Hitting the Road

To say that the past 24 hours have been overfull would be a gross understatement.  I had gotten a call from the police in southern Catalunya about a week ago that they had found some items from my purse.  They sent them to the police in Barcelona, and yesterday I got a call that they had arrived.  So, after dinner last night, I drove over to our local precinct where I was presented with my wallet, my appointment book, and my notebook—the only truly irreplaceable thing in my bag.  All of the credit cards were missing from my wallet, but my driver’s license and Spanish identity cards were there.  It was kind of strange to hold the small pile of personal items in my hands, not knowing where they had been or where they had been left.  I’m glad I got them back.

This morning I started out at Iñaki’s, where I had one last workup on my back.  It’s gotten better every day.  Iñaki and his team have massaged me, stretched me, given me craniosacral therapy (pretty cool), heated me with a freaky microwave machine and probably some other things I can’t remember.  I went every day this week.  I’m not 100% yet, but I don’t feel doomed anymore.  I can actually put my pants on without pain ricocheting through my back. So that’s progress.

Iñaki had brought his chistu, a beautiful ebony, 3-holed flute that is native to the area around Pamplona where he is from.  He sat on a chair while I got my electrical stimulation treatment and played a series of beautiful traditional songs for me as a going away present.  He was very good, and it was awfully sweet to be serenaded like that.  Alec and I actually took him to dinner on Tuesday night—he is a truly special person and he has been incredibly good to us.  I think he’s only about 26, but has studied art history, gone to a musical conservatory, been a world class skier, and now a gifted osteopath.  I also got a book of back exercises as an additional parting gift.

From there I went home, where Alec and I made a push on packing the things that would go with us in the car, and the things we would leave with our friends until we return in August.  It turns out that the movers were pretty sloppy—we found clothes behind the bathroom door, books on high shelves and, unfortunately, three large plastic storage boxes under the bed that they had failed to pack.  Fortunately we had saved out one duffel bag for extra stuff, which is now full of my sweaters and winter boots and shoes.  How lucky that I will have all of my wool and cashmere in New York City in mid-August!

We packed up most of the car, and then Alec went to Iñaki’s while I ran down to the Corte Ingles to buy C.C. some underwear. She really needed new underwear.  In fact, I had thrown it all out, so I didn’t even have the option of stretching it out with the old stuff.  And then I went to a shop to get a photo of Manuel and me in Mora de Rubielos printed and framed so that I could leave it as a thank you present.

Then we met up at home again to fill a few boxes with spices and olive oil and other things we couldn’t bring with us and couldn’t bear to throw away.  We packed all of that in the car (mostly Alec, really, because of my back) and Alec drove it all down to our friends’ apartment.  Unfortunately, he got stuck in traffic from a demonstration and then had to park a kilometer away from their apartment.  Which meant that what should have taken one hour took three.  That set us back quite a bit.

Meanwhile, I took a cab up to my office to leave the gift for Manuel and scan my entire insurance claim from the robbery so that I could send it in from the road.  Then I picked up the kids from their camp buses, stopped to pick up the contact lenses I had ordered, and found out they had ordered the wrong prescription.  Maybe I can get some along the way.

Back home I made us all sandwiches, which we intended to eat on the road but ate at home instead since we were getting such a late start.  The kids took a bath—it’s been days since they bathed, because our hot water heater broke on Monday night and didn’t get fixed for three days.  I had asked Alec to run me a bath after his boss left on Monday—Iñaki had told me to soak in water as hot as I could stand, which is one of my favorite things to do.  Only cold came out of the spigot, so Alec went to check the hot water heater, which began to spray water all over the kitchen.  He ran downstairs to get the super, who came up so quickly that his pants were on backwards.  There was nothing he could do, and nothing we could do except wait for the hot water heater guy to come.  Anyway, aside from the kids’ daily swims at camp, they had not bathed in days.

Alec stopped at the market on his way home to say goodbye to all of our friends there—Henrik and Mari, Antonio and the fish ladies.  He gave them all bottles of wine I had not drunk, and Henrik actually cried.  We loved the market. Alec says Henrik’s stand is the thing he will miss most about Barcelona.

Finally, hours behind schedule, we packed up the rest of the car and hit the road.  The kids are not too sentimental about leaving, so far.  But I felt sad as Alec and I stood at our living room window one last time and looked out at the park.  We made a good life for ourselves in Barcelona, and I will miss it.

Is it really over?

I am surrounded by boxes, and movers.  Somehow, there are a few more returning than came with us.  Could we have done without much of what we brought?  Definitely.  But we did use most of it.  Except for my sewing machine—those projects did not happen.  I could have brought fewer clothes, fewer shoes, but I didn’t know what the shape of my life would be like. 

The apartment is starting to look much like what it did when we arrive, most of the signs of messy family life removed.  The photos of friends and family have been taken off of the refrigerator, the kids’ artwork taken down from the walls.  Alec has just left to meet our good friends for one last pizza dinner, while I finish up the details with the movers.  Hopefully I’ll be able to meet up with them soon.

On Tuesday some friends from Brooklyn arrived to begin their own year here.  They came by for a drink and then we went to dinner.  Tomorrow we will given them a box of food from our pantry and The Barcelona Notebook, which was a real lifesaver for me.  It sort of feels like a full circle moment to have people we know beginning their own adventure just as ours is ending.

I will miss Barcelona, both as a place in and of itself, and as the place where I got my mojo back.  I got strong and healthy here, slowed down, re-grounded myself in my academic work and gave myself more time and space than I have in a very long time.  I shopped for food and cooked, I read, I followed hunches and tangents, I hung out with my kids.  I aim to maintain the lessons I learned when I return to New York, and I know it will be a challenge.  Let’s face it, New York is not the first place that comes to mind when one thinks about slowing down.

But first, we are prolonging our adventure with a six week road trip.  We’ll pick the kids up from camp tomorrow afternoon and begin our drive east, through France and Italy to take a ferry to Croatia.  We will chill with some friends on a small island for about a week, spend a few days in Dubrovnik, and then head back to Italy to catch a ferry to Greece, where we will spend a bout ten days each in the Peloponese and on an island called Chios.  Then it’s back to Italy where we will spend a few days in Venice before driving back to Barcelona to sell our car and tie up loose ends.

So stay tuned!  More adventures to come…

A Bad Back and a Fat Lip

I’m sitting here in my living room with a fat lip, working on my syllabus for the fall semester.  I have to take frequent breaks to lie flat on my back on the floor.  For some reason, no matter how well I plan or take care of myself, I seem to fall apart when faced with a big move.  Twice I got strep throat just before moving—once from New York and once from Austin.  Last summer I had a spate of panic attacks that exhausted me.  Perhaps transitions are not my forte.

On Sunday morning, having woken from a nice long sleep, I shuffled into the kitchen to make some tea.  I began to empty the dishwasher while waiting for the water to boil and, as I bent down to put away a bowl, the lower left part of my back seized up.  I could barely breathe, and I couldn’t stand up straight.  “Oh, shit,” I said, lowering myself onto my knees.  Alec recently pulled his abductor muscle, so we had already been helping fill our physical therapist, Iñaki’s, morning and afternoon slots.  C.C. walked into the kitchen at that moment and, after surveying the situation, proclaimed, “You guys are really falling apart!”

We were smack dab in the middle of the Big Packing Weekend, and I could not really afford to take to my bed (although, as history has proven, I’ve made it through many moves doing just that).

I took two extra strength Tylenols and, eventually, I was able to move some. Enough to put clothes in piles, and to direct Alec to lift this suitcase or that for me to fill.  I slept poorly—shooting pains every time I tried to roll over.  And when I tried not to move, my hip started hurting from being in the same position for so long!  Is this what getting old feels like?

I had to give a talk on my research at the university on Monday morning, and I managed to get there by taking subways with elevators, and the bus.  Even walking hurt.  I called Iñaki, who I was not scheduled to see that day.  Rose, his fabulous assistant and fierce gatekeeper, told me he was very busy but if I showed up he might be able to fit me in.  So I did, and of course he told me to change and get myself onto one of the tables that crowd the floor like a military ER in a combat zone—everyone in various stages of undress getting rubbed, iced, microwaved, or stimulated with electrical circuits. 

He worked without talking, going beyond the usual deep massage to manipulate my spine as a chiropractor would.  I left feeling a little better, and headed up to the office to give the paper we had finished on Friday one last read before sending it out.

Alec had invited his supervisor over for dinner.  When I surveyed the state of the apartment on Monday morning—piles of papers to sort, file and discard, half-packed suitcases, bathrooms in disarray—I started to worry.  “I can’t really bend over to pick anything up,” I told Alec.  “Do you have time to clean up AND cook?” 

“Don’t worry,” Alec said.  “He knows we’re in the middle of moving.”  Not exactly the response I had hoped for. 

“Why don’t you call Berta and see if she can come,” I suggested.  Fortunately she could.

Between courses I lay on the floor to rest my back—sitting is the worst, and is yet another reason why my blog posts have been few and far between.  Alec cooked a terrific Ampurdan rice with rabbit and mushrooms dish, along with squash blossoms filled with cheese and oregano.

I slept better on Monday night, and my back felt a little better in the morning.  I went back to Iñaki for the full treatment, and then came home to work on my syllabus.  After about an hour my mouth started feeling itchy.  Sure enough my lower left lip had begun to swell.  I get these allergic reactions very infrequently, but sometimes in clusters—I had them quite regularly about 3 years ago.  Either my lips swell—not an attractive look, or I get an itchy red patch on my stomach or hip.  For awhile I carried an epi pen around, just in case.  I haven’t had one in at least 18 months. 

So I took a Benadryl and decided to lie on my back and meditate on the theme of acceptance for my rickety, aging self, to appreciate my physical body instead of thinking the nasty thoughts I had been thinking about how it is letting me down.   And, of course, before I got very far with that plan, I fell fast asleep.  Benadryl really knocks me out. 

So here I sit, with a bad back a fat lip and, fortunately, a good sense of humor.

One Last, Noisy Festival

It turns out that Thursday night was the shortest night of the year.  And how do the Catalans celebrate it?  By staying up all night and shooting off as many fireworks as possible, of course.  It’s called the Festival of Saint John, although for the life of me I can’t figure out what a saint has to do with the equinox.  No matter.  The big party happens on the beach in the Barceloneta, where people stake out their spots early, drink a lot, and participate in the fireworks happenings.

A hot, crowded beach with drunken people setting off explosives—not my idea of a good time.  Alec, who was born on July 4, was tempted.  We had talked about a compromise, maybe going up the castle at Mont Juic to see everything from afar and above.  But by the time Friday night rolled around, we were all completely exhausted.  I had left all of my energy on the court and it was gone by the time the last child left.  The kids were fried from spending all week in a nonstop play date, and Alec had a cold coming on.  There was no way to drag the kids out, and I was perfectly fine staying home.  I suggested that Alec go out by himself.  So he did, for a bit, walking around Sarria to see what folks were doing.  In that neighborhood, people had set out tables on the streets and sidewalks, full of candles.  People walked the streets, stopped and chatted.  It sounded lovely, and civilized. 

I was still up reading when he came home, the sound of M80s piercing the usual quiet of our street.  That’s the sound I fell asleep to, and I still heard them when I woke briefly at 6 am.  So our year in Barcelona really has gone out with a bang.

Of course Saint John is a holiday here, but Manuel wanted to send the paper we were working on in to the readers before he left for Paris on Sunday.  So Amalia, Manuel and I met in the office at 10 am and worked straight through until 9 pm, stopping only for a potluck picnic of tortilla (mine), bread (Manuel) and salad and fruit (Amalia).  Manuel also broght a “coca de Sant Joan,”  a traditional sweet bread sold only for this holiday—we had a tea break and ate that during the late afternoon.  Around 6, Alec came by with the kids on their way back from Tibidabo to see how we were doing and to say goodbye to Manuel.

We were focused and worked hard, although we were all ready to leave by the time we piled into Manuel’s car to go home.  I came home, opened a bottle of red wine, and flopped onto the couch.  That must be the first 11 hour day I’ve worked since I arrived here.  I don’t miss them.