What I Learned On My Birthday

Yesterday was my birthday, my first in Spain, and it was pure happiness from start to finish. I awoke to a birthday serenade from San Geraldo. We then headed out for our usual breakfast at Emperador Trajano but we added dessert. Apple and Dulce de Leche (caramel-filled) muffins. Our first over-dose of the day. Included in this blog post are the 10 lessons I learned on my birthday this year.

Lesson 1:
This one was really for San Geraldo. There is a big difference between año and ano. The Spanish word for birthday is cumpleaños. Jerry told Paula at Emperador Trajano that it was my comple-ano — in essence, my "complementary anus." I explained to San Geraldo that the "ñ" (en-yay) is sometimes an especially important letter.

I didn't do much else after breakfast and dessert because I was saving my strength for dinner at Catalina with Adela, Miguel, and Tere (and, of course, San Geraldo). We had lunch downstairs at El Sanedrín, where I was greeted by the birthday song performed in Spanish.

LESSON 2: THE DOWAGER DUCHESS IS GIFTED (WELL, I REALLY ALREADY KNEW THAT).
MY BIRTHDAY CARD THIS YEAR. ANOTHER ORIGINAL WATERCOLOR PAINTED JUST FOR ME.

I had an, as usual, fun and loving Skype call with My-Mother-the-Dowager-Duchess and my wonderful brother (who has enough nicknames without my giving him another one for this blog). That Skype call was followed by another joy-filled Skype call with our family in England, when I heard the birthday song performed once again. I told them it had now been sung to me in three languages (American, Spanish, and "real" English).

LESSON 3: MY EYES ARE STILL BIGGER THAN MY STOMACH.

I'm sorry (well, not really) that while we were at Catalina, I was too busy eating and drinking and laughing to take pictures. And if I dont' take pictures, they don't get taken. I don't have one single photo of our main course feast at Catalina, which was — as usual — unbelievably delectable. And the service made us feel like we were family. It had been a very hot day and was still a very warm night when we arrived around 9:45. We asked for the coolest spot in the place (which was already comfortable when we walked in the door), but the host took us into the back dining area, seated us right under an AC vent and turned it up. Within minutes, the always-steamy San Geraldo was very content.

LESSON 4: THERE IS NO JOY GREATER THAN GOOD FRIENDS AND FAMILY.
(EVEN WHEN NO ONE IS READY FOR THE CAMERA.)

During dinner, Tere commented admiringly on the golden glow of her own arms. She's using, I think, a new body lotion that she really likes. She said she had arms of gold. San Geraldo thought she was trying to speak English at the time and that she had said she had arms of oil (and not of oro). That evolved into some laughter and a lesson in Spanish. I asked for the word for "oily." "Aceitosa" is one. And that DE-volved into slightly obscene gestures about what would happen if one tried to hug Oily Tere, which then devolved into my dubbing Tere with a new name: Teresa Aceitosa.

LESSON 5: I'M STILL A WINDBAG.
LESSON 6: CATALINA'S TRIPLE-CHOCOLATE CAKE IS A CHOCOHOLIC'S DREAM.
LESSON 7: I SHOULD NOT ALLOW CLOSE-UPS.

Gonzalo and Elena, our neighbors and the owners of Catalina, were as always the most amazing and generous hosts. Again, I'm sorry I didn't take more pictures, especially since they are both as great to look at as they are gracious!

LESSON 8: DESSERTS SHOULD BE CHOCOLATE (ACCORDING TO ADELA).
"CARROTS ARE DELICIOUS, BUT WHY WOULD YOU PUT A VEGETABLE IN A DESSERT?"
(THIS WAS TERÉ'S UNBELIEVABLY LUSCIOUS CHOICE ... NO MATTER WHAT ADELA SAYS.)

After dinner, around midnight, we walked in the direction of home. San Geraldo split off and went to bed. Teré, Adela, and I went across the bridge to Triana to have a drink at Miguel's bar (he had taken a break to join us for dinner). So in addition to what I drank at Catalina — Tinto de Verano, Champagne (complements of the house), after-dinner gin and tonic shooters (complements of the house) — I had a mojito prepared by Miguel. And Miguel makes by far the best mojito I have ever had.

At 2:00, Adela and I walked back across the river. She lives about 5 minutes beyond our house. I was in bed at 2:30. I partied just like a grown-up!

LESSON 9: I CAN STILL KEEP UP.

LESSON 10:
Clint Eastwood is pronounced "Clean Ees-GWOO."

Renovación... and Renewal

Our trip to the Oficina de Extranjeros (the Foreigners Office) was a piece of cake this morning (more like a chocolate-chocolate chip muffin and macadamia nut cookie really).

TRADITIONAL SPANISH SNACKS?
(PRONOUNCED Moo-FEEN and COO-Key.)

July 12 will mark the beginning of our second year in Spain. We need to renew our residency cards for another two years. Once again, San Geraldo — and I do sincerely mean San Geraldo — filled out the applications and prepared all our paperwork. Everything was neatly organized (forms, passport copies, financial statements, proof of insurance) and paper-clipped. The information that Jerry had found online turned out to be exactly correct. No surprises. Except that when we arrived at the office we had visited three times last year in the Plaza de España, we were told by a very pleasant woman that, for renewals, we needed to walk to another office at the opposite side of the Plaza. Not a problem.

RETURN TO THE PLAZA DE ESPAÑA.

So, we followed the U-shaped terrace to the opposite side. On the way, at the center point, we came upon a trio of supposedly Peruvian musicians, playing music of the Andes (pan flute and all), wearing the garb and full headdresses of Native Americans... perhaps Plains Indians from South Dakota. Really. I didn't have any change in my pocket, so I snuck a very quick and blurry shot from far away.

ANTHROPOLOGICAL ACCULTURATION?

After passing the Pseudo-Lakota-Sioux-Incas-on-Pan-Flutes-Probably-Made-in-China, we reached the other office, went through security, took numbers, and sat for about 10 minutes in the small lobby. We were then warmly welcomed at a desk and proceeded to submit Jerry's beautifully organized, stapled, and clipped documents. The man cursorily glanced at everything and stamped/dated/initialed the renewal (renovación) application. He couldn't understand the need for all the paperclips. I told him Jerry used to be a librarian. The man laughed and said, "Ah. Very organized." I thought, 'yeah, but you should see his desk." He returned all the paperclips to Jerry and rubber-banded the entire package. I removed the paperclips from my documents as I handed over each section. That was it. We will receive a letter in the mail within 30 days. We then have to go pay a fee and our new cards will be processed. We spoke with one person at an information desk, two security guards, and one application processor. Everyone was kind, friendly, and helpful.

SAN GERALDO STANDING BELOW HIS 22-GREATS-GRANDFATHER SAN FERNANDO.

So, what do two Americans in Sevilla do to celebrate when another bureaucratic process goes well? They go to Starbucks! Sad, I know, but it was already really hot outside (while we waited in the lobby, I could actually feel the steam coming off Jerry's body). Starbucks was the first air-conditioned place we hit on the way home.

PLAZA DE ESPAÑA,
AS TRANSFORMED FOR THE MOVIE "THE DICTATOR."

We had our favorite mango frappuccinos (small, which Starbucks calls "tall" and that drives me crazy; I remember one time asking for a small soda at McDonalds and being told, "We don't have small." I thought she meant they were out of small cups. But they had simply renamed the sizes. "We have medium, large, and extra-large," I was told as if I were a complete idiot. "So, give me the 'medium,' " I muttered and then clarified, "the smallest one you have.").

Jerry couldn't pass up a chocolate-chocolate chip muffin (and it was actually fresh this time) and, to be polite, I joined him by ordering a macadamia nut cookie. We cooled off in air-conditioned splendor before continuing our walk home.

We changed into shorts and T-shirts and, of course, headed over to Emperador Trajano for our usual breakfast (even though we had both already had our healthy at-home breakfasts of yogurt and fruit), I had even had a protein bar before leaving the house. Then came Starbucks. But, after all that, it wasn't even 10:30, and we couldn't truly begin our day without café con leche. And, as long as we were having café con leche, wasn't it easier to just say, "De siempre" (the usual)? We thought so.

Speaking of Cazuelas

San Geraldo was too lazy to cook tonight, which was fine with me because I would have been too lazy to clean up after him. So we headed out for dinner with no particular place in mind. As we rounded our corner, passing Dos de Mayo, we noticed two tables inside. A rarity once the night is in full swing. And the night was in full swing. We grabbed one of those tables. I think they were available because they were in the back of the restaurant (usually a popular location) and the Sevilla-Ireland football match was playing on the flat screen at the front. The screen wasn't clearly visible from our spot. So, we didn't watch the game.

We had, as we always do at Dos de Mayo, a delicous meal with friendly, high-energy service. And, coincidentally — given my most recent blog post on hot dishes, casseroles, and cazuelas — one of their specials tonight was a shrimp and fish cazuela. So good!

CAZUELA DE RAPE — PRONOUNCED RAH-PAY — Y GAMBAS.
(MONKFISH AND SHRIMP CASSEROLE.)

So, now it's time for bed. We're getting up bright and early — really — so we can stand in line at the Foreigners Office. It's time to renew our residency cards. Can't believe we've been here almost a year!

Casseroles, Cazuelas, and Five-Can Hot Dish

Where I grew up, people served casseroles. I can't remember My-Mother-The-Dowager-Duchess ever serving one; clearly it wasn't her specialty. But if she ever did make a meal in one of those large, deep dishes used for both cooking and serving, she most definitely would have called it a casserole (from the French word for saucepan). Casserole is what people called it in the City of New York.

In Spain, they have cazuelas. Same word origin. Different ingredients. But, cazuelas are easily recognizable as casseroles.

In South Dakota, where San Geraldo grew up, they served "hot dish" (vocal emphasis on the word "hot"). The first time I heard the term was when I met Jerry's parents (who lived in southwestern Minnesota at the time). We were going over to his aunt's house in nearby Sioux Falls, South Dakota, one afternoon and we had to bring some food. Jerry's mother, Alice, said everyone was bringing "hot dish." I thought that was odd and I was confused by the lack of a pronoun before "hot dish." It wasn't "a hot dish," it was simply "hot dish." That's when San Geraldo (just plain Jerry at the time) explained to me what "hot dish"was. I then explained to him that what they really meant was "a casserole." That wasn't the first time he thought New Yorkers had a very strange way of speaking. "It's a hot dish," he said. "Why not just call it hot dish?" Hmmm.

Since then I have been to many pot-luck suppers where everyone has brought hot dish. Hot dish is popular at picnics, barbecues, and before and after funerals. I also learned over the years that there is everyday hot dish — like mac 'n cheese or tuna or "weiners" (which my family called frankfurters or hot dogs) — and good-company hot dish, such as "Five-Can Hot Dish," which is very gourmet because it includes chow mein noodles. I know you're all dying to try it now. Luckily, Jerry came across his mother's old recipe the other day. Remember: If the guests are good enough for Five-Can Hot Dish, you'll have to put out the fancy guest towels in the bathroom.... and make sure the kids don't use them. They're for company!

 "FIVE-CAN HOT DISH." FOR THOSE VERY SPECIAL OCCASIONS.

Sadly, many South Dakotans have gotten uppity since Jerry left town all those years ago. Now, hot dish is more often called "casserole." Jerry came across another dish in Alice's recipe box. It's listed as "Hot Dish — Penny Casserole." It's likely it's a later recipe when South Dakotans were switching over to the word casserole. I don't get the impression it's for good company. But what do I know? I grew up in New York. The ingredients include one-and-a-quarter pounds of "spuds" and 10 "weiners" (cut up), and of course there's the obligatory can of cream of mushroom soup.

A HOT-DISH STAPLE.

Splish Splash, He Was Taking a Bath

The other day (or maybe it was "long about a Saturday night"), Jerry was splishing and splashing in the tub. Really, he was splishing and splashing in the shower, but that's not the point. Dudo likes to keep him company. The bathroom door was open and, as I walked by, I spotted Dudo up on the counter with something dangling from between his teeth. I saw that it was the rubber drain plug hanging at the end of its chain. I watched Dudo carefully maneuver the rubber plug over to the drain in the sink.

TRYING TO FIGURE OUT HOW IT WORKS.

GETTING THE HANG OF IT.

Once Dudo had the drain plug positioned, he turned on both taps, adjusted the temperature, filled the sink with water, and stepped in for a bath. 

A PERFECT FIT.

I may have exaggerated (well... lied) about Dudo getting the drain plug into position. I also may have exaggerated (well... lied) about him filling the sink with water — his little paws haven't been able to manage the faucets just yet (although he has tried). But he did step in and give himself a bath.

NO BUBBLES. NO SOAPY TASTE.

"A LITTLE PRIVACY, PLEASE!"

Clumsy or Just in Love?

San Geraldo watches out for me. Always. And his concern becomes especially pronounced following one of my careless moments. Like after I've sliced off the tip of my finger while cutting kitchen tiles; or knocked myself out by standing up at full-speed and slamming the bridge of my nose into the car's hatchback that I forgot was open... on three different occasions... on three different cars... (or in the same way, the top of my head into the fireplace mantle; my eye into the kitchen cabinet; the back of my head into the table...); or after I've picked up the cast-iron pot lid with my bare hand even though I had just been told it had that moment come out of the oven; or stuck my hand blindly into a shrub to extract a dead leaf only to be stung by a bee (I'm allergic) hiding in the leaf that I decided to hand-pulverize (thus shooting every last bit of venom into my finger); or — most recently — after I've rolled out of bed and onto the floor.

A DAILY DISH OF DELICIOUS, WITH A LIFE OF ITS OWN.

Every evening, San Geraldo, prepares a plate of cheese, crackers, and apple slices for me to enjoy while I sit at my computer. Usually, I help out by carrying it from the kitchen myself (again, it's the very least I can do). The crackers and apples tend to slide around on the plate if you move too fast. They can easily fly off the plate and onto the floor. Every single day, as I pick up the full plate, San Geraldo says, "Be careful now."

LUNCH AT CAFE SANTA MARTA YESTERDAY. (CHURCH OF SAN ANDRES IN BACKGROUND).
FLAMENQUIN. HAM ROLLED AROUND CHICKEN AND CHEESE, AND THEN BATTERED AND DEEP-FRIED.
HOT, MELTY, (OBSCENE), AND DANGEROUS ON SO MANY LEVELS.

Whenever I pick up a knife in the kitchen, San Geraldo warns, "Don't cut yourself."

CHERRIES. "THEY HAVE PITS."

When he puts a pan from the stove into the sink, San Geraldo looks lovingly into my eyes. Then he smiles and says, "Hot."

 I'd be offended if I didn't so need the reminders.

THE DANGERS OF SLEEPING.
(DOING MUCH BETTER SINCE I SHAVED THE AREA TO PREP FOR THE BANDAGE).
NEVER TO BE SHOWN: THE BLACK & BLUE ON MY RIGHT GLUTE.

Since my roll out of bed and onto the floor Thursday morning, a new caution has been added to the list. When I say goodnight, San Geraldo now says, "Sleep well," and then adds, "And be careful."

NO CAUTIONS NEEDED FOR LAST NIGHTS HOME-MADE BANANA BREAD!
(WELL... "SMALL BITES.")

If this had all started only after I had met San Geraldo all those years ago, I'd say, 'I just can't help it. It's love.' It is that. But, sometimes, I'm just plain clumsy.

Corpus Christi is Not Only in Texas (and I'm So Glad)

Yesterday, as I mentioned yesterday, was Corpus Christi. Sevilla is one of the few cities in Spain that celebrates the holiday on its original date, 60 days after Easter Sunday. Once again, all the brotherhoods in the city participated, this time in one long, slow procession. It began just before 8:30 with guards and musicians marching to the Cathedral.

AT THE SOUTH END OF PLAZA DE SAN FRANCISCO. HEADING TO THE CATHEDRAL.

I then heard glorious organ music from within the Cathedral, followed by the powerful ringing of all the bells of the Giralda, which I was able to watch from below. That was inspiring. I was told the procession is traditionally led from the Cathedral by six children carrying hatchets. I'm grateful to SOONKS (see the comments below) for explaining that to me. Someone had done a literal translation of the words hachas or hachones into the English word, hatchets. What is really meant by that is the long candles they carry (which as you can see in the photo are different from the unadorned long candles carried by the brotherhoods.

NOT REALLY "HATCHETS." HACHAS OR HACHONES.

Following the boys with hatchas are statues or relics representing famous saints and events in Sevillano and Catholic history. Each image is followed by a brotherhood (in order of longevity). I stood (with all my aches and pains from my battle with the bed) for about two-and-a-half hours. I'm very glad I took the time to be there.

SANTA ANGELA DE LA CRUZ.
(FOUNDER OF THE BROTHERHOOD OF THE CROSS)

The oldest record of this event in Sevilla is from 1428. In 1532, the procession began to take the route it still takes today — 480 years later. (By comparison, I once worked in the same place for 5-1/2 consecutive years; but I changed my commuting route regularly because I desperately needed some kind of change.) They processed through nearby streets and the celebration continued with a large event in Plaza de San Francisco. I instead went and met Jerry for breakfast.

SANTA JUSTA AND SANTA RUFINA, BOTH OF SEVILLA.
(FLANKING A BEAUTIFUL BRONZE REPLICA OF THE GIRALDA.)

BISHOP ISIDORE (SAN YSIDRO) OF SEVILLA.

BISHOP LEANDER (SAN LEANDRO) OF SEVILLA.

I didn't follow the procession along its entire route; I simply stayed in the vicinity of the Cathedral until I saw the statue of King Ferdinand III of Castille (San Geraldo's 22-greats grandfather, which I'm sure you remember by now). It looked to me like that was the end of the procession, but I've since read that there are four other relics that process. I don't now if they were simply mixed in with what I had already seen or if they actually followed San Leandro. Maybe I'll find out next year.

GREATS-GRANDPA KING FERDINAND III — SAN FERNANDO EL REY.

(WRAPPED, JUST FOR THE OCCASION, IN HIS ERMINE CAPE.)

It was fascinating to compare the dress and comportment of the different brotherhoods — from oldest to newest. The earlier groups were dressed consistently and formally. Later groups were at times very casual. The last brotherhood I saw included teens in jeans and chinos, with obviously no previous discussion about an overall look for the group. A very early and prominent brotherhood was led by men (including a lawyer we know) in formal morning suits.

SENSIBLE SHOES? SOME OF THE BROTHERHOOD MEMBERS AS THEY MARCHED. 

The streets were strewn with sprigs of a variety of evergreens. It smelled luscious but was obviously not easy to walk on. The women marchers in some of the brotherhoods wore matching, and practical, low-heeled shoes. Later women were decked out in very trendy heels. Some bordered on "Joan Crawfords" — not very practical for marching and standing and marching and standing and marching and standing. But they're feet and legs looked great. And I suppose that's all that matters.

SENSIBLE SHOES! A PEAK AT A GROUP OF COSTALEROS.

And the little one said: Roll over / Y el pequeño dijo: Dese la vuelta

La versión en español está después de la versión en inglés.

THERE’S A SONG FROM MY childhood that I don't think My-Mother-The-Dowager-Duchess knows. Most of my friends have been unfamiliar with it, but I always enjoyed it and love to share it with new generations. I thought of the song this morning — with good reason.

Today is Corpus Christi. It's an Andalusian holiday. And, yes, there was a procession. This one didn't come by our house, however. It proceeded from the Cathedral at 8:30 in the morning and continued with a large schedule of events in the Plaza de San Francisco. I didn't want to miss any of the procession, especially since Great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-Grandpa San Fernando (the most important paso in the procession) was going to be paraded through the streets in an ermine cape (not that I was specifically thrilled about the ermine cape). I set my alarm for 7:00.

I woke up during the night and rolled over to check the time. What I didn't realize was that I was already right at the edge of the bed. There was nothing remaining to roll over onto — except the floor.

The bed has a heavy wood frame that creates a small ledge along the sides. It's got a hard, sharp edge (sharp, if you're descended, as I am, from the princess of "The Princess and the Pea"). I hit my leg on the wood frame before sliding from there to the wood floor, hitting my head and shoulder as I landed.

My head, neck, and shoulder simply hurt. The leg wasn't pretty. The only adhesive bandages ("plasters") we had were small, so I created a patchwork to cover the cut and scrapes and went back to bed. I didn't sleep. At 7:00, I rolled out of bed — much more carefully — slid a pair of jeans over the achy, pulling, patchwork, and headed out for the festivities. I walked 10 minutes there, spent more than 2 hours watching the processions, and then walked back to meet San Geraldo for breakfast. (He had slept through my entire mishap.) By this time, the hodge-podge of bandages were painfully pulling at skin and hair.

After breakfast, Nurse San Geraldo went to the store and picked up a collection of gauze, cloth tape, and adhesive bandages. This time around, I used ointment and did a slightly better job patching myself up. (San Geraldo wanted to do it for me, but I insisted.) Given the sizes and positions of the cut and scrapes and the sizes of bandages San Geraldo could find at the only store open on this holiday, the patch-job looks absurd. And it doesn't adhere well, except to the hair on my leg. But it's definitely better than before.

We had lunch downstairs and, when I told Teré what I had done, she burst out laughing (although she tried really hard not to). After lunch, Jerry went upstairs and I stayed to pay the bill. As I walked out the door, Teré called loudly to me in Spanish. "Be careful." She then smiled wickedly and continued "in bed!" It may have done wonders for my reputation. I received some [admiring] glances.

Tomorrow I'll share with you what I saw on the streets this morning — despite my injuries. Right now, I need some ibuprofen and a nap. I'm fine, Mom.

HAY UNA CANCIÓN DE MI infancia que no creo que mi-madre-la-duquesa-viuda conozca. La mayoría de mis amigos no lo han conocido, pero siempre lo disfruté y me encanta compartirlo con las nuevas generaciones. Pensé en la canción esta mañana, con razón.

Hoy es Corpus Christi. Es una fiesta andaluza. Y sí, hubo una procesión. Sin embargo, éste no pasó por nuestra casa. Partió de la Catedral a las 8:30 de la mañana y continuó con una nutrida agenda de actos en la Plaza de San Francisco. No quería perderme nada de la procesión, especialmente desde Tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara-tatara El tatara-tatara-tatara-abuelo San Fernando (el paso más importante de la procesión) iba a desfilar por las calles con una capa de armiño (no es que me emocionara específicamente la capa de armiño). Configuré mi alarma para las 7:00.

Me desperté durante la noche y me di la vuelta para comprobar la hora. De lo que no me di cuenta fue de que ya estaba en el borde de la cama. No quedaba nada sobre lo que rodar, excepto el suelo.

La cama tiene un marco de madera pesada que crea una pequeña repisa a los lados. Tiene un borde duro y afilado (afilado, si eres descendiente, como yo, de la princesa de "La princesa y el guisante"). Golpeé mi pierna contra el marco de madera antes de deslizarme desde allí hasta el piso de madera, golpeándome la cabeza y el hombro mientras aterrizaba.

Simplemente me duelen la cabeza, el cuello y el hombro. La pierna no era bonita. Las únicas vendas adhesivas ("tiritas") que teníamos eran pequeñas, así que creé un mosaico para cubrir el corte y los rasguños y volví a la cama. No dormí. A las 7:00, me levanté de la cama, con mucho más cuidado, me deslicé un par de jeans sobre el adolorido, tirando, patchwork, y me dirigí a la fiesta. Caminé 10 minutos allí, pasé más de 2 horas viendo las procesiones y luego regresé para encontrarme con San Geraldo para desayunar. (Se había dormido durante todo mi accidente.) Para entonces, la mezcolanza de vendas tiraba dolorosamente de la piel y el cabello.

Después del desayuno, la enfermera San Geraldo fue a la tienda y recogió una colección de gasa, cinta de tela y vendas adhesivas. Esta vez, usé ungüento e hice un trabajo un poco mejor al repararme. (San Geraldo quiso hacerlo por mí, pero yo insistí.) Dados los tamaños y posiciones de los cortes y raspaduras y los tamaños de las vendas que San Geraldo pudo encontrar en la única tienda abierta en esta festividad, el parche parece absurdo. Y no se adhiere bien, excepto al pelo de mi pierna. Pero definitivamente es mejor que antes.

Almorzamos abajo y, cuando le conté a Teré lo que había hecho, se echó a reír (aunque se esforzó mucho en no hacerlo). Después del almuerzo, Jerry subió las escaleras y yo me quedé para pagar la cuenta. Mientras salía por la puerta, Teré me llamó en voz alta en español. "Ten cuidado." Luego sonrió con malicia y continuó "¡en la cama!" Puede que haya hecho maravillas con mi reputación. Recibí algunas miradas [de admiración].

Mañana compartiré con vosotros lo que vi en las calles esta mañana, a pesar de mis heridas. Ahora mismo, necesito ibuprofeno y una siesta. Estoy bien, mamá.

I'm So Confused

Sometimes, Jerry's "isms" completely baffle me. This morning, as San-Geraldo-aka-Jerry and I were walking over to Emperador Trajano for breakfast, we saw a small delivery van barreling down the road in our direction. On most streets in the old part of Sevilla, sidewalks go from somewhat accommodating pedestrians to barely leaving room for a shoe width, and then back again. At moments, sidewalks may disappear completely. So, a walk in our neighborhood involves maneuvering at times alongside moving traffic. When Jerry first saw the little white van coming at us, we were in the road, there being only an extremely narrow sidewalk at that point.

NO ROOM TO BREATHE.

JUST BARELY SQUEAKING BY. ONE OF THE WIDER STREETS IN THE BARRIO DE SANTA CRUZ.

Jerry warned, "Uh-oh, better get out of the way. He's coming at us booming like six-pins."

"What?" I couldn't even figure out what that was supposed to be. "Did you say, 'booming like sixes?' I asked.

"No," he responded, and then continued with a question in his tone, "I said 'booming like six-pins?" He paused. "But I have no idea what that means."

NOW OUR EVERY-MORNING DESTINATION: EMPERADOR TRAJANO.

Well, this time he had lost me. I tried to connect this latest Jerryism with some reality based bit of American English. All I could think of was, "coming at us with six-guns blazing." But, as I thought about it, I wasn't convinced there was a "six" in that expression at all. Isn't the expression simply "with guns blazing"? Yes it is.

AFTER THIS MORNING'S VAIN BRAIN EXERCISE, I WAS TEMPTED TO HAVE
A SLICE OF TARTA DE QUESO (CHEESECAKE... DEE-LICIOUS) OR
CHOCOLATE Y NARANJA (CHOCOLATE AND ORANGE CAKE... SINFUL). I RESISTED.

Maybe one of the language schools here should offer a course in 'Jerrynglish.' Unfortunately, I don't know who would teach it. I usually can translate him, but not well enough to teach a class. I only speak 'broken Jerrynglish.' And, although Jerry speaks perfect Jerrynglish (if that's not an oxymoron), he himself often doesn't understand what he says. As our friend Jim once wrote in poetic tribute:

"Who translates Jerry when others despair to?"

Well, I certainly try.

A Telented Freeend. Bork, Bork, Bork!

My friend Siri, although born and raised in Sweden, is nothing like the Muppets' Swedish Chef.  Well, except when she speaks Swedish. Then, I am struck by how well the Muppets' creators captured the sounds of the Swedish language.

Some years back, I found a web app that "dialectizes" English into "Swedish Chef." With that discovery, I was filled with joy (well, wicked glee) to be able to write to Siri in 'her native dialect.' For example, if I wanted to say, "I miss you terribly and wish you lived right here in Spain," I could dialectize that to Swedish Chef and say:

"I meess yoouu terreebly und feesh

yoouu leeffed reeght here-a in Speeee"

Fortunately, I can tease Siri about it (as I love to do) because her English is better than the English of just about any American I know.

It wasn't always that way. When Siri was a college student newly arrived in the United States, her English was already apparently excellent, but if she didn't know a term or expression she would simply do a literal translation from Swedish. It makes sense. Except when she wanted to vacuum the apartment and asked her new roommate where she kept the "dust sucker." (And imagine the sound of that with just the very slightest Swedish lilt.)

Siri and I met when I was with the Publications Office at the University of California, San Diego, and she had her own graphic design business. She did a lot of work for our office and she and I became good friends, a friendship that only grew stronger after San Geraldo and I left San Diego. It's hard to believe she and I have been friends for nearly 20 years.

Siri is a brilliant artist and designer,whatever the medium — paint, mosaic, collage, sculpture. A few years back, she fell in love with the art of beading and began to make jewelry. The more skilled she became, the more unusual became the jewelry. She decided to change her business focus from graphic design to jewelry design — since nothing made her happier than spending her days creating one-of-a-kind pieces. I haven't written this post to plug Siri's business, Sirious Design, although I suppose that's what I'm doing. I've written this post to share some beautiful creations, to make your day a little more beautiful, and to make you "ooh and aah"! Or to make you — as the Swedish Chef would say according to the Dialectizer — "ouh und eeh!"

A ONE-OF-A-KIND CUFF. SIRI SEES THESE PIECES AS PAINTINGS.

IN COMBINATION WITH HER OWN METAL WORK (YEP, SHE DOES THAT, TOO).

SIRI'S VERSION OF A LEI.

ANOTHER ONE-OF-A-KIND CUFF.

I COMPLAINED TO SIRI THAT SHE HAD NO DESIGNS FOR MEN AND SHE CAME UP WITH CHAINMAILLE.
I'VE GOT THE ABOVE IN SILVER AND ALSO IN COPPER (BOTH WITH BLACK RUBBER).  VERY MACHO.
I THINK I MAY NEED TO GO "OVER THE RAINBOW" AS A BIRTHDAY PRESENT TO MYSELF.

THE DOWAGER DUCHESS WEARS A HEART LIKE THIS ONE.

As the Swedish Chef would say, "Bork, bork, bork!"