Progress at Home and in My Head

I guess I'll survive the week.  Sleep has been elusive, but the daylight hours have been OK.  "Vale," as they say in Spain.  (OK, Cool, Fine, Great.)

Monday night — Dale's birthday — Jerry and I went to Carmela for dinner.  The service was, as always, warm and friendly.  The mojitos were not, as they usually are, delicious.  Remember "Carmela" who walked around like she owned the place?  Well, her name's not Carmela.  It's Mai.  Her son manages things, and he is extremely nice.  He asked how things were and I told him the mojitos were kind of odd and not as good as usual.  He had them made again, but they still were disappointing.  Apparently, they had different brown sugar and it completely changed the consistency.  Oh well.  I drank mine anyway and Jerry and I toasted to Dale's memory.

THE ANTIQUES MARKET TODAY AT CALLE FERIA.

On the walk over, I noticed that Jerry appeared to be a bit down.  He told me during dinner that his mood had crashed.  I told him simply and directly that it wasn't his turn.  We have an unwritten rule that we can't both be totally out of sorts at the same time.  It was my turn.  He laughed, said I was right, and saved it for another day.  What a trooper.

JESUS AND MANY VIRGINS STANDING GUARD OUTSIDE A GRAND OLD BAR.

Tuesday afternoon, I met Albert and Co. for a quick beer.  Always a pleasure.  Jerry and I then had a delightful dinner out with Margarita, who saw our apartment for the first time and gave it a rave review and her Sevillana Seal of Approval.

A LITTLE BIT OF THIS.  A LITTLE BIT OF THAT.

Tuesday evening, Jerry said he would give the English-language customer service line at Vodafone one more try to see if we could make any progress with our home phone.  Our assumption was that he would again be unsuccessful and I would then walk over to the Vodafone store and put up a bit of a stink.  He phoned.  He got a wonderful rep, who had him explain everything and then repeated it back to him to make sure he clearly understood.  He then got the technical department on the line and worked with them while translating to Jerry.  He would instruct Jerry to do something and ask for the results.  He'd then relay the info to the techies for more input.  He finally asked how the phone was plugged into the router — in line 1 or line 2.  The Telefonica installer had it plugged into line 2.  The rep told Jerry to change it to line 1.  Jerry did so and the problem was solved.  We had service.  Jerry, in his exuberance, offered the rep 28 gold stars.  The rep was very excited to have them.  So, we are grateful to an individual at Vodafone who was smart, helpful, diligent, and successful.  We are not grateful to the other six phone reps at Vodafone who lied to us for three weeks.  The rep gets 28 gold stars.  Vodafone gets a thumbs down.

THERE ACTUALLY WERE SOME TREASURES AMONG THE RUINS.

This morning we met Albert for breakfast at Casa Santos.  We hope he appreciates how special he is to see us cleaned up and out of the house for a 9:20 breakfast.  Lola joined us.  She and I are going to start getting together twice a week for an hour at Santos. Tuesdays we'll speak only English and Thursdays we'll speak only Spanish. Margarita happened to drop by while we were there and we all had a great time together. Jerry and I then joined Margarita for a walk over to Calle Feria. Every Thursday morning, there is an antiques and second-hand market in the neighborhood. Lots of people.  Lots of wonderful finds. Lots of junk. Margarita found some great old books. Jerry and I, the former conspicuous consumers, saw loads of things our old selves would have snapped up.  We resisted.  We were seriously tempted by a spectacular ceramic pot in an elegant wrought iron stand. It would be great in the living room for a large plant. I asked the price and was told it was from Triana (well, no surprise that ceramic work in Sevilla would come from across the river in Triana where most of the ceramics were made) and it was 400 euros ($600). We passed. Instead we bought three beautiful, intricate, antique brass handles that we needed for our dining room cabinet and a cabinet in my bedroom. Total cost: 12 euros. You CAN teach an old dog new tricks.

HIS MARKETING STRATEGY DIDN'T APPEAR TO DO HIM ANY GOOD.

Remembering a Big Sister

My sister Dale would be 60 years old today.  It's hard to imagine.  She died of cancer at the age of 29 after a 3-1/2-year battle, which means she's been gone more years than she lived. She died five months before I met Jerry.  Her death eased my way out of the closet.  Something that had been causing me so much grief didn't seem to be such a big deal anymore.  So, in addition to everything else I owe her, maybe I owe her that, too.

She is always in my thoughts and I just want you to know her a little bit on her birthday.  She was 2 years and 9 months my senior and she was my idol.  I doubt she ever realized that.  I was the one who was good in school and made no effort.  I may not have lived up to expectations for my father who wanted a macho, star-athlete for a son, but I was a good kid who didn't get into trouble. I went to college and made my father proud on at least that level.  He wanted me to continue to grad school, but I really wanted to be an artist and didn't see the point.  He was obviously pleased I had gone that far.

Dale barely squeaked her way out of high school.  And trouble tended to find her.  She was never in any major, serious trouble, but she was always aggravating and worrying our parents.  Whenever they would have to deal with another situation with Dale, my mother would turn to me and say, "You'll never do anything like this to me."

Honestly, I did a lot more seriously bad things than Dale did.  A lot more!  I just never got caught.  Dale knew and never once gave me away.  And it never ever crossed my mind that she might.  She was loyal.

Dale loved and needed to be needed.  If there was anyone in need, she was the first one there.  I was a sickly kid until I had my tonsils out at the age of 12.  I would regularly run high fevers and become delirious.  In my night terrors, if Dale hadn't already come into my room to soothe me, I would go into hers.  Never to my parents.  When I was 8 and a neighbor kid, Vinnie Mancuso, hit me in the eye with a baseball bat (accidentally), another neighbor rushed my mother and me to the hospital.  Dale, who had been playing ball with us at the time, went back outside and punched Vinnie.  Poor Vinnie.  I knew from my experience as her bossed-around little brother that Dale's punch packed quite a wallop.

Dale and I fought plenty when we were kids. But, we never held a grudge.  And we were very quickly out shopping, going to the beach, or doing something else together.  She had expensive taste, loved to shop, and helped me develop some bad (but fun) spending habits.  I was still pretty tight with my money, though, and managed to save quite a bit.  I never spent like Dale.  She got married and moved to England when she was 21, having worked for  three years after high school as a clerk for the New York Police Department.  While she worked, she continued to live with my parents, so had plenty of money for trips to Europe and for clothing.  I worked summers for very little money and I worked Saturdays the rest of the year for even less (I had a friend who called them "rich kid's jobs"; I wasn't a rich kid, but I liked to pretend I was). My parents gave me a little bit of spending money.  Dale got paid every Thursday.  On her way home from work, she would go shopping in the city. Bloomingdale's was her favorite.  Every Friday, Dale would "borrow" money from me to make it to her next paycheck.  I never saw any of that money again.

Dale also taught me to dance.  Days before every formal affair, she would drag me into her room to teach me some new steps so I wouldn't "embarrass her." What she taught me were the moves of the Dave Clark 5, the Temptations, the Four Tops, and every other group she liked.  To this day, I dance like I'm a back-up singer.

My sister was a beauty.  She was statuesque and athletic — standing over 5'10" (180cm), with almond-shaped eyes, high cheekbones, thick and wavy chestnut hair.  When I was in my teens and we would be out together, I would imagine that strangers thought we were a couple. "Look at him with that beauty," I figured they were thinking.  Idiotic, since although I was no beauty, it was very obvious we were sister and brother.

These all seem like such unimportant things.  But these are the things on my mind today.

By the time Dale died, she spoke with an English accent and inflections.  A far cry from the way she spoke when she left Brooklyn less than nine years earlier. When she was 16, she began corresponding with a pen pal in Japan.  Fumiko was 17.  They became the best of friends and remained so until Dale died 13 years later.  Fumiko got married and moved to the United States for a time, right before Dale got married and moved to England.  They never had a chance to meet in person.

About a year after Dale died, Fumiko sent my mother a cassette tape of a phone conversation they had during their first year of friendship.  At that time, Fumiko's English was poor and Dale's Japanese was non-existent.  My mother and I decided to listen to the tape even though we knew we would probably cry the entire time.  My father said he couldn't do it and stayed away.  Jerry stood outside the closed bedroom door.  We held our breath and turned on the tape.  First we heard Fumiko's voice.  Then, we heard a squeaky, little-girl voice with a powerful New York City accent.  We had forgotten what Dale could sound like.  It was her polite, telephone voice.  We looked at each other and started to laugh.  And, by the end of the tape, we were laughing so hard tears were streaming down our cheeks.  Jerry came in, the picture of concern.  Through my laughter, I said, "You have to hear this." And I rewound the tape.

Fumiko was telling Dale that she had just won a beauty contest and, as a result, had received a scholarship to college.  She was trying to explain to Dale in very fractured English that it was a music scholarship sponsored by a company that specialized in that. Dale was not "getting it" and was responding in what is best described as Brooklynese.

"In-stru-ments," Fumi carefully said.

"IN-stru-MENTS?" Dale sang back.

"Moo-zee-kull in-stru-ments," explained Fumi.

"MEW-zi-CUL instruments?" questioned Dale.

"Yamaha," said Fumi.

"Yamaha?" Dale repeated.  "Well, we got a Yamaha here.  But they make motorcycles."

Not a Revolution. Just a Revuelto.

Just a quick post to share this picture of today's beautiful home-cooked Spanish lunch.   Jerry made a revuelto and it was delicioso!

Heard on the Street

It's another beautiful Sunday in Sevilla.  This morning, Jerry and I puttered around the house with all the doors and windows open, enjoying the cool  (72F, 22C) before the temperatures began to rise again (to 90F, 30C).

Right around noon, I was sitting here at my computer when I became aware of the very strong fragrance of incense.  I heard voices and what sounded like chanting on the street, but didn't register anything until Jerry called out to me that there was a procession coming down Calle Baños, heading our way.

Jerry was standing on one of the living room balconies, looking west onto Calle Baños.  I joined him to see — and hear the singing of — a beautiful small procession carrying a statue of the virgin.  (I've mentioned before that Sevilla has a lot of virgins.) We then watched from balcony-to-balcony as the procession turned north onto Calle Cardenal Spinola alongside our building, finally making its way to the small Convent of Santa Rosalía (rebuilt in 1762 after it was destroyed by a fire) just two doors up.

 

SANTA ROSALIA.  BATHED IN HEAVENLY LIGHT?

Entertainment Tonight

We have television service!  Digital+ was here Thursday afternoon and within 10 minutes our television service was up and running.  I don't know what the first installer was playing at last week, but we did not in fact need an antenna or satellite dish.  Everything was already here on the roof.  Yesterday's installer arrived, inserted a tester into the outlet on the wall behind the TV, and gave me the thumbs up.  He then plugged in and set up the box, and then dialed in to set up our premium service.  And he was done.  We can watch BBC News, every sports network in existence (maybe an exaggeration), movies and shows from all over the world, and Jennifer Love Hewitt in "Ghost Whisperer" — in English — until we're blue in the face (which means we can't make it through a single episode; she makes us both a little crazy).

FLAMENCA ABOVE A WORKING TELEVISION.

THIS OLD HOUSE
I picked up the framed "Flamenca" yesterday.  She wasn't matted as we'd expected and instead was mounted atop the board.  Chalk it up to another lesson in communication.  We still love her anyway and she has now taken her position of prominence in the living room.

WE REALLY NEED SOME PLANTS.  SOME BIG PLANTS.

PHONE SERVICE IN THE DIGITAL AGE
Jerry called Vodafone this morning at 10:20.  We still don't have that land line, which Jerry was told would be live last Friday.  The rep said he couldn't reach his colleague and would call Jerry back in a half hour to hour.  After four and a half hours — I wonder if Vodafone considers that within the promised range — I called Vodafone again.  

NOT ALL SETTLED, BUT NO MORE MESS. I AM HAPPIER.

This time, I spoke with someone I can only describe as a "dim bulb."  He didn't understand what I was unhappy about. (Other than the fact that we have not been given a phone number, can't use our land line, were told we would receive a text message a week ago that would initiate our service, and that someone would call us back this morning?)  He finally said he would have to contact the technical department.  I asked if he was going to ensure that someone would call me back this time, since we were told the same thing at 10:20.  I asked twice and he never gave me a direct answer.  So, in a couple of hours, I'm going to stroll over to the Vodafone store yet again to visit with my friends there.  What is absolutely reassuring is that this, and our initial problems with our Digital+ television service, have nothing to do with my language skills.  Also, I have absolutely no doubt that we will NOT have land line phone service again this weekend.  Jerry is kindly concerned, especially after my meltdown last night, that maybe I shouldn't bother with Vodafone anymore today.  We'll see.


To make ourselves feel better, we did a bit more decorating of the walls.  In addition to "Flamenca," we put up some brass sconces we've had for more than 20 years — purchased when we lived in Connecticut and one of our friends owned a Baldwin Brass shop in Sturbridge, Massachusetts.  We had already put up a couple of antique sconces purchased in Georgetown in the '80s from our friend Carol, who owned an antique store there.  (That's where the pub table came from.)

THE FRENCH CHEF 
 Also, we have a set of framed needlepoint dish towels made for Jerry by his Norwegian grandmother when Jerry turned 21.  Rather than use them, we had them framed not long after we met.  They have been displayed in every one of our kitchens and are now at home in Sevilla.  The towels are in the tradition of a different activity for each day of the week (i.e., a day for washing, ironing, darning socks, shopping, cooking, serving dinner, and resting).  We had two sets. The other was of a red rooster performing each daily task.  The thing we really love about the set we kept — other than the fact that they were made with love for Jerry by his grandmother — is that they are of a chef (obviously French; you can tell by the mustaches) wearing what look like fishnet stockings! 

NOT MUCH COUNTER SPACE, BUT PLENTY OF ROOM FOR A FRENCH CHEF.

YOU WON'T SEE TURKEY DINNERS — OR FISHNET STOCKINGS — IN OUR SPANISH KITCHEN.

Never Good Enough

It's fascinating — well, maybe disappointing would be more precise — that a person (I) can live to a significant age (longer than my grandmother, nearly as long as my father, twice as long as my sister, 20 years longer than a best friend, and on and on) and still be hit in the face some days with the same feelings I had when I was 12 or 8 or 17 or 26.

This is a brief "true confessions" post, one I write to clear my head and then, I hope, get a good night's sleep.  It's 3:22 in the morning.  I had a bad day. To be honest, although I haven't told you, it hasn't been an easy month.  Much of it is, I know, wrapped up in the fact that my sister's birthday is coming up in a few days.  And she's not here (on this earth) to celebrate it. She hasn't been here for a long time.

September can sometimes be a difficult month for me to get through.  This one, although exciting, finds me a bit up in the air. So, this one has been a bit more emotionally charged.

Yes, at the bottom of it all, I am happy.  I love this new life we're creating in Spain.  I love the challenges, the excitement, the change.  I especially love, more than anything else, the fact that I'm here — doing anything — with Jerry.  I know how fortunate I am.  And, right now, I'm very grateful to Jerry for helping me get through a rough afternoon.

The thing is, although I am grateful, excited, loved, in love, challenged, and in the middle of an unbelievably amazing new adventure with someone who never for a moment bores me, I have moments where I'm reminded that I still don't really like myself much.

I have spent much of my life not feeling quite good enough.  Well, now THAT'S an understatement.  The truth is, I have a challenge some days liking myself at all.  Yesterday was one of those days.  Like I said, I'm very grateful to Jerry for helping me get through.

I'm feeling better, as I hoped I would, just writing this little bit.  I'm not, as my mother would probably suggest, "fishing for compliments." I'm just getting the feelings of self-loathing out of my head.  I come from an extended family of — for the most part, — talented, successful, attractive, over-achievers.  Much of my childhood was spent being reminded of that.  I learned in recent years that many in my extended family have suffered some of the same feelings.  I have not always wanted to be one of them and, at the same time, I have ALWAYS wanted to be one of them.  Sometimes, it just addles my brain.  So, when emotions are running high, as they do in September and as they have especially this September, I am hit in the face with the fact that I still don't like myself much, that I'm just not good enough.  There it is.

So, now I'll go back to sleep having cleared my head.  Maybe this public admission will help long-term.  I wonder if I'll ever be old enough to be good enough.  But, obviously, age has nothing to do with it.

The Street Where We Live

ELEGANTLY LAYERED.

We ate lunch at home today.  Leftover pasta with chicken and pesto.  We had breakfast at home but then had a second one downstairs at El Sanedrín. (So, we didn't earn any points for that meal!)

And... we went back to La Alameda to have pizza for dinner, which included another order of caprese salad.  This one, however, did not look like the Leaning Tower of Pisa (nor did it look like The Cat in the Hat's hat).  But it was equally delicious.

Jerry assembled the new piece of furniture for my bedroom today.  He then assembled a tall bookcase for the hall.  They both look great and I was able to get more organized.  I'll be able to take more photos tomorrow, once Jerry gets the last two boxes out of the living room (after he assembles his two new file cabinets).

HEADING HOME DOWN OUR STREET TONIGHT.

While Jerry assembled furniture mid-day, I had the pleasure of enjoying a beer with Albert and a few of his friends at a little bar near the Church of the Magdalena.  I've had great plans to do a post about the beautiful and historic baroque Church of the Magdalena, but it's always closed when I get there.  I always go there during their posted hours.  I think they must see me coming and quickly close and lock the doors.  One of these days I'll catch them off guard.

LOOKING BACK UP OUR STREET AT THE STEEPLE OF THE CHURCH OF SAN LORENZO.

THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS
Albert has a big heart and has been unbelievably generous with his time and insights... and now his friends.  He made sure I spoke mostly Spanish today, which is a lot more fun to do in a social setting.  Lola is a joy. We had the pleasure of meeting her when we were here in January/February.  And I got to meet a few other very warm and welcoming Sevillanos.  Javier speaks English about how I speak Spanish.  Albert — who speaks English, Spanish, Portuguese, German, Swedish, and I can't remember what else — suggested Javier and I get some practice time by speaking only English together one day and only Spanish together the next. Great idea.

OUR BUILDING COMING UP ON THE LEFT (WHERE THE PEOPLE ARE).

Albert represents a number of very nice vacation rentals in the city.  He is kind, honest, generous, helpful, and so knowledgeable.  If you're ever looking for a nice place to stay, he is the man to help you.  The city should hire him as their official representative, the head of the "welcome wagon."  He is a fount of information on local history and can tell you all the best places to dine, walk, visit, shop, see, tour, and live in Sevilla, as well as much of Spain and Portugal.  He's got big plans for get-togethers at our apartment, which apparently is right at the heart of much of the Semana Santa festivities in April. My understanding is that processions start down the street at the Plaza de San Lorenzo before heading over to our plaza. The first thing Albert mentioned was hot chocolate at our place at 7 in the morning and then watching it all from our balconies.  We can't wait.

COMING AROUND THE CORNER OF DOS DE MAYO.  AND THEN HOME.

Dinner at Home

Jerry cooked dinner tonight.  (And I cleaned up.)  We had pasta and chicken in pesto sauce.  I was about to take a picture of our meal as we sat down for dinner when IKEA showed up with a delivery.  It only took a few minutes, but I sat back down, inhaled my food, and then remembered that I had wanted to take a picture.

If you need a food fix, I've included a slightly blurry shot of last night's Leaning Tower of Caprese salad.  It was even better than it looked.  Plump, sweet tomato that tasted like it had been grown in South Dakota (where I've had the best tomatoes).  Mozarella unlike any I've ever had before.  And luscious mint that Jerry accidently swallowed whole, causing him to cough and sputter and requiring me to run inside and explain in surprisingly good hurried Spanish what he had done and that I needed some bread.  I'm so glad we had hierbabuena (mint) ice cream at Carmela in July.  That's when I finally learned to remember the word "hierbabuena"; otherwise, who knows how things might have turned out last night.  Anyway, it was a pleasure to sit in our own dining room and eat a real meal tonight. (CORRECTION AFTER POST-TIME:  That's, of course, basil.  The mint came from Jerry's mojito!)

Oddly, we chose to have dinner at 7:30.  Like Americans.  We will definitely be sure to not make a habit of that.  (The IKEA delivery guys thought we were a bit odd; I think the early dining was the reason, but I could be wrong.) We're going to head out later for a coffee or something just to stay on Spanish time.  But, breakfast and dinner at home today.  I'm proud of us.

THE ALCOVE AND THE FOYER.  ALL I SEE IS MESS.  A BIT ANAL-RETENTIVE, PERHAPS?

We had gone back to IKEA this morning to buy what we hope will be the last pieces of furniture we'll need.  Another bookcase, more storage and work surface for me, file cabinets, and some other items.  My mood then crashed and I spent a good part of the afternoon napping, reading sad world and US news on the Web, reading beautifully written and very moving blog posts by others that brought tears to my eyes.  Just feeling a little deficient today and wallowing in it.  Jerry's allergies have been active and his ear has been clogged and bothering him for more than a week.  Nothing serious, but annoying and unpleasant for him and that saps his energy and enthusiasm.

LOTS MORE TO BE DONE.  BUT AT LEAST WE CAN SIT DOWN.

I need to assemble furniture tomorrow and get organized.  That always helps.  It's making me a little crazy that there are framed things sitting on the floor, leaning against walls, and without homes.  They've been here since Wednesday.  Why aren't they all in their places?

WELL, MAYBE NOT AS MUCH OF A MESS AS I'M FEELING.

Next comes joining the local gym.  That helps, too.  And then finding someplace to volunteer (but probably not working a telephone helpline).

Casa Olivia de Lopez and Dining Out

OLIVIA DE LOPEZ, EN SEVILLA

Olivia de Lopez arrived safely in Sevilla and has been placed on the wall in our entry foyer.  A plaque will be produced (we hope by a local tile artisan in Triana)  to officially dedicate our home to Olivia de Lopez but it is already known (to us at least) as "Casa Olivia de Lopez."  If you don't know about Olivia, be sure to click on her name anywhere in this paragraph to connect with the earlier post that tells of Olivia's fascinating origins.

EATING OUT
We complained for nearly two months that we were FORCED to eat out every meal because we were living in a hotel.  We've now been in our apartment two weeks.  We eat partial breakfasts at home and then go downstairs to El Sanedrin for coffee and tostadas.  We have not yet had even a portion of a lunch or dinner at home.  So, Jerry suggested that, starting Monday, we eat at home more than we eat out — especially since every dinner out is topped off with ice cream for the walk home.  I agreed but, in response, I suggested we put away all the crap that is covering the kitchen counters.  I will take that task back from Jerry (which I enjoy anyway... organizing!) but it means that, since I do none of the cooking, Jerry will spend the next year asking me where everything is... And I will not remember.  I have a tendency to put things away in safe places.  They remain safe even from me.

REVUELTO CON BACALAO (COD SCRAMBLE)

Today, true to tradition, we headed downstairs to El Sanedrín. But we only had café con leche, having had breakfast in the house.  One meal down.  Two to go.  After working around the apartment for several hours, we went back downstairs and across the street to Amarillo Albero, another very good tapas bar.  We had excellent paella and another exceptional "revuelto" (basically a "scramble").  This one had among other things, eggs, onions, and bacalao (cod).  Delicious.  I still haven't cleared off the kitchen counters.  In my defense, I emptied 15 book boxes and Jerry and I together hung lots more stuff on the walls.  More photos are soon to come.

BROCHETTA DE POLLO (SKEWERED CHICKEN)

Saturday night, at around 9:45, we headed over to La Alameda de Hercules for dinner, intending to have more of that amazing pizza.  But when we got there, we discovered the city was hosting a concert in the square.  The action was directly opposite La Laconda, our little Italian restaurant and pizza place.  I'm sorry to report that headbanger music is not conducive to a quiet dinner and conversation.  Jerry and I surprisingly still like talking to each other.  So we headed back to the south end of the square, where we could hear ourselves think and we enjoyed another delicious dinner at Cafe La Alameda.  I didn't have my camera with me, but my new phone (an HTC Wildfire – Android) does a surprisingly decent job (used for all three food photos in this post).

GRATINATAS DE PATATAS CON JAMON

We had chicken skewers, salmon and white asparagus, and an excellent potato/cheese/Iberian ham dish.  We were looking forward to their ensaladilla rusa and our favorite tuna dish, but they were out of both.  The server, who recognizes us and greets us like neighbors, commented that the square and restaurant were mobbed this evening and they ran out of many items much earlier than usual.  She went on to say (all in Spanish) that the foreigners eat so early!  She said it very kindly, more perplexed than critical.

We were enormously flattered that she didn't lump us in with "the foreigners."  I guess this means we're really home.

Well Hung... For Starters

Our grandfather clock has been re-assembled and is running beautifully.  (Like clockwork?)  Our antique cabinet has been bolted to the wall and filled with glassware — antique and contemporary.  We've begun decorating the walls.  Two large, antique mirrors are up.  And Jerry's great-great-grandfather, John Fairfield Lowell, has pride of place.  We'll now start lightening the mood with some (well-hung) art and sconces.  I can't wait to start buying plants.  Jerry hasn't relinquished his control of the power drill (no hammering nails into the concrete walls).  I think he's afraid I'll get drill-happy and leave seven holes behind each item I hang.  He's probably right.  I like to "eyeball" — something else I inherited from my father.  The major difference: I eyeball, hang, eyeball, move, eyeball, move... until I'm satisfied.  My father would eyeball, hang, and that was that.  (But, I do sometimes measure.)

VIOLA'S HUSBAND, JOHN FAIRFIELD LOWELL.
THE GRANDFATHER CLOCK.  THE FIRST PIECE WE BOUGHT TOGETHER.
PAINE FURNITURE CO., BOSTON, 1981.

It makes me so happy to be getting settled and to be enjoying all the memories these personal items revive.  We have easily less than 5 percent of what we used to have.  I know we could live without these remaining things, but not without the memories.

NOT FINISHED, BUT AT LEAST MORE SETTLED.
WE FOUND THE ANTIQUE CABINET IN ESSEX, MASSACHUSETTS, 1982.

No land line yet.  No television (although we can at least use the DVD player).  But, we've got a lightning-quick internet connection (much faster than what we had in Irvine), large computer monitors instead of our puny laptop screens, and we got to eat breakfast with real silverware this morning (no more plastic spoons).  So mature.

Jerry is a Genius and I Love Him

MY CAFÉ CON LECHE.

The kitchen is still a mess; the counters are covered with things that haven't yet found their new places.  So, this morning, I had a quick bowl of yogurt and fruit, Jerry had a quick bowl of cereal, and we headed downstairs to El Sanedrín for a more relaxed breakfast. (El Sanedrín is the cafe/bar to the right of our front door; Dos de Mayo is the tapas bar to the left.)  I had a half serving of tostada, Iberian ham, their exceptional local olive oil, and tomato puree.  Jerry had an entire serving ("of course," he says) of tostada with marmalade and butter, and a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice.  After breakfast,  Jerry went grocery shopping and I came back upstairs to continue to organize, do laundry, and just get settled.

MY TOSTADA.

When Jerry got back from Mercadona, he unpacked the groceries and we went to Dos de Mayo for lunch, which was delicious — beautiful battered and fried (OK, not the healthiest choice) langostinos and a beans and fish tapa that I ordered because Jerry thought it looked good.  (I knew I would hate it, but I wanted him to be happy.)  Well, it was delicious and I was happier than he was.

We then came back upstairs and Jerry sat down to see if he could figure out our connectivity problems before having to call Vodafone again.  I headed back out to run a few errands.  I returned home less than an hour later and Jerry opened the door before I could turn my key in the lock.  He was beaming.

CREPE MYRTLE ACROSS THE PLAZA.  ALICE IS HERE!

"It's working!  Sit down at your computer and see."  The router currently sits in the alcove between the foyer and the living room.  My bedroom is almost as far away as you can get in the apartment and there are several thick concrete walls between.  We walked down the long hall.  I sat down at my desk.  I clicked on Firefox.  And, in a heartbeat, I was connected.  I clicked on my desktop email and all my new messages appeared.  Jerry had figured it out without even phoning Vodafone a second time.  I already knew he was a genius.  I already knew I loved him.  But, well, he is and I do.

OUR COAT RACK— PURCHASED IN WASHINGTON, D.C. IN 1984 — WAS MADE FOR THIS SPACE.
ONCE AGAIN, A PLACE TO HANG OUR HATS.  (NOW WE HAVE TO BUY HATS.)

If The Truck Fits

We have our stuff!  Today’s truck fit down every neighborhood street… but one.  And that street was the result of a wrong turn on the part of the driver (which added an extra hour to the trip). Sevilla is not easy to navigate.

BEFORE ALL THE BOXES WERE EMPTIED.

We paid for packing and unpacking — in advance.  But no one told the final delivery company that we had paid for unpacking.  And, since the unpacking money hadn’t been shared with the final delivery company, they wouldn’t unpack for us.  We’ll battle that out with our original company. We certainly wouldn’t recommend them, but it was still worth the ENORMOUS difference in cost to go with the cheaper (although obviously poorer quality) shipper.

I unpacked today while the two very nice and competent delivery guys brought the stuff up.  They agreed to haul away any boxes and packing materials that I had ready to go when they finished their work.  I had all but six boxes remaining by the time they left, and I emptied those and hauled that stuff down on my own a couple of hours later.

THE 1870-SOMETHING ENGLISH PUB TABLE.  PURCHASED SOMEWHERE IN
THE NORTHEASTERN USA IN THE 1980s. SHIPPED TO SPAIN VIA ENGLAND IN 2011.

Even amid all the mess, we love the way things are looking.  Seeing our stuff made us both feel immediately “home.”  Even our IKEA furniture now feels like ours and not like we are living in some sterile, furnished apartment.

Given how much “stuff” we got rid of before leaving the United States, it’s amazing how much “stuff” we still have! 

JUST BEFORE THAT LAST BOX (CENTER) WAS UNPACKED THIS AFTERNOON.
RIGHT FOREGROUND: ONE OF TWO TUBS OF CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS.

We have lots of wall space and I was happy to see that we shipped a lot more things for the walls than I had realized.  I love to hang pictures, mirrors, sconces, etc.  If I don’t like the position (say I think it would be better one inch to the left or a half-inch lower), I just pull out the hook and move it. Lots of patching gets done before I move.  These walls are concrete.  I’m going to have to adjust my mode of operation.  (Jerry will be greatly relieved.)

VODAFONE — INTERNET AND LANDLINE

While I worked with the movers, Jerry worked with Vodafone. It was exactly as we had suspected.  Telefonica simply got things ready for Vodafone to complete the work.  Too bad no one told us that’s how it works!  But, Jerry got great help today from Vodafone and was told we’d receive three text messages with different information.  The final message would provide our landline phone number.  Jerry was told to simply follow the instructions in the first two messages to get the internet working the way it should.  We received the first two messages.  Jerry did as instructed.  It did not work.  He will call Vodafone again in the morning.

DIGITAL+

I sent a very polite complaint email to Digital+ after my unhappy experience with the installer and my appalling phone conversation with customer service.  I received two very gracious and very apologetic calls from Digital+ today.  A new installer will be here in the next few days (they will call to schedule) to install our satellite dish (antenna) and get our TV channels working.

It’s been a very productive week… and it’s only Wednesday!  But, someone needs to tell me to slow down.  I want all the pictures hung tomorrow.

Installed, Not Working, Soon To Be Furnished.

Such an “interesting” process.  I received a call from the Telefonica installer at 3:30 this afternoon.  He would be at the apartment around 5 or 6 in the evening to do the hardwired internet hookup.  I didn’t know anyone was coming today, but where else would we be?  So, no complaints.

WHAT I WAS LOOKING AT JUST A FEW BLOCKS FROM THE HOUSE WHEN TELEFONICA CALLED.  MAGICAL.

We contracted with Vodafone.  So, I was momentarily confused.  But then I remembered Jerry mentioning that Telefonica still had the monopoly on the phone lines. He therefore suspected that Telefonica would be doing the installation no matter who we contracted with.  I confirmed this fact with the installer.  Jerry was of course correct.

The installer got delayed on the job before ours and didn’t get here until around 8.  He was a very nice guy named Enrique, and he seemed to know what he was doing.  However, he couldn’t install a new phone outlet in the office, which is where we want the router to sit.  He said Vodafone does that.  I had asked Vodafone about this earlier in the week and was told it would be easily done as part of the installation.  He also couldn’t tell us our landline phone number, which I thought we would learn at the time of installation.  He said Vodafone would tell us.  Hmmm. So, the router and phone are sitting on the floor in the alcove off the living room plugged into the only phone outlet in the apartment.

EXCEPT FOR THE TOOL BAG WITH ENRIQUE'S FLOWER APPLIQUE,
THIS IS WHAT OUR NON-FUNCTIONING HOOK-UP LOOKS LIKE RIGHT NOW.

Enrique left very pleased with the signal strength, which was clearly glowing on the front of the router.  The landline phone was plugged in, too.  After he departed, I tried to call my cell phone.  I figured my mobile would display the number I was calling from and the mystery of our home phone number would be solved.

There was just one problem.  We had no service on the landline.

Jerry then tried connecting to the internet via our great new WiFi connection.  Forty-five minutes later, he hadn’t gotten very far. So, he plugged the “stick” back into the side of his laptop and connected the original wireless way.  Two steps forward, two steps back? But, we are at least not dead in the water.

We suspect that Vodafone will now schedule a separate final installation of our internet and landline.  Vodafone is much better with communications than is Telefonica (surprise!).  They texted me last week and said they (not Telefonica) would be here in about a week to complete installation.  Our assumption is that they will now be informed that Telefonica has completed our hook-up to the building’s phone lines and that will put things in motion.  We’ll see. 

I’d walk over to visit my friends at Vodafone in the morning to find out for sure, but I will instead be waiting for delivery of our furniture!!!

MY PERSONAL PIZZA CELEBRATION TONIGHT AT LA LACONDA,
A FANTASTIC AND FRIENDLY ITALIAN RESTAURANT ON LA ALAMEDA DE HERCULES. 

Ruth (remember Ruth?) phoned this morning to say she had managed to schedule us for delivery Wednesday instead of Friday.  The truck is supposed to leave Malaga around 7 in the morning, which gets it here between 10 and 11, she thinks.  We can’t believe it.  Jerry hasn’t heard back from anyone in response to his “scathing” email sent Friday night.  We think maybe Ruth moved us up as a result of that email, but we’ll never know.  What we DO know is that we MIGHT have our “stuff” Wednesday!

More or less.

It All Comes Out in the Wash

SPANISH LAUNDRY

Clothes dryers are a rarity in Southern Spain (possibly rare in Northern Spain, too).  Self-service launderettes are apparently rare here, as well. A week’s worth of laundry done by a professional service costs between 18 and 43 euros — that’s between $27 and $65 (local laundry as opposed to El Corte Ingles), so that’s not a practical option, although it’s what we did during our entire hotel stay. For large items (like linens and towels), finding a self-service laundry in the neighborhood is still a priority for us.  But, we have an excellent clothes washer in the kitchen and a clothesline outside the window.  

SO MANY NEW EXPERIENCES.

Even our ritzy friend, Albert, does his laundry this way.  He can’t comprehend why Americans would "ruin" our clothes (and waste all that electricity) to machine-dry.  So, today, I took another step toward becoming Sevillano.  I did a load of shirts and hung them on the line.  We’ll have to pick up a drying rack for the bathroom.  In the’70s, I remember sitting and drinking beer in my sister’s backyard in South Yorkshire while I watched her hang clothes on the line.  This is the first time I’ve ever done it myself.  Such incredible excitement!

DEAR JOHN

Before leaving California, we contracted with a shipping company to send to Spain our five pieces of furniture and multiple boxes of cooking supplies, books, art, and other miscellany.  We obtained quotes from two different companies.  The first company was huge, with an international body that handled everything from start to finish. The price tag was also huge. 

The second company was still quite large, but contracted out the components of the move, shipping to England where the Customs process was a breeze and then drop-shipping to Spain.  Their quote was about one third the price.  In our situation (a lack of independent wealth), it was a no-brainer.

And that’s exactly what it’s turned out to be, a process with no brains.  Jerry was told delivery around August 1 would be no problem.  The rep in Florida was a very nice guy, but not quick to respond to Jerry’s emails or phone calls.  He always had some good reason for his delay. And he was always very prompt to respond or follow up when a payment was required.

 THE VIEW FROM ONE OF THE BALCONIES THURSDAY NIGHT — WHILE I TALKED TO THE SHIPPER.

Once the items were shipped, Jerry began to work with a rep from a partner company in England.  He had the same first name as the rep in Florida (let’s just call them “John”).  He also had the same response-time problem, along with the same ability to have a good excuse on hand. English John asked if a large truck could get to the address. Jerry said that no large truck could fit anywhere near our street.  It took weeks of calls from Jerry to English John to get a delivery date.  On or around 1 September, we were finally told.

Thursday night at 11, I received a call from the driver saying he would be here around 9 Friday morning.  He asked me if there was room on our street for his very large lorry.  I told him absolutely not.  In the morning, the driver rang our bell.  He had walked about a half mile from where he had left his very, very large lorry. He spoke no Spanish except to ask me when I answered the buzzer in Spanish, “Hoe-lah. Ha-blow in-glaze?” 

This one cannot be blamed on our lack of Spanish competency.

To wind up a long, boring, whiney story, our stuff will be driven to Malaga tomorrow where it will be moved to a smaller truck and sent the two hours back up to be delivered on Friday. Jerry and I wrote a scathing letter (well, scathing is an exaggeration) to the two “Johns” we contracted with.  Frustrating, but obviously not tragic — and still worth the hugely lower price tag.  Less than a week and we’ll have our stuff… we hope!

ON OUR WAY IN FOR LUNCH TODAY.

PAELLA AND TORTILLA

After lounging in bed all morning, we discovered we had no food in the house.  So we went downstairs at noon for breakfast. We came back upstairs, we reviewed and Jerry sent the “Dear Johns” letter, and I had my very satisfying encounter with the clothesline.  

PAELLA, TORTILLA, AND CERVEZA.

A few ours later, we took a stroll in the neighborhood, did some shopping, and then stopped at Café Santa Marta for a late lunch.  They have excellent paella and tortillas (egg and potato “pie” here as opposed to the tortillas of Mexico).  We had both.  Jerry’s two Coca Cola Lites were the most expensive part of the meal.  My beer (a small glass is called “una caña”), Jerry’s sodas, two tapas portions of paella, and our shared tortilla — and the cost was significantly less than a simple lunch at Burker King — and so much better.  Amazing.  And delicious.

THE ARCHWAY OVER THE DOWN ESCALATOR LEADING TO OUR SUPERMARKET.
IN THE FORMER BUS TERMINAL.  JERRY NEEDS TO GET BACK THERE SOON.

Watch Your Language

The last time we went to IKEA (Monday of last week, I think), we had a delightful taxi driver named Paco who talked with us the entire time.  He had a great sense of humor and about 12 cups of coffee worth of energy.  He was originally from Pamplona in the north of Spain. The Spanish he spoke was Castellano, which is the Spanish of my Rosetta Stone language program, and the Spanish of formal business and education. Jerry and I found Paco extremely easy to understand.  We were able to have a very good conversation and Jerry followed quite a bit of it without my needing to translate it all.

NOT CREPE MYRTLE.  AN UNKNOWN (TO US) FLOWERING TREE IN OUR PLAZA.

Paco has lived in Sevilla for 18 years and thinks it is one of the most wonderful cities around (we agree).  But he said that — for at least his first three months in the city — he understood less than half of what the locals said to him.  He joked about Sevillanos barely pronouncing their single “r’s” instead of rolling them like he does.  He complained they spoke so fast he couldn’t tell where one word ended and the next began.  It sounded like he was describing New Yorkers and I told him so, which he found very funny.  It was encouraging for us to realize we could actually understand a lot of Spanish when spoken slowly and not in local dialect.  Paco’s enunciation was precise and beautiful.  (Is it really too much to ask that everyone speak to us as if they are narrating a documentary?)

Like Paco, we will have to get used to the local dialects. And, unfortunately, by the time we do get used to “Southern Spanish,” we will have already made our way tortuously through all our major purchases, moves, and installations.

FINALLY RAIN.  WET STREETS FOR THE TV INSTALLER TO SLOSH THROUGH.

In the meantime, Digital+ (the cable television company that truly provides exceptional service) was here this morning during a brief, but beautiful, downpour and I was reminded once again that I no longer demonstrate the communication skills of a semi-intelligent adult.  The installer spoke a dialect of Southern Spain that enabled me to understand possibly two out of every 10 words.  The only thing I immediately understood clearly was when he looked at the outlets behind the TV and said we didn’t have what we needed.  Apparently we need to have some kind of antenna ("satellite") installed either on the roof or on the outside wall near the TV outlet.  I took him downstairs to the lawyers’ office.  Neither of the lawyers were in; their assistant called the boss and he told her it would be absolutely fine for us to install something outside but he needed to be here to approve where it goes.  Perfectly understandable.  He’ll be back tomorrow morning to check it out and give us the nod.

AT LEAST WE ARE NOW CAPABLE OF ORDERING A MEAL.
MOUTH-WATERING SALMON, ASPARAGUS, AND PIMENTOS AT CAFE ALAMEDA MONDAY NIGHT.

Out of the next 40 words from the installer, I understood the eight that explained that Digital+ did not do the antenna and outlet installation.  We’d need to get someone else for that before Digital+ comes back to plug their box into our wall outlet to give us our service.  (I guess I lied.  It appears my ratio of words spoken to words understood was much greater than 10:2.)  

After the installer left, I was ready to throw in the towel and head back to Movistar/Telefonica for simple cable — and wait seven or more years for their installer to show up.  I used a few choice English words I'm not supposed to use and then, fortunately, Jerry talked me off the ledge.  He went online and found someone who installs everything Digital+ needs.  I'll just have to attempt to communicate with this new Sevillano.  Maybe I'll be lucky and he'll have grown up in Northern Spain.  

So, another thing that should have been easy to accomplish is made slightly more difficult because I don’t speak Spanish well, and then even more difficult because I don’t readily understand “Southern" Spanish.

I wonder if we should have moved to Pamplona.

ON SECOND THOUGHT, MAYBE PAMPLONA'S NOT SUCH A GOOD IDEA.  EVEN MORE BULL.