The Old And New Virgin Of Carmen

Fuengirola has a great installation along the paseo in our neighborhood, Los Boliches. Large historic photos of what the city looked like when it was still a sleepy fishing village, through the 1960s and '70s when the city changed drastically.

(As always, click any image for the bigger picture.)

FROM THE TERRACE.

At the time of major development, not much thought was given to quality, environment, or history. All that mattered was tourism. Some cities and towns in Spain lost a lot of their history and beauty. Some fought back in later years and are still fighting. Fuengirola fared a bit better and was rescued sooner. It's no longer a small, simple fishing village and some history was lost, but not all, and even more was uncovered. And the city is making every effort to improve what was done badly and to maintain control over current and future development. The improvements we've seen in our 3+ years here have been very positive. There are also displays in specific locations around town so you can immediately compare the old with the new. Here's the first of several I plan to share.

IN TOWN, THE OLD CHURCH OF THE VIRGIN OF CARMEN.

THE NEW CHURCH OF THE VIRGIN OF CARMEN.

THE OLD SAN GERALDO ... NO, THE NEW SAN GERALDO...
WELL, THE SAME OLD SAN GERALDO — WALKING HOME.
(CHECK OUT THE CREASES ON THE BACK OF HIS CALF FROM THE CAFÉ CHAIR!)

Crunches, Push Ups, Leg Lifts And Eye Rolls

It's been nearly three weeks since my first eye surgery, two weeks since the second, and today I received the all-clear.

I'm especially excited because I can finally get back to physical exercise. Strolling just hasn't cut it for me. And when I'm out and about I can never seem to stop myself from doing quick-turn double-takes at some of the sights (i.e., people) I see around town. Those quick turns were specifically forbidden.

More importantly, I can get back to doing eye rolls. And after the double-take, the eye roll is my favorite exercise.

SO MUCH TO TAKE IN ...
WITH A MORNING COFFEE.

Larga Duración, Long Beautiful Hair

1973: A HEAD WITH HAIR.

After nearly five years living in (and loving) Spain, San Geraldo and I have been approved for our first "larga duración" (long duration) residency cards.

When we first arrived, we obtained "residencia temporal" (temporary residency). We renewed those cards in 2012, and again in 2014.

Our "larga duración" cards will give us the right to "work and live indefinitely in Spain with the same rights as Spaniards."

So, this week we'll head back to the Foreigners Office with new photos and we'll then wait a few weeks for our new-and-improved cards to arrive.

WHAT APPEARED WHEN I GOOGLED "LARGA DURACIÓN."
"LONG-TERM" HAIR REMOVAL.

Let the celebrations begin!

THIS IS NOT US CELEBRATING.

Give me a head of larga duración!

Saint John's Summer Solstice Celebration

It's 2:51 Friday morning, 24 June, the day the Christian Church designated as the Feast Day of Saint John the Baptist.

It didn't start out that way. Before the Christians decided to "de-paganize" the day, it was called Midsummer, the pagan celebration of the summer solstice. Bonfires were lit to protect against evil spirits.

Following this ancient tradition, bonfires have been burning all night on our beaches in honor of St. John's Eve. Revellers have been heavily drinking spirits (which may protect against evil ones; I don't know).

At midnight, everyone quickly dashed in and out of the water and then hopped over the bonfires three times. The intention is to drive off witches and evil spirits (I guess that's if the booze doesn't work). Then came the fireworks.

OUR BEACH IN THE AFTERNOON: THE SHAPE OF THINGS TO COME.

AT 9:00 P.M., THE PARTY HADN'T YET STARTED.

The chiringuito (beach bar) nearest to us added additional serving areas on the Paseo and on the beach. They had an exceptionally good band performing the most of the night. For the past one or two hours (I've lost track), it's been pre-recorded music at twice the decibel level. We should get some sleep when the party officially ends (any minute now).

Meanwhile, I've finished off the top layer of chocolates, so I'm not complaining (although I may be complaining later about that).

It's 3:04 Friday morning and the music has stopped. The silence is deafening. I'm off to bed.

ON OUR WAY HOME FROM DINNER AROUND 11:15.

TOASTED BUNS AND BEER.

NOTE THE BAND MEMBER
IN THE "OREGON'S PORTLAND" T-SHIRT.

HOME: STROBE LIGHTS AND MUSIC AIMED IN OUR DIRECTION.

FIRE ON THE BEACH AND IN THE SKY.

THE MOON ROSE JUST AS THE FIREWORKS STARTED.

The Cure

Less than a week until I can stop strolling and begin hustling these buns again. Meanwhile, I've had a miserable allergy attack this week, spending several days in bed. Trying to not suddenly jerk my head in the middle of a sneezing or coughing fit has been challenging. But my eye seems to have survived all assaults.

Besides, I think I found the cure for my allergies.

First Cure Theory:
Sunday, our friend Kristina gave me a 500-gram (1-pound) box of Swedish/Finnish chocolates. I was feeling so miserable that I didn't even unseal the box until Wednesday. I then had a couple of chocolates and was feeling much better later that day.

Second Cure Theory: 

San Geraldo came home Wednesday afternoon from the market with some chips and surprisingly good ready-made guacamole. I commented on how much better I was feeling later that afternoon.

Third Cure Theory: 
Of course, it could be that the weather changed. We went from several dry, warm, summery days, with breezes from all directions stirring up every kind of pollen and dust to a Wednesday afternoon and night of fog and humidity blowing in off the sea.

Then again, it could just be that my allergies have started to run their course, like they always do, and will return another time.

Nah! I'm going with the chocolate cure. Even if I'm wrong, what's a little extra suffering?

Tuesday, Wednesday, stay in bed...

Whiskey And Soda, And Rock And Roll

Our favorite pizza place (we don't eat Spanish food every day) — here in Los Boliches, Fuengirola, Málaga, Spain — is another great spot just a few minutes from home called Pizza Maestro.

Pizza Maestro, although in Spain and serving excellent Italian food (and thin-crust, very healthy tasting pizza), is Finnish. Well, Finnish-owned.

Everyone speaks Spanish. One of the waiters hails from Morocco and his native tongue is Arabic. Some people find English easier. But the language one hears most often is Finnish.

They've been playing great music lately. Perfect atmosphere.

This afternoon while we shared, of all things, a pizza Hawaiana, San Geraldo blurted, "Listen. It's Klezmer!"

"What?"

"They're singing Yiddish!" he exclaimed.


Here's what was playing (for the umpteenth time, by the way). Yiddish?

(The translation isn't the best, but you get the idea.)

Old And New Knockers

Some of the knockers and other door ornaments I've seen on my strolls around Fuengirola.

CLICK THE IMAGE AND THE KNOCKERS GET BIGGER.

WORTH A MORE EXPANSIVE VIEW.

Vacation Plans

We're planning a September whirlwind tour across the United States, beginning and ending with the Dowager Duchess. Not lots of time in any one place, but some very special family visits that are long overdue. It's still more than two months away and the days are already filled.

San Geraldo always acts as our travel agent and he does a phenomenal job finding flights, getting good seats, scheduling connections, getting in touch... He finally booked all the separate flights that will take us from Málaga to the Northeastern US to the Plains States to the Pacific Northwest and back again.

Even though the boys won't be joining us, Moose has assisted every step of the way. He'll be in big trouble when Dudo finds out.

FINALLY DONE AND HAVING A SIESTA
AFTER ALL HIS STRENUOUS ... SIESTAS.

A Torn Retina And A Spotted Dick?

I celebrated my birthday Thursday. Because it was in fact my birthday, so it seemed like the right thing to do. This is my fourth year to celebrate my birthday here in Fuengirola. It's become a tradition to go to Sandpiper Restaurant if only to have the opportunity to share the celebration with Jessica, even though she has to work.

In honor of my torn (no longer) retina, I thought I should have a defective-sounding dessert (in the UK, called pudding). So, I opted for some Spotted Dick. It's much better than it sounds. (Click here to read the original story of Spotted Dick and another traditional English, um, pudding.)

I OBSESSED WITH AESTHETICALLY ARRANGING JESSICA'S STARS AND HAPPY BIRTHDAYS.
SAN GERALDO'S SOLUTION WAS TO SHOVEL THEM INTO A PILE...

...AFTER CONSIDERING A MELTDOWN, I SATISFIED MYSELF WITH THIS.

MY SPOTTED DICK.
(OR AS JESSICA PREFERS TO CALL IT, SPOTTED RICHARD.)

SMILING DESPITE A RECENTLY TORN RETINA
AND A SPOTTED DICK.

And since I enjoyed some Spotted Dick, I thought you might enjoy a Little Richard...

Say My Name, Abrevaduci?

Andalusians often drop consonants, especially "d" and "s" (and n) when they appear mid-word or at the end of a word, which means Andalusians drop a lot of consonants. They also regularly drop vowels, which often doesn't leave much "word."

Buenos días (good day) sounds something like "buen dia." Our neighborhood, Los Boliches, is more like Lo Bo-LEESCHeh (and to an untrained ear even sounds like Lo Bo-LEE). The city of Cádiz (which should sound kind of like CAH-deeth) sounds more like CAH-ee. Consonants are dropped. Letters are changed. Sometimes, entire words disappear. I'm oversimplifying, but you get the idea. 

Our ears have adjusted in these five years. San Geraldo, whose Spanish is already quite "interesting" has even begun to speak Andalusian. Buena NO-shay, he says, instead of Buenas Noches when he goes to bed at night.

One of our friends has his own creative way of speaking both Spanish and English (different from San Geraldo's creative way).

This all leads me to the challenge of expressing a desire to go to Abrevaero, a great little tapas bar and restaurant just a few minutes from home (we've got just about everything within a few minutes of home).

Abrevaero, although the actual name of the restaurant, isn't even a word. It's the way a local would pronounce the Spanish word "abrevadero," which translates to "drinking trough" (a place to water the horses and get refreshed).

San Geraldo has called it Abrevaduci, Arevada, and I can't remember what else. Our local friend (who shall remain nameless) calls it something like Arivadabra, or maybe it's Abradaba... or Abree-air-a I'm not quite sure. At least it doesn't stop us from enjoying the food, service, and atmosphere.

(Click the images, taken during two different visits, and maybe you'll remember the name.)

ALCOCHOFA (ARTICHOKE) WITH TUNA, CRAB MEAT, KIWI, ETC.)

TRADITIONAL SPANISH TORTILLA.
THEIR VERSION IS MOIST, EGGY, AND DELICIOUS.

TORTILLA RELLENA (A STUFFED SPANISH TORTILLA).

CHORIZO.

SETAS Y JAMON (MUSHROOMS AND HAM).

TERNERA (BEEF).

ABREVAERO'S INTERPRETATION OF TIRAMISU.

Maybe we should just call it "Abracadabra." It's magic.

Cooking Cat Poop and Retinas

I saw the ophthalmologist again Tuesday afternoon. My retina needed more laser repair. As before, it was done immediately. I've now started counting two weeks all over again.

Two weeks of no exercise. Two weeks of not turning my head too quickly. Two weeks of staying close to home and not being too animated.

Two more weeks of fricking strolling. Oh, I'm sorry. The doctor didn't say that. For some reason he omitted the word "fricking."

So, poor me. I guess I'll just have to spend the next two weeks sipping cafe con leche at a local park, spending lazy afternoons lounging on the beach outside our door. Maybe some truffles when I get home each day to ease my suffering.

San Geraldo has been wonderful. "Slow down, Mitchell." "That's not a stroll, Mitchell." "You shouldn't be doing that, Mitchell."

I haven't even been taking down the trash. Every morning, as is his routine, San Geraldo scoops out the cats' litter box, drops the poop in a sandwich bag, and places the bag in our open-air laundry room (whose door into the kitchen, we tend to leave open during the day). I then toss that bag in with the trash and take it down.

Since I'm not supposed do things like haul bags of trash or lift heavy dumpster lids, if I forget to take down that little bag of poop, it bakes all day in the sunny laundry room... along with several bags of trash.

Tuesday morning, I came home after coffee and the house smelled like overcooked cat poop (which is even worse than uncooked cat poop). I've learned that two days above 37C (97F) is not the proper temperature for keeping poop fresh. So, I broke the rules and took out the trash (and the baked goods).

San Geraldo has given me permission to nag him. And he's promised he won't talk back.

In The Heart Of Things

The day my sister Dale died in 1981, I was surprised to find myself momentarily alone in her living room. I picked up a book of poetry. As I placed the book in my lap, it flipped open and the first words I read were:

We who are left, how shall we look again
Happily on the sun, or feel the rain,
Without remembering how they who went
Ungrudgingly, and spent
Their all for us, loved, too, the sun and rain?

A bird among the rain-wet lilac sings—
But we, how shall we turn to little things
And listen to the birds and winds and streams
Made holy by their dreams,
Nor feel the heart-break in the heart of things?

New to me at the time, it was a poem written at the end of World War I by William Lyon Phelps. It gave me gooseflesh and has remained with me ever since.

Wishing those others who are left, in so many places around the world, the chance to someday not feel the hearbreak in the heart of things.

I have no rain-wet lilacs. But I have heard birds singing among San Geraldo's sun-drenched hibiscuses. So, I'll share those and finish with a smile from a sweetly dreaming Dudo (he of the toothy grin).