As Slow As Molasses In January

On our friends' Jesper and Jorunn's last night in Fuengirola we went for dinner at one of the restaurants on the ground floor of our building. Jesper ordered a plate of berenjenas (eggplant) for us to share. It was served with what we were told was miel (honey) and it was out of this world. The "honey" was not actually honey but "miel de caña" or sugarcane honey. This dish was so good that we went back last night for more.

San Geraldo was thrilled to discover miel de caña because, as he said, "it tastes just like molasses," and he had been unable to find molasses in local stores to use for baking. Well, I just looked it up, it turns out not only does it taste like molasses, "miel de caña" is molasses.

BERENJENAS CON MIEL DE CAÑA.
(EGGPLANTS AND MOLASSES)

Since the miel de caña is served in a large syrup dispenser, we had plenty left after all the eggplant was gone. But that didn't stop San Geraldo. There was, afterall, a basket of bread on the table.

Seeing the expression on my face as he poured the miel de caña over a slice of bread, San Geraldo said, "The bread is just a means of conveyance. But, really, it's exactly like French toast." He thought a moment and added, "Except there's no egg, milk, or maple syrup... And it's not toast."

"Yes," I said, "Except for that."

"FRENCH-ISH" TOAST.

A Honey of a Sunset 
(Click to glorify)

The Sweetest Slushie

Our breakfast haunt is a place just down the paseo from us. It's called Cafe Manila. It's run by Brits who have lived here for years, and it's staffed by people from all over. Some grew up right here in Fuengirola. Some are raising families here. And they all have a love and respect for Spain and Andalucía. Although none of the staff speak American, they are fluent in Spanish as well as British English (which is a very peculiar-sounding language much more difficult to understand than Spanish).

There'll be loads of stories to come I'm sure about the gang at Cafe Manila, but this is a basic introduction to Ann. Ann likes to do creative things with her hair. She's got a tuft (bangs, fringe) in front that she regularly dyes in shades not found in nature (well, not found in the nature of human hair).

A couple of weeks ago, Ann arrived at work with a bold purple fringe. She then made the mistake of telling me that Cafe Manila used to serve "slushees" in oddly unnatural fruity colors. One day a long time back, Ann arrived at work having just had her hair done. Richard took one look and said, "What did you do, get your head stuck in the slushie machine?"

I began calling Ann "Slushee" — after of course asking her permission. She said she didn't mind at all. "Anything for attention." But now, apparently, the nickname has begun to appear in comments on her Facebook page (i.e., "Nice photo, Slushee!"). I'm pleased to know I have such influence.

This post isn't supposed to be entirely about Slushee. (I'm thinking of doing a future post called "Fifty Shades of Slushee." I can already hear her laugh.) This is instead to share a photo of Ann's son's latest sailing session just off the coast. At the ripe old age of 11, he's already so skilled that he's taken the boat beyond the harbor and out to sea.

FROM THIS DISTANCE, IT'S NOT EASY TO TELL WHICH SAILBOAT BELONGS TO ANN'S SON.
I JUST LOOKED FOR THE FAST ONE BEING SKILLFULLY HANDLED.
THEN I FOUND OUT IT WASN'T EVEN HIS CLASS.

ANN'S OWN SHOT OF HER SON SAILING FREE.

I'M SURE THAT WAS SLUSHIE HERSELF OUT ON THE WATER LATER IN THE DAY.

Meson Salvador and the Tail of the Bull

One of our favorite places for a meal in our neighborhood is Meson Salvador. It was where we enjoyed our first lunch when we were apartment hunting in early February. We had no idea how lucky we were to stumble on the place that day. I must say that we have been treated consistently well just about everywhere we've been in Fuengirola. It's definitely a friendly, easy-going, warm, and welcoming town. But, the people at Meson Salvador refer to everyone as "familia" (family) and they mean it. We even feel perfectly comfortable and content hanging out with "the guys" [mostly] watching European football on TV.

The food is consistently excellent. I've gotten stuck in a rut with their incredible albondigas (meatballs) and I'm trying to vary my repertoire now (especially since they give me a hard time about my predictability). Last night I had croquetas de pollo (chicken croquettes). The time before I had a fish and vegetable fry. San Geraldo's favorite dish is "rabo de toro" (bull's tail). It's apparently the best rabo de toro he's had. He has ordered it almost every time and nobody raises an eyebrow. I guess some people are allowed to be predictable.

RABO DE TORO.
(BULL'S TAIL)

CROQUETAS DE POLLO.
(CHICKEN CROQUETTES)

SEAFOOD AND VEGETABLES LAST WEEK.
A LOCAL TRADITION.

MADRID VS. MÁLAGA. (THE LOCAL TEAM, MÁLAGA, LOST, 6–2.)

ALMOST EVERY VISIT ENDS WITH PIONONO.
AFTER MANY TASTE TESTS, I'M CONVINCED IT'S BETTER THAN BAILEY'S.

LOOKING BACK LAST NIGHT... WITH LONGING.

Mad Dogs and an Englishman

NOT ON THE MENU.

It's been more than 30 days since our last visit to the National Police office where we submitted the paperwork to change the address on our residency cards. We have to do that any time we move. We were told by the very nice [Spanish] officer there that we could come back to pick up our new cards in 30 days. After breakfast this morning we headed over.

There's an information desk. It's manned by an expat (ex-patriot) Englishman, aged 70+. A bit crotchety, we thought last time, but nice enough to us no matter how nasty he was to others. He was occupied and another man who does paperwork (but doesn't usually help visitors) looked up at me. I told him in Spanish what we were there for and he, a bit gruffly (I assume because his job doesn't usually entail dealings with the public), directed me to the line for foreigners to pick up the cards. The line was a small mass of confusion with people coming from multiple directions with no apparent order. It was a warm day and even hotter inside, so San Geraldo went to wait on the shaded front terrace. When the Englishman was free, I leaned over and asked him if I was in the right place to pick up our cards. He looked at the form in my hand and snapped, "Not here!" and then busied himself with paperclips.

I said, "I'm sorry?"

He snarled (even curling his lip at me), "They're only up to 57!" The shuffling of paperclips had become frantic.

THE CHANGE OF ADDRESS.

I had no idea what 57 was. He pointed to a post-it note on his wall. In pencil was the number 57.

I said, "I'm sorry. I must have misunderstood. We were told to come back in 30 days. Is there a way for us to know what number is ready so we come back on the right day?

"Go ahead and stand in line for all I care. I'm telling you what they told me." OK, then.

ROUGH SEAS.

I looked down at my form and saw that San Geraldo and I both had number 61, in addition to a string of numbers that followed. I had no idea until then, that we even had "numbers." A very nice guy behind me said, "Oh, I've talked with that one this morning. Turns out I have number 62. I'm just going to wait and see if maybe they told him wrong." He was holding a British passport and went on to say, "I was also told to come back in 30 days, but I just finally read my receipt and it says it would be ready in 45 days." He added with an eye-roll, "He's a real charmer, isn't he?"

I looked again at my own form and discovered the same thing — 45 days. Too bad I hadn't bothered reading it earlier. One demerit for me. I decided to not wait in line; we'd return in another two weeks.

The only thing that truly bothered me was the behavior of the Englishman behind the desk. Why should a rude Englishman be allowed to badly represent Spanish bureaucracy? Surely, Spanish bureaucrats can sully their own reputations if they choose. It made me remember more fondly Things 1, 2, and even Thing 3, our first government bureaucrats in Sevilla. (Click here to see how memories can change.) 

IT'S WORTH ALL THE BULL.

I wished my neighbor luck and walked out to San Geraldo, who was trying to stay cool, calm, and collected. I started to vent. He was clearly hoping my little rant would end quickly. So, instead of commiserating, he gently patted me on the back, which I thought was patronizing and, of course, that just about sent me over the edge. We walked home and stopped at a sidewalk café for something cool to drink. We had what turned out to be tasteless, poorly made "slushies." But they were at least cold. I became nice again (I think), San Geraldo cooled off, and we both relaxed. A woman sat nearby with a little rat of a dog. It yipped and squealed piercingly at every other dog that passed; there were many. We groaned. Then someone else arrived with a very large dog. It had a booming bark that nearly shook us out of our seats every time something of interest caught its eye. The sun was shining. It was noon. Noel Coward was right.

Call Me Master Sand Sculptor

I have been so inspired by the exceptional sand sculptures on the beaches of Fuengirola that I've been thinking of trying my hand at the art. Then I remembered that I used to be quite talented myself when I was a kid. My specialty was the harbor seal.

KISS THE FROG IN FUENGIROLA...
AND ALL YOU GET IS SANDY LIPS.

NATIVE AMERICANS A LA FUENGIROLA.
(THE PEACE PIPE, CAMPFIRE, AND VOLCANO ALL  GET LIT AT NIGHT... AS DO THE SCULPTORS.)

Although my harbor seal wasn't bad, I never honed it to the level shown by these local artists. And I don't have any photos to share. But I did find a shot of one of my "sand fortresses" under construction in the mid 1980s. San Geraldo and I were on the beach in Scituate Harbor, Massachusetts (about 20 miles/32 km north of Plymouth Rock where San Geraldo's ancestors landed the Mayflower in 1620). It was one of our many visits with good friends who lived there. In the photo, I'm caught mid-creation; the evil San Geraldo is caught as he's about to splash cold water on our sweet, unaware, friend Sarah (now a mother of two). From the looks of things, it's good I hadn't yet quit my day job.

I BUILT IT MYSELF. 

(OH, ALRIGHT! I WAS ONLY SARAH'S ASSISTANT.)

Say, Jerry, What's a Cat House?

JOE SENT ME.

I went for a walk the other day and met a cat hanging out in a window. As I approached, he sleepily stretched and assessed me. A marking on his face made it look like he had a shiner. Thinking of a San Geraldo story from the past, I wondered if he was the bouncer at this particular "house."

Innocence
In 1982, San Geraldo and I drove with our friend Susan from Boston to New York for the weekend. On the way back, we stopped at a McDonald's on the Connecticut Turnpike. While in the parking lot sipping our chocolate shakes, I noticed a veterinary clinic on the other side of the fence. There were two entrances. One read "DOGS" and the other, "CATS."

I facetiously said, "Ha. They don't fool me. That's just a cover for a cathouse."

San Geraldo, the young and innocent, said, "Huh? Is that like a kennel, only for cats?"

Susan and I looked at him incredulously. As you have probably learned, San Geraldo often gets incredulous looks.

"You really don't know what a cathouse is?" I asked.

"Yeah, like a kennel, right?" he replied.

I explained, "Jerry, a cathouse is a whorehouse."

"No it's not. You're making that up."

"I am not. It's where you would go to... well, not you... uh... It's where you go for pussy!

"Oh, stop it. It is not."

Susan reached her hand to his cheek, nodded, and said, "It is."

"Really?!?"

In unison, "Really."

"Well, that's just here. My mother won't know what it is!"

"Trust me," I assured him, "your mother will know."

When we got home, San Geraldo immediately phoned his mother in Minnesota. I stood close so I could hear her response. "Mom, what's a cathouse?"

She laughed and then, when he didn't respond, asked, "Is this a joke?"

"No," he muttered. "Do you know what a cathouse is?"

"Well, of course. Don't you remember Lulu's when we lived in Huron [South Dakota]?"

Stunned silence.

The next night, the phone was ringing when we got home from dinner. San Geraldo grabbed it. It was his Aunt Mildred (his mother's oldest sister). I could hear her cackle all the way from Oregon, "Say, Jerry, what's a cathouse?"

Our Spanish Cathouse

Click the photos. Some will get bigger. Some won't. The cats are in control.

DOWN IN FRONT! DUDO IS A LINDA HUNT FAN.

MOOSE HAS TWO SLEEPING SPOTS ON SAN GERALDO'S DESK. NOT MUCH ROOM TO WORK.

THE BEAUTIFUL BLANKET I WON... APPARENTLY FOR DUDO.
(CLICK HERE FOR THAT STORY.)

I AM REQUIRED TO SET A CHAIR IN THE LAUNDRY ROOM SO THEY CAN SEE OUTSIDE.

MOOSE ENTANGLED IN HIS OWN PERSONAL SUN BED.
(IT DOES FORCE SAN GERALDO TO KEEP HIS DESK A LITTLE NEATER.)

TRYING TO GET SOME PHOTOS OF THEIR NEW HOUSE. I WAS SUPERVISED.
AND YES, DOWAGER DUCHESS, THEY'RE ON THE TABLE.
I'VE GIVEN UP. THEY GO WHEREVER THEY WANT ... WITH NO APOLOGIES.

Finnish Fashion Fuengirola

There are plenty of fashionable Finns in Fuengirola — back in Finland, too, no doubt. But here (and I assume, there) are Finns a bit more festive and, well, folksy. Maybe they're former Finnish flower children. Or Finnish farmers. The colors and patterns knock out my New York noir. I find it fun and fascinating. And, for now at least, I'm finished.

FRIDEBORG (NOT HER REAL NAME — AS FAR AS I KNOW) AT BREAKFAST YESTERDAY
CLICK TO MAKE THE FASHION MORE FERVENT.

So, Set 'Em Up, Jóse

In recent years, before we moved to Spain, a drink with a meal was a rarity for me. Now, when we dine out, since a glass of beer is so cheap, I tend to have a small one with lunch or dinner. A common practice here — in the friendly places (which there seem to be an abundance of) — is for the "house" to buy us an after-dinner drink. Un chupito (click here for an important lesson on chupitos). That means that I quite often have not one but two drinks with dinner — and if San Geraldo doesn't like the chupito, I get to have three drinks!

Our friends Jorunn and Jesper have been visiting this week from Norway and Denmark. Jesper is a terrible influence. He now has me enjoying a carajillo after lunch. It's coffee with either brandy, whiskey, anís, or rum (ours have been with brandy). You may know it as Spanish coffee. Jesper, Jorunn, and I had just enjoyed a delicious lunch at a friendly place called Casa Kiki. With lunch we had gone through more than a pitcher of tinto de verano ("red wine of summer" — red wine with lemon-lime soda), which was delicious. Jesper then ordered three carajillos. DEE-licious. The owner of Casa Kiki then brought over three chupitos. Caramel vodka. DEE-LUSH-ISS. Somehow, I still got us home (the Mediterranean Sea is a good ... landmark.)

CARAJILLO, COMPLEMENTS OF JESPER.

CARAMEL VODKA, COMPLEMENTS OF THE OWNER OF CASA KIKI.

The night before our friends arrived, San Geraldo and I were at Meson Salvador for dinner. The owner, Jóse, not only bought us after-dinner drinks (vino dulce this time instead of the usual pionono), he also gave us a gift before we left — a bottle of new wine. The new wine is delicious, too. But I think I'm beginning to spend too much time at Sand Bar.

VINO DULCE (I GOT TO DRINK BOTH).
ON THE HOUSE AT MESON SALVADOR.

VINO NUEVO COMPLEMENTS OF JÓSE.
EVEN THE CATS WANTED IN (WELL, THEY WANT EVERYTHING).

BACK TO SAND BAR.

WHEN YOU START SEEING CHIMPS, IT'S TIME TO GO HOME. 

ONE OF THE ARTISTS DURING A PRODUCTIVE PERIOD.
CLICK TO MAKE THE DRINKS BIGGER AT SAND BAR.

Hair

A picture paints a thousand words. (Too bad it doesn't paint a thousand hairs.)

1954

1955

1956

1958

1962

1971

1973

1974 (WITH MY BEAUTIFUL NIECE).

2009

Paradise Lost and Found

With no good reason, I've been having emotionally challenging days. (Again.) No sympathy needed. No sympathy deserved. No boring details either. My moods are as changeable as today's skies over Fuengirola. We didn't have snow and cold, but we had a little of most other things today — sun, clouds, wind, rain, sun, wind, clouds, mist... Did I mention wind? They're called breezes here. San Geraldo is trying to understand the difference between "breezes" and "wind." I tell him it's all in your attitude.

I caught the changing look of Fuengirola as the day progressed. From top to bottom, the photos were taken from around 11 a.m. until 9 p.m. The colors throughout the day and evening were magical. The breezes, not so much.