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.

Sardinia!

I am in love with Sardinia.  Rugged landscape, strong sun, delicious food.  And the beaches—oh, the beaches.  We spent our three days there going from an amazing beach (Cala Luna) to a spectacular beach (Cala Friuli) to the most beautiful beach I have ever been to (Cala Mariolu). 

We arrived in Cagliari on Thursday afternoon, picked up our rented van—Hooky Van #3—and headed northeast.  We had rented the first floor of a two storey house in Galtelli, in a pretty spot high on a hill overlooking the town and with a view of the mountains.  Everything looked great, except that it seemed as though the living room was missing.  Giovanni, the man who met us to let us in, simply shrugged when we asked him about it, so we had to call the rental office.  The woman explained to me on the phone that the living room was in the upstairs unit—she had photos of both on the website.  Rather misleading.  After much back and forth, she agreed to let us use the upstairs as well, as it was not rented. We ended up using the downstairs for sleeping and bathing, and the upstairs for cooking, eating, and hanging out.  It had a terrific terrace where we ate our dinners.  We are the first people to have rented the place this season, and the downstairs unit is new—I expect that we will be the first of many to complain.

We drove into nearby Orosei for dinner that night—delicious, thin crust pizzas and fresh salads.  These are two things that are in short supply in Barcelona.  After a leisurely morning on Friday—the children ran around trying to catch lizards while the adults lingered over breakfast—we decided to drive to Cala Gonone and made our way to its small port.  The marina is lined with small shacks from which people sell tickets for boat tours to the various beaches that dot the coast. Most of these beaches are inaccessible except by boat; they sit at the foot of 900 meter white cliffs.  The aquamarine of the water surrounded by the white stone is absolutely stunning. 

We hired a boat to take us to Cala Luna, one of the closer beaches.  The driver left us off and we crossed a small bridge to the shore.  The children had stripped down and dove into the sea as soon as we touched land.  It was hot, and the water a perfect refreshing temperature.  C.C. borrowed a mask that fit her perfectly and spent hours studying the silvery white fish that swam in the shallows.  I fell asleep after a good long swim and some lunch.  Afternoon naps on the beach are my absolute favorite naps. We made a caprese salad and grilled steak and local sausage for dinner, washed down with the inky, local Canoneau wine.

Saturday threatened to be grey, and we debated whether to head back to the beach or to go to the mountains, but in the end decided to risk the beach.   This time we drove, to another beach south of Cala Gonone called Cala Friuli.  You park on the top and then descend a steep, winding staircase cut from the stone down to the beach.  Cala Friuli’s beach consisted of large-ish white rocks.  You have to arrange them just right beneath you to get into a comfortable position.  We swam again, ate sandwiches on the beach.  I napped.  It was beginning to feel like a routine, a very nice routine.

We decided to drive into Nuoro for dinner in order to get a sense of local culture.  We ate gelato in the piazza and strolled the main avenue.  I had found a slow food restaurant that opened at 7:45 and, as we were a party of nine, we decided we should get there when they opened.  Il Rifugio is the kind of restaurant you wish you had in your neighborhood.  Simple wooden tables, delicious aromas emanating from the kitchen, warm, attentive service.  The kids ate pizzas while the adults had local seafood and pastas.  Alec’s primi piatti was outstanding—a half-moon shaped pasta with a dough more like gnocchi than ravioli, stuffed with cheese and almonds, sauced lightly with slivers of guanciale and orange zest.  Amazing.  The panna cotta—served either with chocolate sauce, caramel, or forest fruits—was perfectly creamy, yielding easily to the spoon.  We left happy and full, drove back in the chilly night air and fell into bed.

On Sunday we got a bit braver, and rented a boat in order to get to what was purported to be one of the most beautiful beaches—Cala Mariolu.  Eirik knew how to drive a boat, and the waters had seemed easy enough to navigate.  Everyone suited up in life jackets and we set off.  It was a fine day, the sun shining and the water glittering.  Eirik steered us skillfully out into the open water and let the kids take turns “driving” the boat.  We passed Cala Luna, Cala Friuli, and several other beaches tucked into coves, counting on a map until we were certain we had reached our destination, a beautiful beach divided by a large rock.  We pulled up to the beach—C.C., our little fish, jumped out and swam to shore—and unloaded our towels and dry clothing, bags of sandwiches and bottles of water.  Andres and Dmitrius quickly scrambled up to the top of the high rock—it was about 10 feet tall—and jumped into the sea.  I had to do it, too. What a feeling!  I don’t like heights very much, and it did feel high up there, but so glorious to jump into the cool, blue water.

A couple of large parties of Italians had taken charter boats there for the day, and cheered each other on as one after another jumped into the water—teenage boys, older men, women in bikinis.  We had to keep moving our towels as the sun began to fall behind the cliffs—it was cool in the shade.  Finally, after everyone else had left and the sun was gone for good, we packed up and sailed off, but not before Alec pulled a muscle in his leg bringing the boat to shore.

We had another grill fest, and sat outside for a long time talking.  Vibeke suggested we play cards, so we did for awhile, until we realized that the deck we had bought at the grocery store was missing all of the eights, nines and tens.  We found another partial deck in the house and made do with that, playing until Vibeke and Alec tied for the lead, and we decided to turn in.

We managed to leave early enough this morning to stop in Cagliari on our way to the airport for one last, fantastic gelato at L’Isola del Gelato on Piazza Yenne.  And now we are home again, just in time for a full week of fieldwork for me, and the kids’ last, short week of school.

Milo loved having a 5 day playdate with his best friend, Peter.  One morning I asked Milo when he had woken up and he told me: “I woke up first of all, but I just stayed in the bed because I knew when my friend Peter woke up, he’d want to do something fun with me.”  Although they sounded like an old married couple at times, they are very good buddies, and I hope they stay friends for a long time.  C.C. loved hunting lizards, looking for fish, and jumping off of the big rock all by herself.  And we had a terrific time with our new friends.  All in all, a successful trip.  I had begun to feel overwhelmed by all that has to happen these last three weeks in Barcelona and, as I napped in the Sardinian sun, the sound of the ocean filling my ears, I began to slowly unwind.  Upon returning, everything seems somehow more manageable.

Photos of the Day

From London to Barcelona, and Off Again

Somehow the days fly by now without a moment for blogging.  I am finishing fieldwork, working hard on a paper with Manuel, Amalia and Joana, spending 6 hours a week rehabbing my knee, and doing all of the million little things that need to be done when you pack up a house, prepare for a six week trip, and organize an international move.

So my trip with Milo, despite being a work trip, was a respite from much of this.  When we arrived in London, I made a silent pledge to try and move at Milo’s pace, to check myself when I found myself about to say, “Keep up,” “Let’s go,” “Hurry.”  I checked myself a lot.  Like most 6 year old boys, Milo looks at everything, touches everything, takes the long way around mailboxes, garbage cans, and streetlights.  So we did not do as many things in a day as I would have.   We spent more time in our hotel than I would have.  We stopped to rest on more patches of grass than I would have.  In the end, it was just right.

On Sunday we went to Margo and Gregory’s place—Gregory is teaching a course with a group of UT students—had some lunch and then strolled to Regent’s Park.  Unlike our first two days in London, which were unusually warm, dry and sunny, Sunday presented us with more typical London weather—grey and drizzly.  We wandered, took shelter at an ice cream stand when it began to drip, found a playground and, when it truly started to rain, caught a cab to Harrod’s.  Milo calls Harrod’s “the Gruffalo store” because it is there that I bought him the children’s book by Julia Donaldson.  Check it out, and also be sure to see the recent BBC production of it, which I think you can download.  It’s terrific.  We loaded up on a few more Donaldson/Scheffler books and then went to the Wagamama at Harvey Nichols for more noodles.

Monday I had a meeting with the head of the well-being group at the New Economics Foundation.  Margo picked Milo up and took the two boys to the Natural History Museum, where they got activity backpacks and pith helmets and did some exploring.  Meanwhile I had a terrific meeting with Charles Seaford—NEF has done some very interesting work on creating measures of well-being.  David Cameron recently announced his intention to measure and work toward well-being, instead of focusing so much on GDP.  Other governments at all levels are doing the same. 

I met up with Milo and the boys for lunch, and then we set out for the airport.  We finished reading the first Harry Potter book on the airplane; Milo is hooked.

After that it was a short week—two long days of work, and now we are bound for Sardinia, one last mini-trip before we leave Barcelona.  We had planned to do something this weekend with our friends Vibeke and Eirik, and their sons Andres and Peter (Milo’s best friend).  When Alec saw the incredibly low fares to Sardinia, we couldn’t resist.  So, in true Spanish style, we turned a 3 day weekend into a 5 day weekend, bought tickets, rented a house and a 9 person hooky van (Andres’ friend Dmitrios joined us), and packed up again.