I Didn't Cook

After my great triumph in the kitchen Saturday, I felt it was important to step aside and once again give Jerry the chance to demonstrate his culinary skills.  What he prepared for dinner last night was exceptional — perhaps not as exceptional as my freshly microwaved Twinings Earl Grey tea from the bag, but then everything is relative.

MODERN ART.
CREMA DE GARBANZOS CON JAMON CRUJIENTE.

Dinner was Garbanzo Cream with Ham Cracklings (chickpea puree soup).  It was drizzled with freshly made paprika oil (heated olive oil infused with smoked sweet Spanish paprika), which smelled incredible and tasted even better. The recipe came from the pages (82–84) of the amazing cookbook, "The New Spanish Table," and can be easily adapted for vegetarian tastes (so easily that even I can figure it out... I think).

Chocolate Donuts and Safe Sex

Jerry and I went out for a quick cup of coffee this evening with Teré.  She had just finished work and, before heading home, wanted a little pastry to hold her over until dinner time.  The café we went to has great tapas, but only packaged pastries, so Teré got a package of Madeleines (Magdalenas) and Jerry and I split a package of two chocolate glazed donuts.

While we ate, Teré commented that normally you would only buy donuts fresh the day they are baked, but now they have these packaged ones.  I commented in Spanish that all we were eating were "preservativos" and Teré burst out laughing.  What could be so funny about preservatives, I thought.  Teré explained that what I really meant was "additivos." Well, that obviously means additives.  But, what could be so funny about what I said.  I was simply being more specific.  Teré was still laughing.

Preservativos are condoms.

I Cooked

When we moved to Las Vegas in 2007, it took me three weeks to "cook" myself breakfast.  That involved opening a packet of microwave oatmeal, pouring the dry contents into a bowl, adding a quarter cup of milk, placing it in the microwave, setting the timer, and pressing start.  When the microwave "dinged," I removed the bowl, stirred in a cup of yogurt (very gourmet), and ate.  I was  proud of myself (still am) and I told Jerry so.  He was not impressed.

THIS IS NOT WHAT I COOKED TODAY.
(JUST A SIMPLE LUNCH BY JERRY.)

It has taken me more than two months to finally "cook" in our kitchen in Sevilla.  But, I overcame my fear and did so this afternoon.  I didn't even need to read the instructions to figure out how to work the microwave.

IF YOU'D LIKE THE RECIPE, LET ME KNOW.
(HINT: I ADDED MILK.)

What Happened to the Wisteria?

Here in Sevilla, we currently have three lonely house plants.  We'll eventually get more, but we'll probably wait until spring before we plant anything on the balconies.  When we lived in Guilford, Connecticut — the money pit — we had large gardens to maintain and enjoy. Attached to the back of the house was an expansive, old, creaky deck.  We, of course, decided to replace the deck with something crisper and more stable, which meant that some of the old plantings surrounding it were trampled or cut back.  Clematis grew at the bottom of the main stairs to the backyard.  During the deck construction, the new growth was completely trampled.  So we were thrilled and surprised to see it come back to life and begin to thrive.

THE OLD DECK.  THE DEAD WOOD OF THE CLEMATIS ON THE RIGHT.

Our friend Judy has regularly visited us wherever we've lived.  When she stayed with us in Connecticut, she "earned her keep" by spending hours weeding the flower beds.  Judy is the ideal weeder; she zones out and completely focuses on the task at hand.  She always worked hard when she visited but we would allow her some moments here and there to relax.

YEAR TWO. NEW DECK AND NEW TRELLIS (FAR RIGHT) FOR THE STILL-DORMANT CLEMATIS.

One afternoon as I vacuumed the pool, which was located halfway down a hill away from the house,  Judy sat across from me reading a book and dangling her feet in the water.  Jerry was up at the house watering plants around the deck.  Suddenly, he called out.

"What happened to the wisteria?"  He sounded angry and having already inspected the plantings around the deck myself I knew exactly what he was referring to.

I turned my back to Judy blocking her view of Jerry, trying to discreetly wave my hands across my body to let him know to not go any further.  He didn't catch on.

"Who pulled out the wisteria?!?" He was clearly upset.

Judy asked, "What's he talking about?"

"Who knows." I responded with mock indifference as I turned my back again and waved my hands in his direction.

"But, the wisteria!" he sputtered and I realized it was hopeless.

I gave up and turned to Judy, "There was no wisteria.  He's talking about the clematis," I explained.  "You 'weeded' the clematis."

Jerry again called out, "What happened to the wisteria?"

But this time, Judy sweetly called back, "Nothing.  But I pulled out the clematis."

We all cracked up.  All was forgiven and Judy flew home to Seattle about a week later.

Not long after that, the clematis came up from the ground with multiple shoots.  It was stronger and more lush than before.  So much for Judy's 'weeding' skills. 

JUDY'S CLEMATIS ONE YEAR LATER.

A few years later, we planted wisteria in San Diego.  We didn't let Judy anywhere near it.

NO LONGER WORRIED ABOUT THE WISTERIA, JERRY AND SOME FRIENDS ENJOY MY CLEAN POOL. 

A Little Crooked House

There was a crooked man and he walked a crooked mile.

He found a crooked sixpence upon a crooked stile.

He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse.

And they all lived together in a little crooked house.

A BIT OF A FIXER-UPPER ON PLAZA DE LA ENCARNACIÓN.

Our house is not crooked.  It is level, solid, renovated, and in excellent condition.  But many of the houses we pass are not in the same shape.

A VIEW FROM A BALCONY. UNDULATING WALLS.

Given that some of the houses we see around town are anywhere from 100 to over 600 years old, it's no surprise they're bent and twisted.  However, it's a wonder some of the buildings I've seen are still able to stand.

A VIEW FROM ANOTHER BALCONY.
NOTE THE UNINTENDED SWAG TO THE WINDOW TRIM.

Without help, some of the crooked buildings won't be standing much longer. Fortunately, many have been reinforced and only appear to be twisting and collapsing into themselves.

WITH MASSIVE REINFORCING BEAMS INSIDE, THIS CAFÉ WILL BE AROUND FOR A WHILE,
(WHICH PERHAPS GIVES THEM SOME TIME TO IMPROVE THE SERVICE.)

Getting to Chinatown

Since our arrival in Sevilla in July, Jerry and I have said some funny things in Spanish — while not intending to say some funny things in Spanish (remember when I said cojones — anatomical balls — instead of cajas — cardboard boxes).  And Margarita has misunderstood some of what we've said (remember when she thought we were saying Jerry was from Santacoda as opposed to South Dakota, and then tried to find Santacoda on a map).

But the "lost in translation" flub that now has me laughing is one I heard Friday night at a wonderful dinner arranged by Albert and Lola, when we met Manuela, Alejandro, and Alejandro's sister Pastori.

Alejandro knows only a few words of English and he told his story of going to New York some years ago.  He was in Midtown Manhattan and wanted to visit Chinatown.  The extent of his English at the time was, I think, "excuse me,"  "hello," and possibly "thank you."  Alejandro is not shy.  He figured if he simply hailed a cab and then said to the cab driver, "Excuse me, Chinatown," the driver would understand and get him there.

The New York cabby did a double-take when this burly, well-dressed man jumped into the back seat and announced in a rich basso voice "Kiss me, Cheenatown!"

Music to My Ears

I had the joy last night of seeing a live performance at the bar downstairs.  Teré (short for Terésa) works days at El Sanedrín waiting tables, tending bar, and making people feel at home.  Three nights a week, she sings at a club outside of town — a club too far for us to easily visit without a car.  So, we were elated when she told us that she would be performing right here in our building on Halloween night.

Teré is one of those people who brightens any day just by being in it.  We see her and get to visit with her every morning when we go downstairs for café con leche and breakfast #2.  The first time we met her, she warmly welcomed us as neighbors and gave us both "Spanish kisses."  She speaks little English, just some pat phrases she has picked up over time.  But her pronunciation is impeccable.  It must be her musical ear.  I arrived downstairs around midnight and Teré, dolled up like a mod Bride of Frankenstein, was already mid-song.  What a voice!

WHETHER SINGING SWEETLY OR BELTING IT OUT, PHENOMENAL TALENT.

Between numbers, Teré actually introduced her friend "Mee-TCHELL" to the audience.  During her 10-minute break between sets, she grabbed me and asked if I wanted to head next door to Dos de Mayo so she could get a quick snack.  Unfortunately, Dos de Mayo was closing up for the night.  No food for Teré but, as a consolation prize, all the guys behind the bar sang to us.

SLOW ON THE DRAW WITH MY CAMERA,
I MISSED CATCHING THE DOS DE MAYO QUARTET IN FULL SONG.

After her break, Teré sang a bunch more songs in English, phonetically — some that I knew, some that I did not.  She also sang several songs in Spanish that were a huge hit with the audience.  She even sang one song in Portuguese, also phonetically.  The music, the spontaneous rhythmic clapping (Flamenco style) carried me away.  I, who don't dance, was actually swaying like a Spaniard at times.  (From what I've seen, Spaniards — well, Sevillanos — know how to move.)  Her delivery was so powerful, whether she was belting or singing a ballad, that I was moved even when I didn't understand all that was being sung.  I had tears in my eyes by the end of "Killing Me Softly."  Move over, Roberta Flack!

The small bar was filled with admirers, some clearly knew what they were in for. Others were — like me — blown away.  I wish she had a CD.  I wish she had a video on YouTube. I wish she would sing to me every morning while I'm drinking my coffee.

THE STAR THIS AFTERNOON.  BACK BEHIND THE BAR.

To Hispalis and Back Without the Flu

This afternoon, after lunch at Mesón Olalla next to the Metropol Parasol, Jerry and I finally went underground to pay a visit to the Antiquarium Sevilla, the new museum space created beneath the public market and Metropol Parasol. It was the first time we used our residency cards, which get us in to local attractions free of charge!

Later in the day, those cards also got us FREE flu shots.  Jerry and I were slammed simultaneously in 1990 with debilitating cases of the flu.  I would get hit hard every year, but was always used to having Jerry there to take care of me.  (He's a great nurse.)  We've gotten our shots ever since.

BREATHTAKING MOSAICS.

THE REMNANTS OF ONE OF SEVERAL HOUSES.

But, back to antiquities.  The city had plans to build a large parking garage on the site until exploratory digging (they are very careful to check before anything new is built) led to the discovery less than 10 years ago of ancient ruins dating back to the time (around 150 BC) when Sevilla was known as the Roman city of Hispalis and the Emperor Tiberius was in power.

TOUCH-SCREENS WITH ANIMATION THAT "REBUILDS" ANCIENT HOMES AND STREETS.

ALL BENEATH THE CONTEMPORARY METROPOL PARASOL AND PUBLIC MARKET.

The design is another brilliant juxtaposition of the old and the new in this amazing city.  The antiquarium opened in April and is spectacular, although clearly not completely finished — no brochures; no gift shop; an empty gallery soon to be filled with household goods found at the site; nothing yet in English, German, French, Italian, and other languages for international visitors.

FROM 150 BC. THE LARGEST ROMAN FISH SALTING VATS (SALAZONES) FOUND IN SPAIN.

MOTION-SENSITIVE LIGHTING. GLASS FLOORS TO EXPOSE FOUNDATIONS AND SEWER SYSTEMS.

Included in the museum are breathtaking mosaics beautifully preserved.  The Antiquarium takes us through time from the very ancient Roman ruins to more modern areas dating from the 2nd century AD and on.  The most recent structure found here is a 12th-century house from the time of the Moors.

MORE BEAUTIFUL, AND PAINSTAKINGLY PRESERVED, MOSAIC WORK.

HEADING BACK OUTSIDE.

The Ancient Amid the Modern

One of the many things I love about Sevilla is the blending of the old and the new.  I already shared in July my first impressions of (and visit to) the Metropol Parasol and the Roman ruins that were discovered beneath.  But, I haven't mentioned my first sighting, when we were here in January, of prominent remnants of a more-than-2,000-year-old Roman aqueduct.

RUNNING DOWN THE CENTER OF THE MODERN STREET. THE MOSAIC IS A LATER ADDITION.

Portions of the aqueduct have been preserved and, as needed, reinforced right in the center of a busy street that runs through one of the more contemporary parts of the city near the neighborhood of Nervión.  The remains are on the same street as (and just one block away from) the vacation apartment we rented during the winter.

A STUDY IN CONTRASTS.

The aqueduct is known as "los caños de Carmona" (the pipes of Carmona) and runs along the modern Calle de Luis Montoto, originally a Roman road known as the East street and later as the Calzada (sidewalk) of the Pipes of Carmona.  (Carmona is a town about a half hour east of Sevilla, famous for its Roman ruins.)  The old Roman road connected Sevilla's Carmona Gate with the city of Córdoba about 142 km (88 miles) away.

AT THE NEXT CORNER, ANOTHER SECTION,  WITH CONTEMPORARY REINFORCEMENT.

The aqueduct was built between 68 and 65 BC — when Julius Caesar conquered Spain.  Most of the water channel was buried for it's 17.5 km (11 mile) length.  Amazingly, the aqueduct was still in use in the 19th century until it was mostly demolished in 1912.

OF COURSE, WITH THE ADDITION
OF A VIRGIN IN CHRISTIAN TIMES.

The Spanish Betty Crocker

Jerry's sister Linda has taken her share of ridicule over the years for her limited skills in the kitchen.  When her sons were growing up, Linda was known for cooking up a delicious — really delicious — lasagna (which is more than I can do), but that was the extent of her culinary powers.  She couldn't understand why egg whites and egg yolks needed to be separated if they were just going to get mixed up with everything else in the end.  And it made perfect sense to her to just turn up the oven temperature if she needed something to cook more quickly.  Interestingly, since her sons left home, Linda has actually become a very good cook.  It probably just wasn't worth the effort with two growing boys who inhaled four boxes of cereal at a sitting.  In fact, many of the meals Jerry served up in recent years were recipes taken from Linda's kitchen.  But, the joke has lingered.

"BETTY" NOW AND IN 1936.
LINDA WOULD BE A MUCH BETTER MODEL.

Over the years, Linda began to refer to herself as Betty Crocker (cultural icon, as well as brand name of mega food corporation General Mills). Betty Crocker was not a real person.  She was created by the Washburn Crosby Company in 1921.  The name "Betty" was selected because it was considered cheery and all-American.  The name Crocker was the last name of the director of the company.

In the 1990s, our cousins Inger and Jan Olaf, and their three kids flew from Bergen, Norway to spend some time with us in San Francisco.  Linda and Tom flew out for a brief visit.  Inger is an exceptionally talented and trained cook and baker, and she was interested in American cooking.  Linda was happy to remind Inger every chance she got that she, Linda, was Betty Crocker. One day Inger said, "But I would love to know what the real Betty Crocker looks like." Linda helpfully framed her own face in her open hands and said, "See?"

Inger has now taken to calling herself the Norwegian Betty Crocker and I think it's time for Jerry to claim Spain as his own.

BREAKFAST

The point of this entire story is that I am well fed, whether in Norway, the United States, or Spain.  This morning, we could not supplement our standard Greek yogurt and fruit with tostadas from El Sanedrín, because it's Sunday in Sevilla and therefore no place in the neighborhood serves breakfast — if they open early enough or at all to even serve a cup of coffee.  So, Jerry said he would "make us some eggs."

BASQUE SCRAMBLED EGGS.

 
After completing the crossword puzzle, I headed into the kitchen to see how Jerry was doing with our eggs.  I should have known after all these years that when Jerry says he'll make us some "eggs," I will not be presented with a simple scramble and a slice of buttered toast.  (Read my post about the "eggs" Jerry threw together in July at my mother's house if you'd like to get up to speed.)  And yet he still surprises me.  Gorgeous and fragrant chorizos were in a pan.  A bowl was filled with a mixture of chopped green and red peppers, onion, and tomatoes.  There was a beautiful slab of country-style bread sitting on a cutting board.  Oh, yes, there was in fact a large bowl of eggs and a sinkful of egg shells. Jerry had cooked us up "Basque Scrambled Eggs" from his newest cookbook purchased just last week, "A Passion for Tapas."

DINNER

Last night, my resident chef used his new cookbook to serve up an amazing dinner.  The main course was Chicken with Raisins and Pine Kernels (red wine vinegar, sugar, bay leaf, lemon rind, raisins, chicken breasts, olive oil — Spanish of course and two different kinds, garlic, pine nuts, parsley). 

CHICKEN WITH RAISINS AND PINE KERNELS

The side dish was Broad Beans with Ham (broad beans, olive oil, red onion, Serrano ham, parsley).

BROAD BEANS WITH HAM.

Just so you know how unlike Betty Crocker I am, I just read the chicken recipe and when I hit the instruction, "turn the salad into a serving dish," I thought it was a magic trick... or a miracle (like turning water into wine, or fish into loaves of bread).

Then again, if I were running the kitchen, turning uncooked food into something cooked and edible would in fact be a miracle.

Olga Chickaboomskya, Prima Ballerina

I have been surprised to see Spanish TV ads (not many) for Halloween and also some stores in Sevilla carrying costumes and decorations.  I don't know if kids actually go around trick-or-treating, but I guess we'd better buy a bag of our favorite candy just in case.  If no one shows up, we'll just finish it all ourselves (we've done it before and, although it's a hardship, we will do it again if we have to).

When we lived in Connecticut, Jerry and I were invited to a costume-required Halloween party.  Poor Jerry loves costume parties.  I say "Poor Jerry," because he's married to someone who does not share his love for costume parties.  I tried — a little — that one time.  I had found a devilish Venetian mask years before and decided to take it off the shelf and build a costume around it.

Jerry is a huge fan (as am I) of the Ballet Trockadero de Monte Carlo, a brilliantly talented and hilarious all-male ballet troupe that dresses in drag and performs and parodies the ballet classics.  We have seen them perform several times.  Inspired by Les Trocks, Jerry decided to go to the party as Olga Chickaboomskya, retired Russian prima ballerina.

One day Jerry left his office at Yale University, wearing a very serious gray suit and very serious silk tie, and headed over to the very serious dance supply store.  He said to the three women who worked there, "OK, you have one hour to make me look like a prima ballerina."  I'm sure this was a first in 1980s New Haven.  The women immediately loved him.

APPLYING THE LEE PRESS-ON NAILS.
JERRY STILL DOESN'T KNOW HOW TO SIT LIKE A LADY.

They started with the tights.  They actually had his size — well close.  The leotard was, amazingly, no problem.  And the largest tulle tutu just fit around his waist.  The ballet slippers were a challenge.  Jerry wore a size 13; the slippers only went up to 12.  But he figured he wasn't really going to dance and he wouldn't be on his feet very long, so he would manage.  He finished with a feather boa.

WHAT ARE YOU GONNA DO? SHOOT THE SWAN? THIS LOVELY? MY SWAN?

At K-Mart in our little town of Guilford, Jerry found $1 clip-on earrings with giant "rubies." He bought Lee Press-On Nails.  Jerry has the biggest hands I have ever seen.  The fake nails didn't completely cover as intended, so he had this odd little colored piece of plastic centered on each of his own nails.  He found a turban and a huge "diamond" broach he could pin to the front.  A friend loaned him a large Russian-looking cape.  When he returned from K-Mart, he tried on the clip-on earrings and one of the clips immediately broke.  He went right back to K-Mart and explained that the earring broke the very first time he put it on.  (The man has no shame.)  They gave him a replacement pair.

NOT READY TO LEAVE MY COMFORT ZONE.

The fun truly began (well, and ended) when we got ready for the party.  Our friends Cesar and Daisy, who were not going to the party, came over.  Daisy was our designated make-up artist.

YES, I TRULY FELT I WAS FINALLY IN HELL.

We set up a stool in the kitchen and Daisy went to work.

Cesar and I stood off to the side.  Daisy worked for a long time.

"Daisy, put more color on his eyes," we coached.

A few minutes later, "Put more color on his eyes, Daisy."

"I did!"

"Daisy, it's not enough."

"Close your eyes," she ordered as she slapped Jerry on the shoulder.

Jerry did so and we saw vivid, sky blue upper lids.

"Now open them."

He did so and we saw no color at all.

She complained, "His eyes are so damned deep-set, you can't even see the make-up!"

"Spread it outside and above his eye lids," we instructed. "Make it really obvious."

"But that would be tacky," she said... and then burst out laughing at the inanity of that statement.

She slathered on more and more of her expensive make-up — heavy lipstick, a beauty mark, heavy blush.  None of it was really easy to see.  I knew Jerry was a hunk, but I had never appreciated how heavily masculine his features were.  There was nothing pretty about him (well, except that the blue eye shadow really brought out his sky-blue eyes).

SEE HOW THE MAKE-UP BROUGHT OUT HIS BLUE EYES?
THE LORD OF DARKNESS LOOKS LIKE A DEER CAUGHT IN HEADLIGHTS.

But he stood, posed, and the vision was complete.

OLGA DIDN'T YET KNOW SHE WAS DRIVING.

I was so uncomfortable being in costume that I wouldn't even drive the 15 minutes into New Haven.  I made Olga get behind the wheel.  He had to shift gears while being careful not to knock off a Lee Press-On nail.  The party was a bit of a bust.  Jerry eventually removed his ballet slippers; it took 10 minutes for his toes to unbend.  He spent much of the remainder of the evening complaining that he couldn't wait to get out of "these damned panty hose."

I FORGOT TO INCLUDE THIS SHOT IN THE ORIGINAL POST.

I wished we had stayed home with Cesar and Daisy.  Maybe the whole thing would have been more fun had I had a better attitude.  But I don't think so.

I am so glad no one has invited us to a costume party this year.

An American Meal in a Spanish Kitchen

Jerry has been cooking dinner a bit more often lately.  So, no longer is every one of our meals in Sevilla enjoyed in a restaurant — although, on another recommendation from Ricardo, owner of our electronics and appliance store Casa de las Planchas (House of the Irons), we did have an excellent tapas lunch yesterday at Mesón Olalla in Plaza de la Encarnación.

One of my favorite meals that Jerry used to cook in California was Cinnamon Apple Pork Tenderloin.  Jerry discovered the recipe when he was about to prepare dinner one night in Irvine and I offered to run to the store to pick up some things.  He gave me the list, which included some cut of pork or another and I returned home with a beautiful pork tenderloin.  That was not what Jerry had in mind but, undaunted, he went online and found this pork tenderloin recipe on About.com.  We loved it so much it became one of Jerry's standards.

The other night, Jerry decided to produce the same meal here.  He couldn't find pork tenderloin and he forgot to buy cinnamon.  So, he improvised.

I feel obligated to comment on improvisational cooking.  It is something I cannot do.  If I were again to prepare Kraft Macaroni and Cheese and someone instructed me...

In your microwaveable dish, add 1-1/3 cups hot water.

Pour the pasta from the box into the hot water

(be sure to remove the packet of cheese sauce first).

Stir the pasta and put the uncovered dish in the microwave oven.

Cook for 7–9 minutes on HIGH.

You must stir the pasta every 1–2 minutes so it doesn't stick together.

It has cooked long enough when there is no longer water in the dish.

Make sure to check it often, and do not overcook.

... that is precisely what I would do (although I would have no idea how to know if it was being overcooked until it was in fact overcooked).

But, back to Jerry, someone who can safely improvise in the kitchen. As a side dish for the excellent pork, apples, and raisins, he included another old standby, sauteed cabbage.  And he added a new dish (for us), spinach with raisins and pine nuts.  ¡Increible!

THE RECIPE

Ingredients:

• 1 to 1 1/2 pounds pork tenderloin
• 2 tablespoons cornstarch
• 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
• 2 tablespoons brown sugar, packed
• 2 cooking apples, peeled, cored and sliced
• 2 tablespoons dried cranberries or raisins

Preparation:

Preheat the oven to 400°. Place the pork tenderloin in a roasting pan or casserole dish. Combine the remaining ingredients in a bowl and stir. Spoon the apple mixture around the pork tenderloin. Cover and bake 30 minutes. Remove the lid and spoon the apple mixture over the tenderloin. Return to the oven and bake 15 to 20 minutes longer, or until pork tenderloin is browned and cooked through. A meat thermometer in the center should register at least 150° to 160°.
Serves 4.

Parking, Snacks, and Kisses

KISSING, CHEEK TO CHEEK
Now that we live in Sevilla, we have learned that the appropriate greeting and farewell to friends (and sometimes acquaintances) is a kiss in the direction of a check.  Not just one cheek.  Both.  When Jerry said good-bye to Margarita Saturday afternoon, he gave her Spanish kisses with a bit of a flourish.  Margarita laughed (we seem to have that effect on her) and looked at me and said.  "He's so snobby!"

We realized we had yet another thing to learn, so asked why his kisses defined him as snobby, and she explained that he didn't even touch her.  His face was somewhere to the right and left of hers as he noisily kissed the air.

So, Jerry tried again.  He held Margarita's shoulders and planted a kiss on each cheek.  She laughed again.

"Well," she said, "That was like you were kissing granny! Come on, Jerry, somewhere in the middle!"

She explained that one SHOULD touch cheeks, but one should NOT touch lips to cheeks.  If you don't touch cheeks, you're being a snob.  If you touch lips to cheeks, you're kissing grandma. 

Jerry gave it another try and was told he had perfected his Sevillano cheek-to-cheek air kiss.

PARKING, CHEEK TO CHEEK
We took a walk this afternoon in the beautiful sunshine and continuing heat.  Granted, it is no longer 40C (104F).  But 31C (88F) is still a bit too hot for hours of walking in the city... especially if you're Jerry.  I must make it clear, however, that we are not complaining (much).  This is a lot better than raw winds, incessant rain, or snow. 

TODAY'S TREAT.  HEAVEN FOR ME (HELL FOR JERRY).

We stopped for tapasitas (not a meal, just a snack) at what turned out to be a low-end restaurant.  The food was nothing to write home (or here) about.  Except for the olives.  I love olives.  Jerry does not.

CALLE SOL (SUN STREET) AS IT MEETS PLAZA SAN ROMAN.

After our tapasitas, while on our walk down one of Sevilla's charming streets, Calle Sol, we passed a temporarily parked car.  The picture says it all.

KISSING THE WALL.  SEVILLANO STYLE.

I Was Born Glamorous

GLAMOROUS AND ALREADY BORED WITH IT ALL.

Another beautiful Saturday in Sevilla.  And our first Saturday as legal residents. 

We rolled out of bed around 9:30, had our first breakfast of Greek yogurt and fruit and then went downstairs to El Sanedrín for our second breakfast of tostadas and café con leche.  I had my half tostada with ham, olive oil, and tomato.  Jerry had his whole tostada with butter and marmalade.  De siempre.  As always. 

While we sat and enjoyed another perfect, sunny morning in Sevilla, Margarita called.  I told her where we were and she joined us about 10 minutes later.  Jerry and I were already having a pleasant morning.  But, seeing Margarita as she headed across the plaza made the sun shine even brighter.

Margarita has lived in many countries.  She travels as often as she can and is enlightened, interested and interesting, funny, kind, charming, well-mannered, free-thinking, independent, and stylish. I think Jerry and I should start a fan club.

ARRIVING.  ON THE PHONE WITH MOM.

We sat and talked for two hours about politics, language, dialects, slang, culture, religion, prejudice, family, roots, tradition.  We laughed often.  If only the world were filled with Margaritas (and her namesake drinks aren't bad either).

Jerry and I had gone downstairs in the cool of the late morning.  I wore jeans and an old cotton sweater, which became much too warm as the plaza heated up. 

As we sat and talked, I realized that not only was I feeling uncomfortably warm, but I also hadn't showered or shaved.  I suddenly felt like a slob.  I apologized to Margarita for my appearance.  Her response as she looked me up and down?  "You?  You were born glamorous!"

Another reason to love Margarita.

We Sevillanos Love a Parade

Yes! Jerry and I are officially Sevillanos.  We took the bus today (in the unseasonable heat) to the Plaza de España to visit the Office of Foreigners.  Our intention was simply to see if they could give us any information on our residency cards, which we had not yet received and which were a bit overdue.

ACROSS FROM THE CATHEDRAL. SOMEHOW MANAGING TO MAKE BEAUTIFUL MUSIC.

We arrived at the office around 4:00 in the afternoon. There was no line outside the office.  There was no one in the waiting room.  There was no one handing out numbered tickets. The guards ignored us when we walked in. I told them what we were there for and they told us to just go into the office (of Things 1, 2, and 3) across the hall.  We did so and were met by three different staff people at their desks and only one customer.  The woman at the first desk immediately greeted us and told us to just step right over to the other available staffer.  He also greeted us pleasantly.

SINGING THE BLUES.  BRILLIANTLY.

I told him why we were there and handed him the receipt I had been given on our last visit in late August.  He looked at my name and immediately began rifling through a box of residency cards.  This was too good to be true.  And then it appeared that it was (too good to be true).  As he flipped through each of the cards in my alphabetical section, my heart began to sink.  There were about 30 cards and he had already flipped through all but three.  But then it happened.  He hesitated at the third card from the end.  He checked the card against my receipt and handed me my very own, official-with-my-hideous-photograph, hard plastic, finger-printed, signed, hologram-emblazoned "PERMISTO DE RESIDENCIA."  I wanted to hug the guy.  He then very quickly found Jerry's card, which was the second one in his section.  Jerry and I beamed. I told the man this was a very important day for us. We thanked him profusely and we left.

GETTING ORGANIZED BEFORE PERSONALLY ESCORTING US FROM PLAZA NUEVA.

Once out on the terrace, Jerry and I high-fived.  We then hugged.  And we then kissed — Spanish style (air kisses to the side of each cheek).  We stopped for a mini celebration of chocolate cake and mango smoothies and then walked home.  To our home.  To the address imprinted on our legal Spanish identification cards!

LEAVING PLAZA NUEVA.  LET THE DRUMS ROLL OUT.

THE MOST JOYOUS DRUMMING, EXPRESSING EXACTLY HOW WE FELT.

It seemed all of Sevilla was out to celebrate and serenade us today.  On the Avenida de la Constitución, we stopped and listened to a talented hammered-dulcimer player (at least I think the rickety old — and beautiful sounding — instrument was a hammered dulcimer).  Next up was an incredible guitar-playing blues singer, beer bottle in hand.  After crossing the Plaza Nueva, we came across a large group of marchers in costume.  We thought it was a political rally but soon learned they were performers representing the International Festival of Sevilla Perfopoesía — poets and poet/performance artists from all over the world here for an annual festival.  We just happened to stumble onto the start of the Perfopoética Parade.  Talk about poetic!

A COLORFUL CELEBRATION TO OFFICIALLY WELCOME US HOME.