Islam.
“The four elements of Moorish architecture are air, light, water, and symmetry,” he said. He showed us that many false doors had been placed in the palace to create symmetry, but the symmetry was rarely perfect—“because only God is perfect,” he said. The elaborate decoration included painted doors and ceilings, carved wood marquetry, mosaics, and always a fountain or basin to provide the sound of trickling water.
Around the corner we saw Maison Tiskiwin, once the home of a Dutchman who lived in Marrakesh for forty years. The house was now a museum displaying his collection of Moroccan handicrafts—pottery, rugs, belts.
We stopped for a cheap ($5) couscous lunch, watching perplexed as one guy after another came into the place jingling coins, then leaving. It took us a while to figure out that they were selling cigarettes by the cigarette, one dirham (about 12 cents) apiece.
On Friday we hired a private car and driver to take us south into the High Atlas mountains, where the Berbers live. The weather was good and the guide, Mohammed, was pleasant. We drove to Asni and the Ourika Valley, looking at snow-covered Mount Toukbal. There were small Berber villages, hard to spot because their mud huts matched the earth around them. We stopped at a Berber market on the way home—a big mud pit full of merchants. We were the only tourists there at the moment, and our guide did not go through the place with us, so people were hanging on us pretty intensely. When we first arrived there Mike got about twenty feet ahead of me, and I started to feel really scared. “Mike!” I called, but he didn’t hear me. “Mike! Mike!” Finally I yelled “MIKE!” at the top of my lungs, and he turned around and came back for me. But after that everybody in the market seemed to know Mike and suggested to Mike that Mike buy some silver bracelets for Mrs. Mike.
The next day we got up early for a bus tour to Ourzazate, “the gateway to the Sahara.” The bus took us through the High Atlas to the only pass between northern and southern Morocco. The mountain road made hairpin turns and dizzying drops as it rose above the snow line. Once we negotiated the pass and descended the mountains we began to see Arabs. We went to Ait Ben Haddou, a kasbah (fortifed residence) from medieval times. A maze of rooms and alleys made up the place, famous for having been filmed for Lawrence of Arabia and The Jewel of the Nile.
We continued on to Ourzazate, the starting point for journeys into the Sahara. It was dry and brown, but not shifting-sands-type desert. We were told that you have to travel several days into the Sahara to see that. We took a walk through the old part of the city and were amazed to see some women making flat, round loaves of bread in a primitive-looking bakery, and a Tuareg woman with green tattoos on her face.
It was a long, dark ride on those mountain roads to get back to Marrakesh, but on our descent we could see a million stars in the black sky. It felt as if we were very far from ordinary life.
On our last day we wanted to see some of the sights we’d missed in the northern Medina, so we got a guide and went to Dar Si Said Museum, with more good Moroccan handicrafts, and the Ben Youssef Medersa. The latter was an important stop, because it had once been a student residence adjacent to a mosque. Non-Muslims cannot enter a mosque, but the Medersa had architecture and decoration similar to what would be found in a mosque. There were mosaics and plaster carvings and marble columns that were quite beautiful. Upstairs was a warren of small rooms that had housed the Koran students.
Then we asked our guide to take us to one of the town’s tanneries, because the guidebook said they were both colorful and amazingly primitive. We saw some people at work in the open-air shop, taking skins out of vats and scraping hair off hides. It was dirty and smelly, but also striking, with many vats full of brightly colored dyes. We walked through some more souks, looking at ironwork and woodwork, then went back to Djemaa el Fna for lunch. We sat on a terrace overlooking the plaza and watched women selling baskets, water-sellers posing for photos, fortune tellers, medicine men, dentists, Koran chanters, dancers, snake charmers, and monkeys. “I could sit here forever and never get bored,” I told Mike. But eventually we found a taxi and went to see Jardin Majorelle, the garden of Yves St. Laurent’s house. It was like a little botanical garden, and there was another small museum of beautiful Moroccan crafts.
By 10 o’clock that night we were back in the house, saying goodbye to Dolores. “Did you have a good time with her?” I asked the kids.
“She was so much fun!” said Lisa. “And we watched all her Esther Williams movies. They were great!”
Monday, April 27, 2009
Old Hands, part 6
The next big plan for Mike and me was a trip to Marrakesh, Morocco, to celebrate our fifteenth anniversary. To watch the girls we had hired Dolores Sainz de la Peña, the school’s gym teacher—quite a character, with a Brooklyn accent to give the lie to her long Spanish name. “We’ll have a great time,” she assured us. “I’ll show them my collection of Esther Williams videos.”
The Moroccan trip was a standard travel package that was widely available—Morocco is directly south of Spain, not far at all—but we had a hard time deciding which class of hotel to choose. “How much time do we ever spend in the hotel?” Mike asked. “As long as you’ve got a decent room, you’re set. I hate to spend the money for something fancy.”
“Yeah, but this is for our anniversary,” I said. “Everyone says that La Mamounia is really worth the extra expense.” La Mamounia was a famous old hotel from French colonial days, well known for having been a favorite of Winston Churchill. It had been completely remodeled in 1986, and it had the added advantage of being the closest hotel to most of the tourist sites in Marrakesh.
“Okay, okay, let’s do it,” Mike said. We were buying the travel package for another puente weekend—it was a special charter scheduled for the five days that started on a Wednesday with the holiday La Inmaculada and continued with Friday’s Día de la Constitución. Most people took off the Thursday in between, making for an extra-long weekend. The result was that the tourist parts of town, otherwise empty at this season, were occupied by us and about 500 Spaniards.
The hotel was stunning, with a lobby full of marble, mirrors, gorgeous carpets and a huge chandelier. Vases full of roses were everywhere. The staff was unfailingly helpful, and our room was large and comfortable and beautifully furnished. We unpacked and took a quick stroll around the hotel’s famously lush gardens, then headed out to the Medina, the old, walled central city. It was a ten-minute walk to Djemaa el Fna, the central plaza famous for its snake charmers and water sellers.
The atmosphere was as exotic as I could have hoped for. Many people were dressed in djellabas (robes) and caftans and pointed slippers, and not to impress tourists. Donkey and horse carts were everywhere. There were smells—spices wafting out of restaurants, horse dung on the streets, warm bodies close by. People touched us and asked us to look at what they had to sell.
I was full of fear, having read about the Moroccan men who hang on tourists and try to get hired as guides, but I didn’t want to sit in the hotel for five days. We began picking up would-be guides right away. A half-dozen or more waited outside of every hotel, looking to catch whoever emerged. We walked to Djemaa el Fna, feeling really hassled, then tried to walk into the souks, the covered market that radiated from the square. Eventually the most persistent hanger-on—a young guy named Mustafa—got us to hire him as a guide, and it turned out to be a good idea, as he kept other people away from us. Also, we never would have found our way through the souks alone. We walked through a few souks, and I was still feeling nervous, but when we got to the spice souk I started to feel better. Big baskets of colorful spices filled every booth, and I understood what I was looking at. I bought some spices I hadn’t been able to find in Spain—ground coriander, turmeric and ginger—and had fun doing it, bargaining a little over the few pennies I was spending.
Mike asked Mustafa to take us to the rug souk. It was clear that Mustafa had connections with certain merchants who undoubtedly paid him a commission on anything his clients bought. Mustafa took us to a friendly rug merchant who escorted us into his attic shop and showed us all the different kinds of rugs and carpets and explained about their provenance and served us mint tea.
Then came the big sell. I had been a salesperson, but I had never seen anything like this. There was no way to resist this guy, no way to say no.
We stumbled out onto the street, the light of day nearly blinding us. “What happened in there?” I asked Mike. He was holding our purchase, a silk and cotton Berber rug.
“I don’t know,” he said, bewildered. “I didn’t go in there to buy a rug. I don’t think I even bought this one, but somehow it was sold to me!”
“I thought I knew something about sales techniques, but that guy invented them,” I said, amazed.
We didn’t even quit after that incident. Mustafa took us through many more souks—leather, wood, brass, slippers, djellabas. The merchants were doing some business, mostly with local people engaged in their daily shopping. Then we asked Mustafa to take us to a restaurant. He dropped us off at the Grand Hotel Tazi, and we paid him a few dirham (the Moroccan currency), about $5 worth. The restaurant was good, but we found out later that they must pay a great commission, because every other guide we had in the next few days tried to take us there, too. The first bite was like the first bite had been in Paris the year before—“Wow! Spices!” Spanish food, though we loved it, was very plain.
We chatted with a Spaniard at another table and compared notes on guides. “These people are so poor,” he said, “you just make up your mind to give out about $10 a day in tips to guides. They aren’t official guides, but they can lead you to the main attractions. One’s as good as another. It’s not unreasonable, and it makes your day a lot more comfortable.”
So for the next couple of days we didn’t hesitate to hire a guide the minute we left the hotel. We saw the Koutoubia, a minaret and the Saadian Tombs, the 16th-century mausoleum of a sultan and his family. It reminded us of the Alhambra in Granada, the greatest Moorish architecture in Spain.
The Moroccan trip was a standard travel package that was widely available—Morocco is directly south of Spain, not far at all—but we had a hard time deciding which class of hotel to choose. “How much time do we ever spend in the hotel?” Mike asked. “As long as you’ve got a decent room, you’re set. I hate to spend the money for something fancy.”
“Yeah, but this is for our anniversary,” I said. “Everyone says that La Mamounia is really worth the extra expense.” La Mamounia was a famous old hotel from French colonial days, well known for having been a favorite of Winston Churchill. It had been completely remodeled in 1986, and it had the added advantage of being the closest hotel to most of the tourist sites in Marrakesh.
“Okay, okay, let’s do it,” Mike said. We were buying the travel package for another puente weekend—it was a special charter scheduled for the five days that started on a Wednesday with the holiday La Inmaculada and continued with Friday’s Día de la Constitución. Most people took off the Thursday in between, making for an extra-long weekend. The result was that the tourist parts of town, otherwise empty at this season, were occupied by us and about 500 Spaniards.
The hotel was stunning, with a lobby full of marble, mirrors, gorgeous carpets and a huge chandelier. Vases full of roses were everywhere. The staff was unfailingly helpful, and our room was large and comfortable and beautifully furnished. We unpacked and took a quick stroll around the hotel’s famously lush gardens, then headed out to the Medina, the old, walled central city. It was a ten-minute walk to Djemaa el Fna, the central plaza famous for its snake charmers and water sellers.
The atmosphere was as exotic as I could have hoped for. Many people were dressed in djellabas (robes) and caftans and pointed slippers, and not to impress tourists. Donkey and horse carts were everywhere. There were smells—spices wafting out of restaurants, horse dung on the streets, warm bodies close by. People touched us and asked us to look at what they had to sell.
I was full of fear, having read about the Moroccan men who hang on tourists and try to get hired as guides, but I didn’t want to sit in the hotel for five days. We began picking up would-be guides right away. A half-dozen or more waited outside of every hotel, looking to catch whoever emerged. We walked to Djemaa el Fna, feeling really hassled, then tried to walk into the souks, the covered market that radiated from the square. Eventually the most persistent hanger-on—a young guy named Mustafa—got us to hire him as a guide, and it turned out to be a good idea, as he kept other people away from us. Also, we never would have found our way through the souks alone. We walked through a few souks, and I was still feeling nervous, but when we got to the spice souk I started to feel better. Big baskets of colorful spices filled every booth, and I understood what I was looking at. I bought some spices I hadn’t been able to find in Spain—ground coriander, turmeric and ginger—and had fun doing it, bargaining a little over the few pennies I was spending.
Mike asked Mustafa to take us to the rug souk. It was clear that Mustafa had connections with certain merchants who undoubtedly paid him a commission on anything his clients bought. Mustafa took us to a friendly rug merchant who escorted us into his attic shop and showed us all the different kinds of rugs and carpets and explained about their provenance and served us mint tea.
Then came the big sell. I had been a salesperson, but I had never seen anything like this. There was no way to resist this guy, no way to say no.
We stumbled out onto the street, the light of day nearly blinding us. “What happened in there?” I asked Mike. He was holding our purchase, a silk and cotton Berber rug.
“I don’t know,” he said, bewildered. “I didn’t go in there to buy a rug. I don’t think I even bought this one, but somehow it was sold to me!”
“I thought I knew something about sales techniques, but that guy invented them,” I said, amazed.
We didn’t even quit after that incident. Mustafa took us through many more souks—leather, wood, brass, slippers, djellabas. The merchants were doing some business, mostly with local people engaged in their daily shopping. Then we asked Mustafa to take us to a restaurant. He dropped us off at the Grand Hotel Tazi, and we paid him a few dirham (the Moroccan currency), about $5 worth. The restaurant was good, but we found out later that they must pay a great commission, because every other guide we had in the next few days tried to take us there, too. The first bite was like the first bite had been in Paris the year before—“Wow! Spices!” Spanish food, though we loved it, was very plain.
We chatted with a Spaniard at another table and compared notes on guides. “These people are so poor,” he said, “you just make up your mind to give out about $10 a day in tips to guides. They aren’t official guides, but they can lead you to the main attractions. One’s as good as another. It’s not unreasonable, and it makes your day a lot more comfortable.”
So for the next couple of days we didn’t hesitate to hire a guide the minute we left the hotel. We saw the Koutoubia, a minaret and the Saadian Tombs, the 16th-century mausoleum of a sultan and his family. It reminded us of the Alhambra in Granada, the greatest Moorish architecture in Spain.
Old Hands, part 5
Though my dad’s initial prognosis after his lung surgery had been good, he didn’t seem to be making a full recovery. He was tired all the time and generally didn’t feel well. It was easy to attribute this to chemotherapy, which made him feel sick and exhausted, but he never really bounced back. After several weeks the doctor found that he was anemic, but it took still longer to determine why.
The reason was that he was bleeding internally. He had another tumor, this one in the colon, so the lung cancer had metastasized after all.
By October it was clear that we were out of hope. “I’m a dead guy,” he told me matter-of-factly one day on the phone. He had always had a no-nonsense attitude about death. I took in his news—I felt shock, but not really surprise—and when I got off the phone I had a good cry. The girls and Mike were there with me, which I appreciated. But the thought of losing my dad—“I’ve had a great life, I have no regrets,” he said—well, it would be a tremendous loss.
Madeline and Sol Field, friends from Stamford, were visiting us that week, and I was horrified when I learned that Madeline had taken it upon herself to call someone she knew back home and have her tell my friends that my dad was dying. I jumped into my car and drove in to my 12-Step meeting that evening in a fury. I talked to some people at the meeting, and by the time I drove home I knew I had to be frank with Madeline.
“I’m very angry that you told Shelly about my father,” I said. “That was my information to give, not yours. And I’m especially unhappy that you told her to tell Amy. Amy is my close friend, and this is something I wanted to tell her myself.”
Madeline apologized and began asking if I was still her friend. I just felt more irritated that she was going in that direction. I had something serious going on in my family, and this was a distraction.
Fortunately, Madeline and Sol moved on to Barcelona, I got to speak to Amy myself, and Mike’s brother Brian and his friend Carrie came to visit next. Brian was a pleasure to have around—the kids adored him—and Carrie, whom we didn’t know well, turned out to be as much fun as he was. On the car ride to Segovia she taught us how to avoid carsickness by sticking just your fingertips out the window, and in Ávila she ran up and down the steps of the city wall with Julie and Lisa. We took them to all the best eating places and taught them to appreciate jamón and tortilla española.
We kept them so busy that they didn’t get a chance to do much shopping. On their last day I agreed to take them into Madrid and show them some of the stores before I went to my Spanish class. We made it through four or five key places in an hour, and they were dizzy. “This is so great!” Brian said. “If we were here without you, we’d still be on that corner over there, turning the map around, trying to figure out where we were!”
The reason was that he was bleeding internally. He had another tumor, this one in the colon, so the lung cancer had metastasized after all.
By October it was clear that we were out of hope. “I’m a dead guy,” he told me matter-of-factly one day on the phone. He had always had a no-nonsense attitude about death. I took in his news—I felt shock, but not really surprise—and when I got off the phone I had a good cry. The girls and Mike were there with me, which I appreciated. But the thought of losing my dad—“I’ve had a great life, I have no regrets,” he said—well, it would be a tremendous loss.
Madeline and Sol Field, friends from Stamford, were visiting us that week, and I was horrified when I learned that Madeline had taken it upon herself to call someone she knew back home and have her tell my friends that my dad was dying. I jumped into my car and drove in to my 12-Step meeting that evening in a fury. I talked to some people at the meeting, and by the time I drove home I knew I had to be frank with Madeline.
“I’m very angry that you told Shelly about my father,” I said. “That was my information to give, not yours. And I’m especially unhappy that you told her to tell Amy. Amy is my close friend, and this is something I wanted to tell her myself.”
Madeline apologized and began asking if I was still her friend. I just felt more irritated that she was going in that direction. I had something serious going on in my family, and this was a distraction.
Fortunately, Madeline and Sol moved on to Barcelona, I got to speak to Amy myself, and Mike’s brother Brian and his friend Carrie came to visit next. Brian was a pleasure to have around—the kids adored him—and Carrie, whom we didn’t know well, turned out to be as much fun as he was. On the car ride to Segovia she taught us how to avoid carsickness by sticking just your fingertips out the window, and in Ávila she ran up and down the steps of the city wall with Julie and Lisa. We took them to all the best eating places and taught them to appreciate jamón and tortilla española.
We kept them so busy that they didn’t get a chance to do much shopping. On their last day I agreed to take them into Madrid and show them some of the stores before I went to my Spanish class. We made it through four or five key places in an hour, and they were dizzy. “This is so great!” Brian said. “If we were here without you, we’d still be on that corner over there, turning the map around, trying to figure out where we were!”
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Old Hands, part 4
The Kruger family, our South African friends, had some new arrivals of a sort. Both Piet and Huibrecht were great patriots of their country and had worked for many years to bring about the end of apartheid. They had been in the foreign service a long time, and they had lived through the period in which South Africa was shunned by much of the world for its racist practices. “The best we could do was to be as gracious as possible wherever we were, and to entertain anyone in the diplomatic community who would have anything to do with us,” Huibrecht said. “But it was an uphill battle.”
They had long known that the positive changes in South Africa meant the end of their diplomatic life. “White people won’t be getting any more foreign postings,” Piet explained. “We can probably stay with the foreign service in Johannesburg, but we won’t be going abroad again. All new postings will go to blacks.” He was sorry to see the end of that part of his life, but he warmly supported the change.
The Krugers’ close friends and embassy colleagues, Karin and Ben, returned to South Africa and were replaced by Mfundisi Mtimunye, a black man who had never been out of the country before. I stood in awe as Huibrecht and Piet spent a great deal of time helping him to get a place to live and set up housekeeping in Madrid. The Krugers were serious about their Christian faith, and I thought this was an example of true Christian love at work. When Mfundisi sent for his wife and daughter, Huibrecht showed the family how to shop, and even how to cook using the unfamiliar appliances—the wife had lived in primitive circumstances. The Krugers got the family’s five-year-old daughter, Refilwe, admitted to the American School, and she became a favorite our sixth graders, Julie and Rosanne. “Oh, Mom, she’s so cute! You wouldn’t believe it,” Julie crooned.
“You know,” I said, “I wouldn’t want you to underestimate how much I enjoy being with you. I feel really lucky to have you as my friend.”
I remembered that we had a one-day school holiday in a week or so. “We’re going to take a day trip on October 12,” I said. “Do you guys want to come with us?”
“John has to work that day, but the girls and I would love to come,” she said. We decided to go to the canyons of the Río Duratón, north of Segovia.
The drive through the mountains and the high plains was beautiful on that cool, sunny day. The canyons were part of a big nature preserve. We drove from the dry, gray plain down to a lovely green gully where a small but clear river flowed. The four Haubenstocks and the three Scarritts hiked along the river, ducking between the slender trunks of countless yellow-leafed trees. Natalie and Julie ran on ahead, out of sight, which made Clarice and me nervous, but we found them again. Large birds soared above us, and the breeze and the quiet made for a perfect day.
For lunch we drove into the town of Sepúlveda, which had a small but lovely Plaza Mayor, and we stopped in the pretty town of Riaza on the way home. It seemed there was hardly a town in Spain that did not have something beautiful to see.
They had long known that the positive changes in South Africa meant the end of their diplomatic life. “White people won’t be getting any more foreign postings,” Piet explained. “We can probably stay with the foreign service in Johannesburg, but we won’t be going abroad again. All new postings will go to blacks.” He was sorry to see the end of that part of his life, but he warmly supported the change.
The Krugers’ close friends and embassy colleagues, Karin and Ben, returned to South Africa and were replaced by Mfundisi Mtimunye, a black man who had never been out of the country before. I stood in awe as Huibrecht and Piet spent a great deal of time helping him to get a place to live and set up housekeeping in Madrid. The Krugers were serious about their Christian faith, and I thought this was an example of true Christian love at work. When Mfundisi sent for his wife and daughter, Huibrecht showed the family how to shop, and even how to cook using the unfamiliar appliances—the wife had lived in primitive circumstances. The Krugers got the family’s five-year-old daughter, Refilwe, admitted to the American School, and she became a favorite our sixth graders, Julie and Rosanne. “Oh, Mom, she’s so cute! You wouldn’t believe it,” Julie crooned.
* * *
There was a school event late in September, Family Day, when the parent association set up carnival booths and some of the student clubs ran fundraising activities. It was a lovely early fall day, and I chatted with Clarice Scarritt, who was running a bake sale. I was feeling so much at home, so happy with my friends and my surroundings.“You know,” I said, “I wouldn’t want you to underestimate how much I enjoy being with you. I feel really lucky to have you as my friend.”
I remembered that we had a one-day school holiday in a week or so. “We’re going to take a day trip on October 12,” I said. “Do you guys want to come with us?”
“John has to work that day, but the girls and I would love to come,” she said. We decided to go to the canyons of the Río Duratón, north of Segovia.
The drive through the mountains and the high plains was beautiful on that cool, sunny day. The canyons were part of a big nature preserve. We drove from the dry, gray plain down to a lovely green gully where a small but clear river flowed. The four Haubenstocks and the three Scarritts hiked along the river, ducking between the slender trunks of countless yellow-leafed trees. Natalie and Julie ran on ahead, out of sight, which made Clarice and me nervous, but we found them again. Large birds soared above us, and the breeze and the quiet made for a perfect day.
For lunch we drove into the town of Sepúlveda, which had a small but lovely Plaza Mayor, and we stopped in the pretty town of Riaza on the way home. It seemed there was hardly a town in Spain that did not have something beautiful to see.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Old Hands, part 3
Another entertainment we saw early in the fall was Circo Internacional, a little traveling circus that came to set up shop in Aravaca for a few days. We had seen the posters around town, and we decided to go on a Sunday afternoon.
This circus was way, way beyond the concept of small-time. They had set up a tent in a plaza, and inside were about 200 bleacher seats and a single ring. The first act was some tigers who—get ready—sat on pedestals! We were less than thrilled.
It took about ten minutes for a half-dozen slow-moving roustabouts to dismantle the tiger cage for the next act, which was—hula hoops! We were surprised to see one of the ushers transformed into a hula hoop artist, but she was actually pretty good, twirling about 35 hula hoops at a time.
Next was a dog act, starring chihuahuas. They jumped over things, they pushed strollers, and then they began to appear in costumes—for instance, bride and groom dogs, a Napoleon dog firing a cannon, a bullfighter dog, and a bull dog with horns tied on his head. By this time we were screaming with laughter.
Then we had the Elastic Woman, a decent contortionist act performed by the other usher. After this came the big finish for the first half of the show: a man and a lady in costume, the man doing a preliminary bit of fire eating, followed by the meat of the act: taking reptiles out of boxes and putting them back in.
There were a bunch of large wooden boxes onstage, and they would open one and lift out, for instance, a very large crocodile, and put it on the ground, and leave it there. Then they would open another box and take out an even larger crocodile, and put it on the ground, and leave it there. There were several huge crocs, some big gators, and some gigantic snakes. After everything came out, everything had to go back in—and there was one big croc that did not want to go back in his box! So the guy hit him on the snout a few times, and kind of shoved him with his foot, and eventually the croc let himself be picked up and put away. Man, I thought, that’s entertainment!
Then we had intermission, during which the tiger guy came back with his two sons and a camel and took Polaroids of kids from the audience sitting on the camel.
For the second act opener the tiger guy and his sons brought out several camels and made them trot around the ring for a while. Then they brought out what looked like African cattle and made them run around the ring, and then they brought out a llama and made it jump over some hurdles.
The final, interminable bit was a clown act featuring the lady from the dog act and some guys who played saxophones. Though the Spaniards loved this, I could find no discernible humor in it, and it seemed to go on forever.
We stumbled out of the dark tent into the sunshine, laughing at what an experience it had been. “And only 900 pesetas!” Mike added. “That’s like seven bucks!”
On the way out of the circus Lisa spotted someone she knew. “Hey,” she said, “I think that’s Laura.”
“Who’s Laura?” I asked.
“She’s a new girl in my class,” Lisa said. “She’s nice.”
Just a couple days later Lisa was invited to Laura’s house, a townhouse not far from us in Pozuelo. I met her mom, Christiane, who was pregnant.
“We’re just coming from Tokyo,” she said. “My husband Ramón is Spanish, but he’s worked most of his life overseas.”
“What kind of work does he do?” I asked.
“He’s a journalist with EFE, the official Spanish news agency,” she said. “We met when he was working in Austria—that’s where I’m from. But we spent the last six years in Japan.”
“How’d you like it?” I asked, feeling comfortable in her warm kitchen.
“Oh, we loved it. You don’t get very integrated into the local population, but the international community was a lot of fun. And myself, I did make some good Japanese friends. I got started taking classes in ikebana—do you know what that is?”
I knew that ikebana was a Japanese form of flower arranging—there was a well-known Japanese florist in Stamford who did it. It turned out that Christiane had become so accomplished at ikebana that one of the major Tokyo hotels had commissioned her to do a weekly arrangement for their lobby.
The Santaularias quickly became part of our group of friends. Ramón, a Catalan, was a most unusual Spaniard from those we knew—he was jovial and outgoing, he spoke numerous languages, and he loved traveling and experiencing other cultures. Most Spaniards, we agreed, turned up their noses at everything not Spanish. One of Mike’s business acquaintances had spoken truthfully about this once. “What do Spanish people really think of Americans?” Mike asked.
“We think they have no sense of history, they dress badly, they’re fat, and they’re loud,” he said.
And I remembered Ana’s sister Maricarmen, who had taken a tour to Thailand. Her verdict upon her return was that the shopping was good, the beaches were nice, but the food wasn’t as good as Spanish food.
Laura Santaularia got along well with Lisa, Gaby Scarritt and Claire Liepmann, and we all began to look forward to the arrival of the new baby in May.
This circus was way, way beyond the concept of small-time. They had set up a tent in a plaza, and inside were about 200 bleacher seats and a single ring. The first act was some tigers who—get ready—sat on pedestals! We were less than thrilled.
It took about ten minutes for a half-dozen slow-moving roustabouts to dismantle the tiger cage for the next act, which was—hula hoops! We were surprised to see one of the ushers transformed into a hula hoop artist, but she was actually pretty good, twirling about 35 hula hoops at a time.
Next was a dog act, starring chihuahuas. They jumped over things, they pushed strollers, and then they began to appear in costumes—for instance, bride and groom dogs, a Napoleon dog firing a cannon, a bullfighter dog, and a bull dog with horns tied on his head. By this time we were screaming with laughter.
Then we had the Elastic Woman, a decent contortionist act performed by the other usher. After this came the big finish for the first half of the show: a man and a lady in costume, the man doing a preliminary bit of fire eating, followed by the meat of the act: taking reptiles out of boxes and putting them back in.
There were a bunch of large wooden boxes onstage, and they would open one and lift out, for instance, a very large crocodile, and put it on the ground, and leave it there. Then they would open another box and take out an even larger crocodile, and put it on the ground, and leave it there. There were several huge crocs, some big gators, and some gigantic snakes. After everything came out, everything had to go back in—and there was one big croc that did not want to go back in his box! So the guy hit him on the snout a few times, and kind of shoved him with his foot, and eventually the croc let himself be picked up and put away. Man, I thought, that’s entertainment!
Then we had intermission, during which the tiger guy came back with his two sons and a camel and took Polaroids of kids from the audience sitting on the camel.
For the second act opener the tiger guy and his sons brought out several camels and made them trot around the ring for a while. Then they brought out what looked like African cattle and made them run around the ring, and then they brought out a llama and made it jump over some hurdles.
The final, interminable bit was a clown act featuring the lady from the dog act and some guys who played saxophones. Though the Spaniards loved this, I could find no discernible humor in it, and it seemed to go on forever.
We stumbled out of the dark tent into the sunshine, laughing at what an experience it had been. “And only 900 pesetas!” Mike added. “That’s like seven bucks!”
On the way out of the circus Lisa spotted someone she knew. “Hey,” she said, “I think that’s Laura.”
“Who’s Laura?” I asked.
“She’s a new girl in my class,” Lisa said. “She’s nice.”
Just a couple days later Lisa was invited to Laura’s house, a townhouse not far from us in Pozuelo. I met her mom, Christiane, who was pregnant.
“We’re just coming from Tokyo,” she said. “My husband Ramón is Spanish, but he’s worked most of his life overseas.”
“What kind of work does he do?” I asked.
“He’s a journalist with EFE, the official Spanish news agency,” she said. “We met when he was working in Austria—that’s where I’m from. But we spent the last six years in Japan.”
“How’d you like it?” I asked, feeling comfortable in her warm kitchen.
“Oh, we loved it. You don’t get very integrated into the local population, but the international community was a lot of fun. And myself, I did make some good Japanese friends. I got started taking classes in ikebana—do you know what that is?”
I knew that ikebana was a Japanese form of flower arranging—there was a well-known Japanese florist in Stamford who did it. It turned out that Christiane had become so accomplished at ikebana that one of the major Tokyo hotels had commissioned her to do a weekly arrangement for their lobby.
The Santaularias quickly became part of our group of friends. Ramón, a Catalan, was a most unusual Spaniard from those we knew—he was jovial and outgoing, he spoke numerous languages, and he loved traveling and experiencing other cultures. Most Spaniards, we agreed, turned up their noses at everything not Spanish. One of Mike’s business acquaintances had spoken truthfully about this once. “What do Spanish people really think of Americans?” Mike asked.
“We think they have no sense of history, they dress badly, they’re fat, and they’re loud,” he said.
And I remembered Ana’s sister Maricarmen, who had taken a tour to Thailand. Her verdict upon her return was that the shopping was good, the beaches were nice, but the food wasn’t as good as Spanish food.
Laura Santaularia got along well with Lisa, Gaby Scarritt and Claire Liepmann, and we all began to look forward to the arrival of the new baby in May.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Old Hands, part 2
The kids had new teachers, too. Lisa’s third grade teacher was Tica Echols, a kind and loving American woman married to a Spaniard. The girls in the class adored her and took turns styling her hair and massaging her feet during story time every day. And for sixth grade Julie had Sibley Labandeira, another American who had lived in Spain for many years. She and the other sixth-grade teacher, Lin Peterson, actually team-taught their two classes, and Julie came to like them both, despite Ms. Labandeira’s tough geography quizzes.
Besides that, there were some special fall events to look forward to. Up first was the local week-long fiesta in Pozuelo, which included a daily running of the bulls followed by bullfights in a temporary ring set up in a plaza.
This was the only bullfight I saw in person while I was in Spain. I never made it to the major league—Las Ventas, the famous bullring in Madrid, where the finest bulls and toreros fight. Unlike Ana, who hated bullfighting, I had no moral objection to it. When I was a kid in Chicago, the advent of UHF television broadcasting brought with it Chicago’s channel 26, which showed Mexican bullfighting nearly all day long, every day. My dad got interested and studied the spectacle, and he got me into it a little, too. I learned to regard it as an art form, though I understood why some people saw it as inexcusable cruelty to animals.
Mike had been to Las Ventas once or twice with business acquaintances, but tickets were hard to get. I had watched the fights once in a while on television in Madrid—the season ran from April to November, with broadcasts in the late afternoon. It was similar to the Mexican bullfighting I had seen decades before, but a couple things were new to me. First, ticket choices were based on whether your seats were in sol (sun) or sombra (shade). And second, though the majority of matadors worked on foot, there were also occasional fights conducted entirely with the matadors on horseback.
This was the style used for all six fights we saw the night we went to the ring in Pozuelo. Mike and Julie had been to the running of the bulls twice already—each day the animals were let loose from a paddock up the hill from the bullring, and they ran uneventfully down to the ring, with adventurous people running alongside. These were not the full-sized bulls that would appear at a place like Las Ventas, but rather ¾-size bulls whose horns had been shaved to make them less dangerous. This was analogous to a minor league ballgame.
We went to the fight around 6 p.m.—Spanish afternoon. The temporary bullring was about 100 feet in diameter, with seven rows of bleachers around it. We found some seats and listened to the two bands stationed in the half-full stands as they took turns playing. After a few minutes two ladies entered on horseback and did some dressage moves, controlling their horses elegantly as they side-stepped, turned and backed up. Then a dozen men on horses joined them for more display.
These riders left the ring, and the first fight’s human combatants entered. I was feeling excited—for all the bullfighting I’d watched on TV, first in Chicago, then in Spain, I’d never seen one in person. Being part of the crowd increased my anticipation, and the color and pageantry added to the atmosphere. There was a matador dressed in long leather chaps, a short wool jacket and a flat-brimmed hat. He was accompanied by four toreros with capes who were dressed in the traditional gaudy brocade bullfighter’s costume.
The bull was let out of his chute, full of energy, charging around like mad. Not a huge animal, but clearly powerful anyway. The four toreros attracted him with their capes and kept him running for a while. They slipped behind shelters at the perimeter of the ring whenever he got too close. The matador, now mounted on his horse, called to the bull, urging him to give chase. The majestic horse was beautifully groomed, with a ribboned mane and a fancy saddle. It was extremely agile in its moves and showed no fear at all, though it wore no padding.
We gasped with fear as the bull frequently got close enough to have its horns literally under the horse’s tail, but the horse was never gored. Between passes the matador would make his horse prance or do a little dressage just to show how much control he had.
Then the matador went to the edge of the ring and picked up a 3-foot-long stick with a dart at its end. He stuck this into the bull’s back, and when the dart came off the stick a small flag unfurled, so the matador was left holding a little flag that he used like a miniature cape to attract the bull. He repeated this move a few times, and once or twice he was quite stylish in his motion, leaning way over the bull’s horns to place the dart.
Then the matador left the ring to change horses, and the toreros came out to do a few passes meanwhile. When the matador returned the toreros retired to the edges again, and he went to the side to pick up another stick, this one frilled with colored paper. When it was placed in the bull’s back the entire stick remained hanging off the bull. Each dart had the effect of both enraging and weakening the bull. With two of these sticks placed, the matador again left to change horses.
By the time the matador was on his fourth horse, the sticks he received at the edge of the ring were just a foot long, meaning he had to get much closer to the bull in order to place them. This ratcheted up the excitement. One more change of horse and he came back to pick up a really tiny dart with a 4-inch spike. Once the spike was placed in the bull’s back, the paper frills left showing looked like a small flower.
The killing instrument, to my surprise, was not very swordlike. It looked like an umbrella, with about two feet of stick above a two-foot dart with a three-inch spike. When the dart was placed, the matador was left holding the two-foot stick. The bull fell to the ground, and a torero came out and severed the bull’s spinal cord with a dagger.
I loved the drama and the risk involved, and the color and tradition were things I could appreciate, but I also felt the death of the bull was brutal and sad. A team of two horses came to drag the carcass away, and the matador took a victory lap around the ring, having been awarded two ears. I couldn’t help but admire him for his skill and courage.
Besides that, there were some special fall events to look forward to. Up first was the local week-long fiesta in Pozuelo, which included a daily running of the bulls followed by bullfights in a temporary ring set up in a plaza.
This was the only bullfight I saw in person while I was in Spain. I never made it to the major league—Las Ventas, the famous bullring in Madrid, where the finest bulls and toreros fight. Unlike Ana, who hated bullfighting, I had no moral objection to it. When I was a kid in Chicago, the advent of UHF television broadcasting brought with it Chicago’s channel 26, which showed Mexican bullfighting nearly all day long, every day. My dad got interested and studied the spectacle, and he got me into it a little, too. I learned to regard it as an art form, though I understood why some people saw it as inexcusable cruelty to animals.
Mike had been to Las Ventas once or twice with business acquaintances, but tickets were hard to get. I had watched the fights once in a while on television in Madrid—the season ran from April to November, with broadcasts in the late afternoon. It was similar to the Mexican bullfighting I had seen decades before, but a couple things were new to me. First, ticket choices were based on whether your seats were in sol (sun) or sombra (shade). And second, though the majority of matadors worked on foot, there were also occasional fights conducted entirely with the matadors on horseback.
This was the style used for all six fights we saw the night we went to the ring in Pozuelo. Mike and Julie had been to the running of the bulls twice already—each day the animals were let loose from a paddock up the hill from the bullring, and they ran uneventfully down to the ring, with adventurous people running alongside. These were not the full-sized bulls that would appear at a place like Las Ventas, but rather ¾-size bulls whose horns had been shaved to make them less dangerous. This was analogous to a minor league ballgame.
We went to the fight around 6 p.m.—Spanish afternoon. The temporary bullring was about 100 feet in diameter, with seven rows of bleachers around it. We found some seats and listened to the two bands stationed in the half-full stands as they took turns playing. After a few minutes two ladies entered on horseback and did some dressage moves, controlling their horses elegantly as they side-stepped, turned and backed up. Then a dozen men on horses joined them for more display.
These riders left the ring, and the first fight’s human combatants entered. I was feeling excited—for all the bullfighting I’d watched on TV, first in Chicago, then in Spain, I’d never seen one in person. Being part of the crowd increased my anticipation, and the color and pageantry added to the atmosphere. There was a matador dressed in long leather chaps, a short wool jacket and a flat-brimmed hat. He was accompanied by four toreros with capes who were dressed in the traditional gaudy brocade bullfighter’s costume.
The bull was let out of his chute, full of energy, charging around like mad. Not a huge animal, but clearly powerful anyway. The four toreros attracted him with their capes and kept him running for a while. They slipped behind shelters at the perimeter of the ring whenever he got too close. The matador, now mounted on his horse, called to the bull, urging him to give chase. The majestic horse was beautifully groomed, with a ribboned mane and a fancy saddle. It was extremely agile in its moves and showed no fear at all, though it wore no padding.
We gasped with fear as the bull frequently got close enough to have its horns literally under the horse’s tail, but the horse was never gored. Between passes the matador would make his horse prance or do a little dressage just to show how much control he had.
Then the matador went to the edge of the ring and picked up a 3-foot-long stick with a dart at its end. He stuck this into the bull’s back, and when the dart came off the stick a small flag unfurled, so the matador was left holding a little flag that he used like a miniature cape to attract the bull. He repeated this move a few times, and once or twice he was quite stylish in his motion, leaning way over the bull’s horns to place the dart.
Then the matador left the ring to change horses, and the toreros came out to do a few passes meanwhile. When the matador returned the toreros retired to the edges again, and he went to the side to pick up another stick, this one frilled with colored paper. When it was placed in the bull’s back the entire stick remained hanging off the bull. Each dart had the effect of both enraging and weakening the bull. With two of these sticks placed, the matador again left to change horses.
By the time the matador was on his fourth horse, the sticks he received at the edge of the ring were just a foot long, meaning he had to get much closer to the bull in order to place them. This ratcheted up the excitement. One more change of horse and he came back to pick up a really tiny dart with a 4-inch spike. Once the spike was placed in the bull’s back, the paper frills left showing looked like a small flower.
The killing instrument, to my surprise, was not very swordlike. It looked like an umbrella, with about two feet of stick above a two-foot dart with a three-inch spike. When the dart was placed, the matador was left holding the two-foot stick. The bull fell to the ground, and a torero came out and severed the bull’s spinal cord with a dagger.
I loved the drama and the risk involved, and the color and tradition were things I could appreciate, but I also felt the death of the bull was brutal and sad. A team of two horses came to drag the carcass away, and the matador took a victory lap around the ring, having been awarded two ears. I couldn’t help but admire him for his skill and courage.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
