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.

Daycare for a Day

It’s been quite a week. Our final houseguests have come and gone.  Our good friends, Jamie and Alexei and their two kids came on Sunday and left this morning.  We all toured Camp Nou (FC Barcelona’s stadium) on Sunday, and then Alec and I launched into a heavy work week.  Alec gave two talks yesterday, and I have a deadline for a paper I’m working on with Manuel.  Unfortunately, the kids’ school has finished, and no camps start until next week.  A major market failure, in my opinion.  So I took the bull by the horns and emailed a few other families I knew to see if we could arrange some childcare swaps.  In the end, the kids went to one family on Monday, another on Tuesday, and were watched by our babysitter yesterday.  Today I have five of them here together.  At first I thought I might take them to the science museum or the aquarium.  But then the idea of getting so many kids to and from anyplace seemed overwhelming, so I decided to base our day at home.  We watched some Tom and Jerry, spent an hour or so in the park, made mosaics with bottle caps, had lunch, made cookies, and are now watching a movie.  I’m hoping Alec is home by the time it’s done so that I can slip out to a yoga class.

Last night Alec had a dinner, and Jamie, Alexei and I went to check out Ferran Adria’s new tapas and cocktail bar, 41˚, in Poble Sec.  Jamie and I drank a rose cava, while Alexei had a couple of martinis.  And we snacked.  On beautifully presented “liquid” olives, and liquid pistachios, little brioches stuffed with truffled cheese, flavorful mini tacos encased in a light and crispy wrap.  And oysters—amazing oysters in a miso black garlic sauce.  Then blackcurrant profiteroles filled with yogurt, and chocolate bonbons, for dessert.  Everything was special, some things a little weird, all bursting with flavor.  I have to admit that I left a little hungry—you have to eat a whole lot (and spend a whole lot) to call it dinner.  But I would go back.

And now we are in the home stretch—we leave Barcelona next Friday, and in the meantime have to pack up boxes to send back to the US—at home and at our offices—and pack up our car for the six week road trip we’ve planned.  We have to say goodbye to people, and finish our work.  We will be back on the other end, for a few days in August, so there will be a little time to do the things we have not gotten around to.  The kids have camp next week, so we’ll have a little space and time for getting things done, and to do what it takes to drive away.

On the Road with Manuel

I woke up on Tuesday (this is last week--I'm way behind) feeling angry about the selfishness of our robber.  Yes, Spain is in an economic crisis, and I am fortunate to have a good job and to not want for much.  I actually don’t mind the loss of “stuff” at all.  What rankles me is the fact that this thief put our lives in jeopardy.  I’d have much preferred that he simply held us up at the rest stop.  Manuel and I are okay only because we were lucky, and because Manuel handled the car so well.

Sometimes I think these kinds of experiences help you to get your perspective back.  The last email I read before I closed up my laptop and left on Tuesday morning was from our doctoral program.  He wrote to report that a woman who graduated with her PhD last May—a ceremony over which I presided—had dropped dead in her kitchen, 10 days after the birth of her baby.  So in the grand scheme of things, all is well.

Both of us were tired when we met at breakfast on Wednesday.  Our dinner had been late, our first interview was early, and for sure the stress of the robbery had settled in some.  I had slept well, but not enough.  We got in the car to head from Mora de Rubielos to Rubielos de Mora, about 7 km away.  Teruel, the region where these two villages are located, was populated by Moors at one time.  At that time, Mora de Rubielos was called, simply, Mora, and Rubielos de Mora was called just Rubielos.  But then a Moorish woman from Mora fell in love with a Christian man from Rubielos; it was forbidden love, and they had to flee in order to be together.  Legend has it that later, each village—having seen the error of its ways—added the other village’s name to its name.

Rubielos de Mora, the slow city, has a population of about 800; Mora is about twice as large.  Both are precious, beautiful medieval cities, although Mora feels a bit more “real” because of its larger size. 

We met the mayor of Rubielos in the ayuntamiento—city hall—an amazing 15^th century building with a courtyard that used to house the city’s market.  A waist high door on one wall had the word carcel (jail) carved into the stone above it.  A large window next to the door was covered in a heavy metal grate.  This is where the village’s bad guys were once held.  They had to stoop to get in through the door, and then were visible through the window for all of the other villagers to see—adding to their humiliation.

The mayor, who had just won the local election for another 4 year term, met us with an assistant and one of the council members.  We talked for over two hours about the town and its process of becoming a slow city.  Everyone we have talked with so far has told us that they applied to become a slow city because the philosophy of the movement reflected the town’s own values.  So far at least, they have not exploited “the snail” that is the movement’s symbol to attract tourists. 

After our interview, we walked through the town and interviewed a baker who uses traditional recipes and makes everything without preservatives.  She became incredibly passionate when we asked her about slow food and the cittaslow movement.  “But one thing,” she said, coming out from behind the counter.  She went over to the wall where a Cittaslow brochure was taped up, took it off and pointed to the word hombre in the following sentence.  She asked us to do what we could to get “man” changed to XXX.

We had a light lunch back at our hotel, Manuel took a short siesta, and we set off for our return trip to Barcelona.  Manuel insisted on stopping at the same rest stop where our tire had been tampered with to see if we could find the thief.  No luck.  Manuel dropped me back at home, safe and sound just after 8 pm—we pulled up at the same time Alec did with the kids, who were so happy to see me after only one day gone.  They were full of questions about my adventure, and were especially upset about the loss of the iPad.

I then did another quick turnaround, sleeping at home on Wednesday and leaving again on Thursday morning for my last fieldwork trip.  I met my collaborator Sarah at the National rental car agency on Muntaner, hopped into our Citroen C3 and set off up the coast this time to the Costa Brava.  We were looking at two slow cities—Pals and Begur—in two days.  Pals is another precious town with a beautiful plaza and pristine, centuries-old buildings.  Begur sits 300 meters above sea level on a piece of land that juts into the Mediterranean; it is flanked by some of the most beautiful beaches in Spain.  We had good interviews in both places.

Meanwhile, Alec had to staff the home front all week—attending the Kindergarten end of year party and Gingerbread Man play, going to C.C.’s insect show and, on top of it all, getting me a new phone, canceling my credit cards, changing the locks on our doors.

I was feeling celebratory by the time I got home on Friday evening.  I had finished my travels, and the kids had had their last day of school.  So what did we do?  We all went to see Kung Fu Panda 2, of course.  In 3D.

Highway Robbery

After returning from Sardinia on Monday afternoon, I unpacked and then repacked so that I would be ready on Monday morning for my next Slow City trip.  When I talked to Manuel in December about the work I had begun to plan, I showed him the map of Spain’s six slow cities.  He quickly zeroed in on one—Rubielos de Mora, in Teruel.  It turns out that Manuel spent his summers in the neighboring town—Mora de Rubielos—from the age of 10 to the age of 16.  “If you go there to do fieldwork,” he said, “I’m coming with you.”  So we planned a trip for this week.  It’s about a 4 ½ hour drive from Barcelona, meaning that we needed to spend a night.  I arranged interviews with the mayor and others involved in the Cittaslow movement, and Manuel picked me up yesterday morning after I had dropped the kids at school.

It was a glorious day, perfect for a road trip, and we both commented on our good fortune to have two whole days together to work, talk, and explore.  We were in that lighthearted mood that comes from driving out of town, away from stress and toward adventure.  After a couple of hours, we stopped for gas and a coffee at a rest stop on the AP-7, the main highway going south out of Barcelona.  After filling up the tank, we had to cross the highway on a footbridge to get coffee, and then resumed our journey.

We hadn’t driven more than a few kilometers before the car starting making a funny noise, and just as we decided to pull over and check it out, the car swerved into the left lane and then back again.  Everything went into slow motion, and I was sure we were going to go over the shoulder and down a steep embankment.  But Manuel handled the car masterfully, letting the car move rather than jerking the wheel back.  He was able to pull it over onto the shoulder safely.  Fortunately there was not much traffic; my stomach flips when I think about what could have happened if there had been a car—or worse, one of the 18 wheelers that frequent the highway—right behind us, or in the left lane when we swerved out of control.

We both got out and clicked into emergency gear.  The right rear tire was completely flat—we were practically driving on the rim.  There was an emergency call booth about 50 meters away, so Manuel put on the reflective vest in the glove box and went to call while I found some reflective triangles in the trunk to put out behind the car.

Within a few minutes a car approached, driven by a guy wearing what looked like an official highway jacket, complete with reflectors.  I couldn’t believe our good luck at getting help so quickly.  I should have realized that things that seem too good to be true usually are.  He pulled up in front of our car and I showed him the tire.  He walked toward Manuel, who was still on the phone, and told me I needed to put the triangles farther away from the car—it made sense, so I started to do it.  When the man approached Manuel, I could tell that Manuel was telling him that we did not need help, and he called to me to stay with the car.  In the meantime, the man had started to come back toward me, and told me again to put the triangles farther away.  I put the first one down, and then turned around to return to the car.  In that very short time—no more than 30 seconds—the man had taken off in his car.  This didn’t alarm me—it seemed odd, but I thought perhaps that he had gone for equipment.

I decided that the whole incident was unique enough that I should capture it on film, and I went to the car for my camera before returning to move the second triangle.  But when I got to the car, I noticed that my bag was not where I had left it on the floor in front of my seat.  I looked in the backseat, and even in the trunk, and only then realized the man had stolen it.

I didn’t panic—what could I do?  I just walked up to Manuel and told him it was missing.  He seemed more alarmed than I did, and immediately called the highway patrol again to report the robbery.  Then I called Alec to ask him to start canceling my credit cards and to shut down my phone.

My bag had the usual things inside—cell phone, wallet, cosmetics bag, etc.  But since I was going on a research trip, it also contained enough electronics to equip a small village—my iPod, my iPad, a very good digital camera, a video camera, and my digital recorder for doing interviews.  It also had my glasses and my sunglasses.  All of these things are replaceable, albeit with some cost and inconvenience.  What is not replaceable is my notebook, which held all of my interview notes, thoughts about my research, and important contact information for various people. My Spanish “green card” was also in my walled, along with Milo’s.  It will take a lot of time to replace it all.

Manuel and I waited in the weeds beyond the shoulder of the highway in the hot sun.  I found some sunscreen in my bag, and Manuel and I both found hats.  He was quite the picture in his yellow vest and baseball cap.  Afer reassuring him that I was fine, we began to laugh at the absurdity of the situation, and the hazards of coing academic fieldwork.

 When the tow truck arrived, and I had had a chance to study the rip in the tire a bit more, I said to Manuel, “You know, this might sound like a conspiracy, but isn’t it odd that we got a flat so soon after leaving the rest area? And that that guy found us and pulled up so quickly after we pulled over? What if he punctured the tire and then followed us?”  It seemed somewhat farfetched, but when we talked to the tow truck guy about it, he said he was sure that’s what had happened.  Just the day before a woman driving from Madrid had been forced out of her car and her car stolen.  So we had been set up. 

We road in the tow truck to the nearest town, where we were dropped at a tire fixing place.  By this time it was 1 o’clock, so of course the place was closed for lunch.  We found a café next door and ordered a couple of cold beers—nothing has ever tasted better—and some sandwiches.  It was 3:30 before we had a new tire and were back on the road. 

Then we had to go to the Guardia Civil to report the incident—I will need the report in order to collect insurance.  The Guardia Civil is actually part of the army here, and the tow truck guy advised us to go there instead of to the police, because the Guardia Civil would be more efficient and professional.  At first it looked like they might not take the report, because the crime occurred just before we crossed the border from Catalunya to Castillon.  But finally they agreed to do it, and to send the report to Catalunya afterwards.  So that took awhile.  The report was quite complete, and even says things like, “Señora Lisa Servon, daughter of Joseph and Lois…”.  So, Mom, your name will live forever in some corner of the Spanish bureaucracy.   After obtaining a dizzying number of signatures and official stamps, we were finished.  I asked the officer who helped us for his name, in case I needed to get in touch.  “Right here,” he said, pointing to the first page of the report.  He pointed to a number, his number, which is I guess how he is known.

It was 5:30 by this time, and we got a coffee at the bar across the street, got back in the car, and set off, again, for Mora de Rubielos—still a 2 ½ hour drive away.  The good news is that neither of us was too fazed by the incident.  I felt a little shaken up once we were in the tow truck and everything began to sink in.  But for the most part, I can take these things in stride.  No one was hurt, and almost everything can be replaced.  Although at first I kicked myself for leaving my bag in the car, and Manuel swore that he should have locked the car, we came to realize that we were actually lucky.  A thief as organized as this one surely would not have left empty-handed, and at the very least we did not have to deal with any violent confrontations.  He might have stuck around to rob Manuel, or take our luggage as well, but the fact that Manuel was on the phone calling the authorities told the thief that he did not have much time.  We were lucky, too, that we broke down so close to an emergency call booth.  Although Manuel had his cell phone, it would have taken longer to reach the right person that way.

We pulled into Mora de Rubielos just after 8 pm, Manuel pointing out mountains he had climbed, forests he had gotten lost in, the house his family had rented.  We had been on the road for more than ten hours.  But the sun was still quite bright and the village felt peaceful and welcoming.  I needed to get out of my dress and shower before I could move another inch, so we agreed to meet in a half hour to go to dinner.  Feeling mostly revived after standing under the hot water for a very long time, I put on clean clothes and opened the corner window onto my tiny terrace.  The swallows were looping and diving, and a few people made their way leisurely through the streets. 

We met outside in the plaza and walked to our restaurant—Melanosporum in the Hotel La Trufa Negra—for dinner.  On the way, we passed a few cafes where people were enjoying a beer at the sidewalk tables.  A little farther on we heard singing coming from behind one of the doors, a group of people singing.  Manuel said it was La Jota, a traditional Aragonese song. It was beautiful, and Manuel sang along as we walked, clearly so happy to be back in this town that he had not visited for 25 years. 

We had a delicious dinner featuring local mushrooms, black truffles, and local cheeses. And some terrific red wine from Teruel.  The events of the day started to slip away.  And then, after comparing notes with Alec once more, I fell quickly into a deep sleep.