Wealthy Viola, a Hotel in Palm Springs, and No Regrets

WEALTHY VIOLA FURBISH LOWELL

I wrote briefly in an earlier post about our short-lived hotel in Palm Springs, one of several adventures we've had over the years.  We called our place Viola's Resort in honor of Jerry's great-great-grandmother.  Her real name was Wealthy Viola Furbish Lowell, but we decided to stick with Viola (which is what she went by).  Besides, "Wealthy's Resort" would have been a bit presumptuous for first-time hoteliers and, as it turned out in our case, it also would have been ludicrous.

HOW IT BEGAN

One afternoon in early 2000, standing in the Berkeley BART station, while heading home from our jobs at UC Berkeley — Jerry as university librarian and I as director of University Communications — I said, "I just can't do this anymore."

I was completely burnt out.  My job was destroying any mental stability I might have had.  Jerry wasn't much happier.  His mother had died unexpectedly just a few month's earlier.  He was tremendously frustrated with Berkeley's bureaucracy, and he was taking more and more time off.  The cook at our favorite eatery, Tyger's, in our neighborhood of Glen Park, saw Jerry there so often that he finally walked out of the kitchen and asked him, "Do you actually work for a living?"  Obviously, Jerry's heart wasn't in his work.  I didn't think I could survive mine.

In response to my whine, Jerry, the reorganization expert, suggested we list our options.

THE OPTIONS:
1)  Mitchell finds a corporate job in San Francisco;
2)  Mitchell and Jerry both find corporate jobs in San Francisco;
3)  Mitchell and Jerry quit their jobs, sell the house in San Francisco, move to Palm Springs, and get jobs at Burger King;
4)  Mitchell and Jerry quit their jobs, sell the house in San Francisco, and open a hotel (a fantasy we'd had for years); and
5)  Mitchell and Jerry win the lottery.

I had been tentatively exploring corporate opportunities, but that didn't excite me and I was so desperate to get out of my current situation that I had pretty much blown an opportunity a few months earlier — and, in my desperation, I couldn't trust that I wouldn't just jump into anything that came along (out of the frying pan into the fire); actually, the opportunity I had blown would have been awful, but I couldn't see that at the time.  Jerry had gone the corporate route early in his career and wasn't enamored with it.  Winning the lottery was clearly the best outcome, but we couldn't do much planning for that.  Burger King didn't sound ideal, but had moved up in the rankings. We were pretty sure option #4, the hotel, was where we were headed.  So Jerry then suggested we list out parameters to determine what was required and what didn't matter to us (i.e., what could make any decision the right decision or the wrong decision).

UNDER RENOVATION.  PLENTY OF SEATING.  OUT WITH THE OLD.

We decided that if we wanted financial security, we could just keep things the way they were.  We also (fortuitously) decided that if things didn't work out with a hotel, the worst-case scenario was that we'd go broke and have to start over — and we agreed that was something we could deal with.

THE FRONT GATE AT CHRISTMAS.

Without much discussion, we agreed that Palm Springs, California, was definitely where our hotel should be.  We loved it there.  We loved the desert.  Property was affordable.  And it was a very popular destination.  The fact that it was a popular destination for gay people, as well, had a lot to do with our choice.  We did, however, agree that we did not what to open a place for gay men exclusively.  Our friendships are diverse and, although we loved staying at men's resorts in Palm Springs and not feeling like a minority for once (the gay part, not the men part), we were very disappointed one Thanksgiving when we decided to go to Palm Springs with two friends (women) and discovered they were not allowed to stay at (or even come on the premises of) the place we loved.  For that trip, we finally found a gay-owned place that grudgingly welcomed women, but the entire process was disappointing to say the least.

READY FOR CHRISTMAS 2001.

So, for our own place, we decided we would open a hotel for gays and lesbians, their families, and their friends.  An LGBT-friendly, children-friendly, family friendly, diversity friendly, bed & breakfast–style hotel.  We did our research and learned we would be the first in the country.  The market was not huge, but the trend in "non-traditional family" business was encouraging.  And, most importantly, it would make us feel good.

OUR CONTINENTAL BREAKFAST: SAFE TO EAT.  I DIDN'T COOK ANYTHING.

We found a two-story '50s-era motel/apartment complex, and were landlords for a few months before moving everyone out and renovating the property.  The property was right on Palm Canyon Drive, which we thought was a good thing for a family inn — the kids could make all the noise they wanted, restaurants were all around, and we would be easy to find.  We planted only child-friendly gardens (i.e., no cactus with spines, no toxic plants), with the most unusual plants we could find, including chocolate daisies (berlandiera lyrata).  These flowers look like scraggly daisies and smell like chocolate.

CHOCOLATE DAISIES.  FOR THE CHOCOHOLIC WHO HAS EVERYTHING.

We opened with a bang.  We were fully booked the first couple of weekends, first with a family pride board's annual event, then with lots of individual families.  One such family comprised two women and their brand-new baby daughter (one month old) along with the 92-year-old grandmother of one of the women. We were featured in the premiere issue of "And Baby," a magazine said to be "redefining modern parenting." Sadly, "And Baby" didn't survive the recession any better than Viola's Resort.

A PAGE FROM THE PREMIERE ISSUE OF "AND BABY" MAGAZINE.

We took pride in what we had accomplished.  But we then quickly discovered that the market for our type of hotel was even smaller than we had anticipated.  No surprise were the single gay people who really didn't want to be surrounded by a bunch of kids.  We did, however, have many return guests.  Couples and singles without children who loved to be around families; some wanted families of their own someday.  Men with children who loved the idea of being in such an accepting and inclusive environment.  Women with children who felt the same.

MORE POTS AND MORE PLANTINGS WERE ADDED OVER THE NEXT YEAR.

We had our share of "aha" moments.  We discovered that we really weren't cut out for the B&B business.  We enjoy our free time way too much and when you own a B&B, you don't get any free time.  It's a 24/7 career.  Also, we were reminded again that male chauvinism is not just a straight male trait.  For example, we were sad to find that a lot of men with children would only visit if they knew other men with children would be there; some didn't even want to be there with two-mom families.  Some other unkind things were said at times, but we reassured ourselves that, in addition to a loyal two-mom family clientele, we also had plenty of unbelievably wonderful two-dad families to make up for those less enlightened.  But, timing is a big part of success.  And our timing was dismal.  Seven months after we opened was 9/11/01.  Tourism in Palm Springs dropped 43 percent.  We had only a very tiny percentage of that number to begin with; we were already lagging behind our projections.  With the huge drop in business all over town and all over the country, we just couldn't carry things.  We converted to a gay men's hotel to bring in just a little extra cash while we tried to sell (which turned out to be an impossibility in those difficult financial times).  We still hosted some family weekends, but it wasn't the same.  Even during those trying times, we had some wonderful — and enlightened — male guests.  But having a resort that excluded others just wasn't our style.

THE SUBARU OUT FRONT WAS A LEMON.  SO, WE PLANTED ORANGES AROUND BACK.

During the brief life of Viola's Resort, we met some exceptional people. We also had some high-maintenance visitors — like the billionaire's daughter who actually snapped her fingers when she wanted something.  She traveled with her two children and her personal assistant (and her personal assistant's young daughter). Given her behavior, I was immediately surprised when I saw that she didn't find it beneath her to change her own children's diapers until I discovered that she left the soiled ones wherever she happened to be when she removed them — in the middle of the floor in her bedroom or living room, on the patio, on the stairs.  By her third visit, I had gotten to know her well enough to realize she was probably well-meaning but just completely oblivious.

IF YOU HAVE TO GO BROKE, THIS IS THE WAY TO DO IT.

There was one little girl, around 2-1/2, who was insistent on petting the koi fish.  Her father finally walked over and said, "Honey, if you pet the fish, he'll throw up."  She immediately pulled her hand out of the water and walked away.  He saw my puzzled expression and said, "She hates the idea of throwing up and right now it's the only thing I have to keep her in check."  He then added, "Yeah, I'm going to be paying for years of therapy."

"IF YOU PET THE FISH, HE'LL THROW UP."

So, we lost our shirts.  We added significantly to our stress levels.  But we discovered we could live in only three rooms, work together 24 hours a day, go broke together, and love each other even more after all was all said and done.

Besides, as the saying goes: 

Regret for the things we did can be tempered by time; it is regret for the things we did not do that is inconsolable.

Bi-Coastal Tourists and Revisiting the Visas

FBI CLEARANCE

We received some very exciting mail Friday.  Our fingerprints were checked out by the FBI and we have letters confirming that we, of course, do not have criminal records.  So, now we just need to drive up to LA to get the apostile from the State Department.

SALUD: A TOAST TO OUR GOOD HEALTH

Jerry had his physical exam Wednesday and mine is coming up in a week.  We'll then have the required letters from our doctor stating that we don't "... suffer from any illness that would pose a threat to public health according to the International Health Regulations of 2005."  We'll get those letters apostiled and, once we have Jerry's retirement financial data confirmed (he's only got five days remaining of work), we will be able to submit our visa applications.

WAITING FOR THE TRAM AT THE GETTY CENTER.

THE OCCIDENTAL TOURISTS

With my mother here for nine days (she flew back to New York Saturday), I played tour guide quite a bit and I realized that Southern California might be as interesting to some readers as Southern Spain was to others. So, I thought I'd share some stories and photos.

THE GETTY CENTER.  JUST A GLIMPSE OF THE ARCHITECTURE.

Tuesday, we drove up to the Getty Center.  I chose Tuesday because clouds and rain were predicted for later in the week.  The sun was supposed to still be shining Tuesday.  And, for me at least, the Getty Center's art collections and exhibits — which are amazing — take a backseat to its setting, the architecture, vistas, and gardens.  I spend more of my time outside at the Getty than I do inside.

THE GETTY'S GLORIOUS GARDENS IN THE GLOOM.

We headed up the 5 Freeway in clouds.  After 45 minutes, it grew cloudier and rainier.  By the time we reached the Getty after our 55-minute drive, it was completely overcast and we were in a fairly steady drizzle.  Oh well, we got glimpses of the gardens and architecture as we hustled from one building to the next.  Anyway, at the age of 83, my mother, Mimi, no longer has the energy for an entire day of walking slowly through art galleries.  So, we enjoyed several galleries in just two of the Center's pavilions (West & South).  That was still much more than the average museum-goer can manage — Mimi can never get enough art.

A NICE LITTLE CABINET FOR OUR NEW, MORE MINIMALIST LIFE.

We managed to take in the Impressionist Masters, Rembrandt and his contemporaries, some of the decorative arts (we browsed furniture that would work well in our apartment in Malaga), and we caught a small special exhibit about polychrome sculpture.  That was especially interesting for me and also a bit exciting since it included a painting by Murillo, the Sevillano painter you may remember from my Spain posts, and the sculpture itself was also from Sevilla.

COURTYARD BETWEEN THE EAST AND WEST PAVILIONS.

SURF'S UP, DUDE

Monday, we headed over to the Department of Motor Vehicles for my second unsuccessful attempt to renew our car registration (it was apparently filed incorrectly in 2009; we therefore never received a renewal notice in 2010; and now we have to start all over with a copy of the title and vehicle verification in 2011).  I arrived without an appointment to find a line 50-people deep (in and outside the building).  After standing in that line for a half hour and only moving up about 5 people, I decided I didn't want to spend two or more hours in line — with my mother — at the DMV.  (That night, I went online and made an appointment for Thursday, February 24.  Keep a good thought.)  For all those expat web posters who comment on Spain's bureaucracy, I hold up as a shining example of American know-how the US DMV.  I do have a temporary registration sticker (obtained on my first visit to the DMV) so perhaps the California Highway Patrol (CHP) will stop pulling us over (twice now; once before and once after receiving the sticker) for expired registration.  I have to admit, though, they have been extremely pleasant both times... yes, just like Ponch and Jon on "CHiPs" (the 1977–1983 TV series).  I should also be a bit more forgiving of the DMV: Everyone there has been very pleasant and professional, and no one intentionally incorrectly filed our paperwork; accidents happen.

LAGUNA BEACH.  VIEW FROM THE BEACH.

As long as we were in Laguna Hills at the DMV, I suggested we continue on to Laguna Beach for a stroll around the shops and galleries.

 LAGUNA LIFEGUARD STAND.  GREEN FLAG MEANS CONDITIONS ARE CALM.

It was a beautiful day.  We had coffees and a chocolate-chocolate chunk cookie (total chocolate overload) at Scandia Bakery in Laguna Beach.  We then browsed a couple of galleries and several fun stores, including Coast Hardware. I have this thing for hardware stores and could spend an entire day in one. Fortunately, this hardware store had enough gift and household items to hold Mimi's interest for a good long time.  We found novelty goldfish soap for my brother Chuck, the kind of gift that makes him smile. 

THE PERFECT GIFT.

The weather was so beautiful that we went for a walk on Laguna's little boardwalk and then sat for a long while on a bench listening to the surf and enjoying the view.

THE DAY AFTER OUR VISIT TO LAGUNA:  SUNSET OVER SAN CLEMENTE.

Hoppy Birthday to Jerry

WHY LINDA NEVER MADE IT OUT OF THE SECOND GRADE.

Friday was Jerry's birthday.  My mother is here from New York for her Annual Jerry's Birthday Visit.  Jerry's "middle sister," Linda, and her husband Tom are in Southern California until — they hope — the snow stops falling in South Dakota (they think it might be safe to return in April).

We all celebrated Jerry's birthday — in true Jerry fashion.  We went gambling.

CASINO ON THE PECHANGA INDIAN RESERVATION IN TEMECULA, CALIF.

Pechanga Casino appreciated the fact that it was Jerry's birthday by allowing him some very handsome wins.  And — also in true Jerry fashion — rather than pocket his winnings, he continued to play, with the plan that he would "maximize."  Sadly, maximization was not in the cards.  However, neither was the more usual minimization.  We actually came home with extra money in our pockets.  Good boy, Jerry!

AFTER SPELL-CHECK AND AN ICING TUBE RETRIEVED FROM THE KITCHEN TRASH.

After enjoying a mostly comped lunch (one benefit to Jerry's regular attempts to maximize) and then playing for a couple more hours, we headed back to Linda & Tom's for birthday dinner and a personally iced — by Linda — birthday cake.  Linda was a second-grade teacher for more than 30 years  — because she loved what she did and was really good at it.  When Jerry saw the cake, he was very impressed with how well Linda had centered the message and how beautifully it was "printed."  All those years of teaching writing and decorating bulletin boards was readily apparent. 

Then the obnoxious New Yorker (that would be me) had to take a look.  The first thing I noticed was the spelling of "Happy."  H-o-p-p-y.  I think it's the real reason Linda was in the second grade for more than 30 years.  When our nephew Matt was a few years old, he actually pronounced "happy" that way.  So, I guess it was appropriate. 

We didn't have any candles (they apparently fell out of Linda's shopping cart), so Linda stuck a wooden match into the cake and set it ablaze.  We all sang "Hoppy Birthday" to Jerry and he blew out the match. 

The chocolate cake and the dulce de leche ice cream were delicious.

Higher Maintenance Jerry in 1982

In February 1982, Jerry spent his first birthday with me (his 33rd in the world, but his first with me).  My family never made a huge deal about birthdays and I tended to not expect or even want much fuss to be made over mine — if it were at all acknowledged.  Jerry, on the other hand, came from a family that made a very big deal about birthdays.  His mother might phone at 6 a.m. just to be certain she would be the first one to wish him a happy birthday.  Sometimes, his sisters would try to beat her to it.  Entire families would get on the phone and sing.  Linda would do her best impersonation of Whitney Houston... or Barbra Streisand.  One year, she claimed to be Clove.  When we asked who that was, she said indignantly that Clove was one of the Spice Girls. 

BABY, GINGER, POSH, SCARY, AND SPORTY.  (NO THYME FOR CLOVE.)

So, Jerry expected a lot of attention on his birthday.  For at least a week before and a week after, he would announce in every store and restaurant that it was his birthday.  I stressed for days.  I did not want to disappoint.

On Jerry's birthday, I raced home after work with a bottle of champagne, a dozen roses, a couple of decent gifts, and reservations for dinner at an elegant restaurant in the Back Bay.  Jerry came home with a good friend from work and she joined us in our champage toast before Jerry and I headed out for dinner.  The meal and service were excellent.  At the end, the lights were dimmed and a birthday-candle-lit dessert was placed in front of Jerry.  I couldn't believe I had pulled off such a super birthday evening.

When we went to bed that night, Jerry thanked me for the champagne, the roses, the gifts, and the dinner.  He then told me it wasn't enough and I would have to try a little harder next year.  Fortunately, he's gotten just a little easier to manage over the years.

Feliz cumpleaños, Jerry.  I look forward to celebrating next year in Málaga.

Chucking Woodchucks and Kosher Dills in Guilford, Connecticut

OUR PASTORAL CONNECTICUT LIFE.

I've mentioned Connecticut in earlier posts.  We lived for a time in the beautiful and historic village of Guilford, established in 1639.

GUILFORD'S VILLAGE GREEN AND CIVIL WAR MEMORIAL.

We bought a charming house in the country, our very own money pit.  Everything in the house needed to be repaired or replaced.  By the time we sold it in 1993, it was in essence a brand new house.  The architectural style was called Expanded Cape.  From the front, it looked like a charming Cape Cod cottage.  From the back, it was a complete surprise.  It opened into two stories (three if you counted the walkout basement), with a shed dormer across the entire second floor.  There were four bedrooms and two baths upstairs, a fifth bedroom and bathroom, formal entry, sunken living room, family room, kitchen, and dining room down.  Jerry and I have finally learned our lesson.  We do not need a lot of space.  We had so much unneeded space in this house that we referred to the downstairs bedroom as "the phone room," because all we had in there was a tiny bookcase, a rocking chair, and a telephone.  We used the living room just about twice a year, Christmas and New Year's Eve, when we lit a fire in the fireplace and admired the Christmas tree.  We basically lived in two upstairs bedrooms, the family room, and the kitchen.  We did make great use of the outdoors.  We had a huge deck that wrapped the back of the house, lawns and gardens,  a creek, and a large pool, all surrounded by our own woods.  We barbecued most nights, enjoying fresh swordfish and tuna steaks from our incredible local fish market.

EARLY SPRING.

I tell you all this because our friend Marga in Sevilla has asked about places we've lived.  But the real point of this post is to tell you the saga of the woodchucks, an animal that Marga is unfamiliar with.  A woodchuck, for those who wonder, is another name for a groundhog.

A WONDERFUL PLACE FOR THE WOODCHUCKS TO PLAY.

When Jerry and I moved in, we immediately went to work refinishing the oak floors; stripping wallpaper (some of the most hideous wallpaper I have ever seen); painting; replacing the roof; building a new, larger deck; replacing the water heater, and then the water tank; re-siding the pool house and replacing the filter and pump; planting new gardens everywhere; and upgrading the kitchen and bathrooms.  It was a labor of love and it meant we spent a number of years searching sofa cushions and elsewhere for loose change to help us make it through each month.

CUTTING THE PERFECT TREE.  A REASON TO VISIT OUR LIVING ROOM.

But, back to the woodchucks.

A WOODCHUCK WOULD CLEARLY CHUCK ALL THE WOOD HE COULD.

One morning, Jerry and I stood at our newly installed French doors, looking out on the lush green lawn rolling down to the beautiful flower gardens we had planted around the pool.  We spotted a mother woodchuck and her three babies "frolicking" in the sun on the patio.  We were so proud.  They were so adorable.  We stood hugging each other, soaking up the serenity and joy of the country home we had created (for us and the woodchucks).

BEAVER.  MUCH BETTER, I ASSUME, AT CHUCKING WOOD.

The next morning, we decided to check the progress of the 108 marigolds we had planted in our large rock garden toward the side of the house.  We found none.  Not one marigold.  All 108 marigolds had been chewed down to mulch level.  We then headed down to the pool and found that many of our flowering plants had been chewed down to stubs as well.  We monitored things for the rest of the weekend and discovered that our sweet woodchucks were feasting on our gardens.

Jerry and I began to carefully monitor the woodchucks' eating habits.  We stopped planting the flowers they seemed to enjoy and planted only what they ignored.  Then, they started eating those.  It turns out, woodchucks don't only eat plants they like, they also bite the stems on others just to mark their territory.  "This tastes like crap, but, I just thought I'd let you know I was here."

ON HIS WAY TO THE SISTERS OF MERCY.

Early on, we realized we needed a live trap.  Over the course of three years, we caught nine woodchucks.  Each time we caught one, we would load the trap in the car and drive to a wooded area at the edge of a monastery six miles north of our house where we would then free the woodchuck. We figured that was far enough so they wouldn't find their way back to our house.  Jerry said we were taking our woodchucks to the Sisters of Mercy.  I just checked (finally) and, in fact, it was the Monastery of Our Lady of Grace, an order of Dominican Nuns.

After trapping Woodchuck #9, Jerry had it all figured out.  On the drive home, he said he knew for certain they were living under the pool house (maybe Woodchuck #9 confessed).  According to Jerry, now that we had caught the last (?) woodchuck, he was going to get cinder blocks to fill in the hole they had been using for access and that would be the end of our woodchuck problem.  I had my doubts.

We pulled the car into the driveway and headed around back to place the cage on a large rock to air out.  When we turned the corner we found two fat woodchucks munching grass in the middle of the backyard.  They looked up at us momentarily and then, unconcerned, went back to munching.

The woodchucks had won.

CAN CAN

In addition to our successes as renovators, gardeners and woodchuck hunters, Jerry and I entered our canning in the Guilford Agricultural Fair and took home blue ribbons and purple rosettes (for best-in-show) every year for our peaches, kosher dills, and — my favorite — blueberry lime jam. 

This is a perfect example of our very foreign upbringings.  Jerry had grown up on "canning."  I had not.  As a matter of fact, until I met Jerry, I didn't even know people actually still did this (and then I didn't understand why it was called CANNING when JARS were used; jarring?).

THE MASTER CANNER WITH THAT YEAR'S PURPLE ROSETTE.

The first time we canned together in Connecticut, we made strawberry jam.  Before it went into the jars for processing, Jerry had me taste some of what we had mixed up.

"Oh my God!" I said.  "This tastes just like strawberry jam."

Jerry rolled his eyes and asked, "And what is it supposed to taste like?"

I laughed.

I immediately phoned my mother in New York.  I said, "You're not going to believe what we just made!"

She said, "What?"

I said, "Strawberry jam."

And my mother asked excitedly, "From what?"

As they say in canning, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

BEST IN SHOW?

All Us Cats Is Happy

THELMA THREE WEEKS AGO GETTING READY FOR THE TRIP TO SPAIN.

We made it back to LA last night in one piece (well, two pieces if you don't count the luggage I guess) an hour earlier than scheduled, which enabled us to catch the shuttle bus back to Irvine two hours earlier than expected.  That got us home at 9 p.m. instead of 11 p.m. (23.5 hours after leaving our hotel in Sevilla).  Our cats, Dobie and Thelma, were very happy to see us.  At least Thelma, nearly 3, was obviously happy to see us.

WELCOME HOME.  SHE'S SO EASY.

We know Dobie, nearly 15, is also happy we're home, but he gives us a lot of attitude for the first hour whenever we return from a trip.  Last night was no different.

DOBIE. 'OH.  HAVE YOU BEEN AWAY?  I HADN'T NOTICED.'

When my learning-disabled brother, Chuck, flew from New York to Boston to visit me (a 43-minute flight) way back in 1981, I had great plans for his three-day visit.  When I picked him up at the airport, I listed off all the things we were going to do.  He put his hand up and said, "Wait a minute.  Wait a minute.  I got jet lag, ya know!"

CHUCK'S VISIT LAST YEAR.  JET LAG IS NOT BAD WHEN THERE'S A GAME TO CATCH.

Well, Jerry and I know how Chuck felt.  We slept sporadically through the night; actually better than we expected to sleep.  We headed to Peet's for coffee late morning and were then ready for naps.  I held off a bit, but took a two-hour nap this afternoon.  It will be interesting to see how Jerry adjusts to being back to work Monday morning (for his last 15 days).

Although, it's nice to be home, I missed Spain this morning.  I like sleeping in my own bed (I'm not used to sleeping around).  But, I missed walking in Sevilla to Nostalgia for the best café con leche.  I missed the challenge of a new city, a new way of life, and a new language.  For these next few months, I'll have to get used to driving again to Peet's for café Americano (or walking the 1-1/2 miles each way when I've got the time and the inclination).  The manager at Peet's spent much of her childhood in Marbella and the Canary Islands.  Maybe I can practice my Spanish with her.

SEVILLA.  ON OUR WAY BACK FROM DINNER TUESDAY.

So, the trip to Sevilla was a success.  We had an amazing vacation.  We got to know and fall in love with the city.  We got to explore Jerez de la Frontera, fall in love with that city, but learn it's not where we want to live.  And we got enough of a glimpse of Málaga to know it IS where we want to live.  We had the unexpected joy of meeting kind, funny, warm, charming, intelligent, enlightened people and we made wonderful new friends.

Now, Jerry will get back to updating his spreadsheets.  I will get onto Google maps to start cyber-exploring Málaga in depth.  And I'm already back to looking around the house and stewing about what to do with all this stuff!

A Lemon Tart in Parting

SUNDAY NIGHT AT RESTAURANTE SAN MARCO.

So, this is my final — and short — post before we head home.  We're joining some new friends for a farewell tapas lunch this afternoon.  Taking naps first.  And then we leave for home Thursday morning.

NANOOK OF THE NORTH MONDAY NIGHT.

This has been an excellent three weeks.  We love Sevilla.  We've been diligent tourists and have covered a lot of territory.  We feel we know our way around the city pretty well (usually the long way to anywhere we go).

JERRY'S SPREADSHEET ON THE ROAD.  WEATHER COMPARISONS.

We've done the research (Jerry even hand-wrote spreadsheets while we traveled) and exploration we intended and we now intend to live in Málaga.  That's the plan.  We expect that to remain the plan, but we have nearly four months to go before our intended move (or a bit more if the visas take longer to obtain).  A lot can happen in four months.
 

I WON'T MISS HIM.

I'll be back in two or three days.  Hasta luego!