Mljet

We got in after midnight again, and stayed in a modern hotel near an anonymous outlet mall close to the ferry port.  Because we would be crossing a national border and leaving the European Union, we had to get to the terminal two hours ahead of our ferry departure.  Just like the airport, only a little more chaotic.

We checked in, went through passport control, and then climbed up some metal stairs onto our ship.  C.C., Milo and I found some seats while Alec drove the car onto the ship.  We got a row of four together, and made ourselves at home for the four hour ride ahead.  It is a large, comfortable boat; the day is clear and the sea is calm.  I was pooped, so I took the fleece blankets we had brought from the car and found an upholstered bench to lie down on.  I plugged myself into a relaxation application on my iPad and drifted off for about an hour, feeling the gentle rolling of the sea below me.

I woke up and we all went to get some lunch—roasted vegetables, prosciutto, fresh mozzarella.  I read to C.C. and to Milo while Alec worked, and then I slept some more. 

We landed in Split, Croatia, just after 4 pm, and had a 3 hour drive.  We took the road that hugged the coast—a gorgeous, winding road through tiny beachfront towns with names like Dugi Rat and XXX.  Men sitting in lawn chairs held signs with the word “Apartment” on them, all vying for the tourist business.  

We had read in our guidebook that a town about halfway to our destination had a decent thai restaurant.  You would think that I am a seasoned enough traveler to be wary of food in one place that is not at all like the food in the actual place, particularly knowing that there has been no influx of Thai immigrants to the Dalmatian coast of Croatia.  But we took the bait, and I ended up with some of the nastiest pad thai I have ever eaten—spaghetti laced with all forms of unfamiliar shellfish, and covered in an over-spiced, gloopy mountain of sauce.  Oh well.  The guidebook had listed it, and Alec and I once spent several days in Cuenca, Ecuador eating all of our meals at the local Mexican restaurant, which was fantastic. 

We bought honey and apricot jam from one of the many roadside stands that lined the nearly deserted road on our way to our night’s lodging.  The stand also sold figs, squash, plums, peaches, tomatoes.  I figured if produce was so abundant, it should be easy to find on Mljet as well.

Bosnia Herzegovina has a tiny finger of land splitting Croatia that gives it access to the sea, and from here we would be taking the ferry to Mljet.  We stayed in a new but cheaply renovated hotel with views of the water.  We woke up on July 4, then, in Bosnia.  C.C. went to breakfast first, as she woke up hungry, and happily reported to us that there were hotdogs for breakfast!  Hotdogs, and several other kinds of meat, scrambled eggs with meat, and some cheese and white bread.  I asked the waiter if he had any yogurt and he produced some for me.  No fruit, nothing green.

Our ferry left at 1 pm, which gave us time to nip down to the beach for a swim.  Although it was early, the narrow beach was packed with eastern Europeans who had an air of desperation about them.  Unlike the Barcelonans who have year round access to the beach, these folks seemed to have a need to get the sun on their ample white skins.

It was a short drive to the ferry, and a short ferry ride to Mljet, a small Croatian island.  We got some lunch and headed to our house, driving on narrow roads high above the coast.  It is a gorgeous place.

Our friends Margo and Gregory, and their son Ben, arrived ahead of us and had the house open and waiting for us.  The three kids immediately ran off to play and we all sat on the terrace overlooking the sea to catch up.  The house itself is simple but functional, but the site is breathtaking. The village—if you could call it that—is tiny.  One small inn, one café.  No store, no restaurant.  There is no internet on the entire island, and the loudest sounds are of the buzzing insects and the waves lapping the rocky shore.  Just what the doctor ordered.

Alec, Margo and I headed out to the small market about a 15 minute drive away to pick up provisions.  The pickings were slim, but we got enough to cook ourselves some good food.  From what both of us had experienced thus far—Margo and Gregory had already spent a few days in Dubrovnik—eating out was expensive and not that good.

We made a Spanish tortilla, and a tomato, cucumber and fresh cheese salad for dinner and dined al fresco on our terrace. The kids are in seventh heaven, running around in a pack, and hunting for beetles.  C.C. came in at one point with one on each of her fingers. We put them to sleep together in one bed.  They took awhile to settle down, of course, but loved it. 

The tiny slice of moon kept the sky dark, dark, dark, and the sky was thick with stars.  I can’t remember when I’ve seen so many.  Alec and I sat out there in the quiet—it was his birthday—and drank it all in.

* * *

We decided to spend the whole of Tuesday at our little compound, without getting into the car.  We woke up to rain and had begun to plan rainy day activities—a double feature!  Decorating the walls!  But then the sun came out around noon, and after a lazy morning of reading and lying around, we had some lunch and walked down to our rocky little beach.  The water is a gorgeous azure, a blue I associate with the Caribbean.  And it is the perfect temperature, cool but not cold, perfectly refreshing.  And calm.  The kids flapped around, the adults swam.  There are black sea urchins lurking in the rocks, but it seems someone has cleared most of them out, so it’s safe.

We had bought a large hunk of pork at the market—we don’t know which part of the pig it came from—which we had thawed overnight and which Alec cooked on the outdoor stone grill.  It came out perfectly.  We fed the kids and then ate outside, all of us with a view of our little cove below.  A woman wearing a billowy skirt and a babushka tied over her head came into view piloting a small boat.  She seemed to be fishing for something.  She went back and forth a few times, working her nets, and then disappeared for the night.

We sat in our living room, talked about education policy, played scrabble, and had an all around enjoyable time.

* * *

One of the great things about traveling is the stuff that happens that you were not expecting.  I certainly thought about the fact that Croatia was in eastern Europe before we came here, but I thought about it more from the perspective of what the food would be like, whether the culture would seem really different; it is my first time in this part of the world.  I had not thought about the direct connection between this place and me.

My paternal grandparents, Joseph and Cecilia Serwon (the “w” was changed to a “v” informally, decades later), came to South River, New Jersey from Poland in the 1930s. They worked factory jobs, had two children—my father and his sister Joan.  Then my father’s mother died of some kind of cancer when he was two.  After a tough couple of years during which my father and his sister nearly became wards of the state, my grandfather remarried Mary, a widow with two children of her own.  I grew up in the same town with Joseph and Mary.  We went to their house on Sundays after church—we went to the Methodist one and they went to one of the Catholic ones.  My grandmother would make a big dinner—a roast, or stuffed cabbage, a salad made from iceberg lettuce and cucumbers and dressed with a thin, milky dressing, chicken soup with homemade noodles.  Everyone drank coffee made with lots of milk and sugar mixed in a big pitcher.

My grandparents spoke English well enough, but they spoke Polish to each other, and to my father.  So the sound of the language lives in my brain.  Shopping that first day at the little market, I recognized so many words—beer, pivo; milk, mjileko.  Of course, I thought, the languages must have the same roots.  I love hearing the people here speak—it’s like a comfort trigger for me.  The rhythm of the words is lulling—it brings me right back to my grandmother’s simple kitchen.  The big white enamel stove, the formica table, my grandfather’s jar of homemade pickles brining next to the door.  It always smelled like good, hearty food, and it was always spotless.

They were some of the best, most nonjudgmental, loving people I knew.  And, although I sometimes resented the fact that we had to spend our Sundays there, what remains is nothing but good memories.

* * *

Thursday was a “compound” day, too.  It is so perfect in our little spot that it’s hard to come up with a good reason to leave.  It’s rare for us to be able to afford a place to stay that’s right on the beach.  In truth we are a couple of flights of stairs above the beach, but we could not be any closer.  Why get in the car when it’s all right there?

I woke up early and crept out to do some yoga on the lower terrace, then meditated on the beach before anyone else arrived.  I had brought my bathing suit down with me, so I slipped into it and jumped in the water for a refreshing swim.  All before breakfast.  I felt like I could conquer the world. 

Given that we had traveled from Bosnia to here on Alec’s birthday and that it had come at the end of a long and draining trip, we had not really done right by him. So we decided to do it right and have a dance party.  Ben made invitations, and C.C. and Milo decorated the walls. 

After hanging out on the beach for a few hours, we came up to the house to start fixing dinner.  We had bought a cake mix at the market and, although we could not read the directions, Margo and I figured if we added some eggs and milk, and maybe a little oil, it couldn’t turn out too badly.  But Alec decided to go down to the beach and see if he could find anyone who could translate the back of the box.  He came back a half hour later and told us that the entire beach population—which is, admittedly, very small, had gathered around him to try to sort it out.  The consensus?  We had bought a box of cornstarch with a picture of a lovely cake on the front of it.

We thought we had spotted a bakery the day before in Polace, about a 20 minute drive away, so Margo and I decided to jump in the car and see what we could find.  Have I mentioned yet that the road into and out of here is terrifying?  A thin ribbon of asphalt cut into the side of a mountain wide enough for only one car.  But it is a two way street, and occasionally a car comes toward you and one of you has to back up, along this very high and very bendy road, until you reach a spot wide enough—barely wide enough—for  the other to pass.  I don’t like it one bit.  But I was determined to have a cake at the party, so I got behind the wheel.

We made it into Polace and found the bakery, but it only sold a few kinds of Danish and some loaves of white bread. We then went to the market, where we found a box of chocolate muffin mix.  We grabbed it and then, on our way to the checkout, spotted a cake in a box that looked kind of like Italian panettone. Still facing the box translation issue with the muffins, we decided to go for the ready made option.  We found some ripe blackberries and a can of whipped cream, so we figured we were set.

There is a garden in front of our house planted with zucchini, tomatoes, and some herbs. Gregory made a fresh tomato sauce from the tomatoes and we had a delicious dinner of pasta with the sauce out on the terrace.  The kids announced that it wasn’t just any old dance party we were having—it was Alec’s birthday party!  We had made him a paper crown which we put on him, sang Happy Birthday and ate our cake, which tasted a lot like babka, a Polish sweet bread I learned to make from my Russian piano teacher—my grandmother had no recipes.  After that we came inside to dance—Parliament Funkadelic, Jackson 5, Guns ‘n Roses (C.C.’s request).  The kids promptly stripped naked and began throwing their homemade confetti.  The birthday boy felt duly feted.

* * *

Friday morning I repeated my yoga/meditation routine—what a good way to start the day.  And finally my back feels good enough to be able to benefit from the stretching. C.C. and I were sitting out on the terrace reading some Harry Potter when a smiling middle-aged woman came up to us holding a plastic bag.  Inside were a repurposed soda bottle filled with a light yellow liquid, and a round cheese wrapped in plastic.  We gestured back and forth, both of us smiling, until I was made to understand that the bottle contained homemade wine and that she had made the cheese.  And that they were gifts.  The thing is, I had no idea who she was.

I came into the house and described her to the others, but no one else recognized the description I gave.  And there are not too many people in our little town.  Margo, Gregory and I went for a coffee at the one tiny café that abuts the tiny harbor. 

We had been trying to find ourselves some fish to grill up—you think it would be easy on an island like this.  But it’s not.   Alec walked over to the harbor and asked people and after some difficult attempts to converse, found that the water is too warm close to shore here, and that the big fish have gone farther out to sea.

Sitting there at the café, an older man walked by carrying a plastic crate full of small fish, eels . . . and a nice sized lobster. I pointed at the lobster and asked him if we could buy it.  He smiled and nodded, and then walked away.  I’m pretty sure he didn’t understand me.  It turns out that he’s Baldo’s uncle.  Baldo is the young man who runs the coffee place, and he told us that we could buy any of the fish.  The lobster, however, cost about $35 each, and we’d need at least two of them.  Not such a bargain.  We declined. 

Luca, the young man who owns our house, was waiting for us when we returned.  He just wanted to know if we needed anything.  We asked him about the babushka lady and Luca, through his translating friend, told us that she fishes for “octopussy.” It turns out that the wine and cheese lady is Luca’s mother.  He took our dirty towels, gave us an umbrella for the beach, and offered to take us out on his boat on Sunday.  Alec had been wanting to rent a boat for us to tool around the island but that, too, had proven hard to come by.  Too small, too powerful, no life jackets for the kids…

We had decided to check out the one sandy beach at the far end of the island, in Sapunara.  Gregory stayed behind to get some work done, so the rest of us piled into our little car for the 40 minute drive.  The beach is beautiful, and the sand welcome after a few days at our rocky cove.  The kids dug holes and built castles, and C.C. spent hours snorkeling around.  It’s her first time with a mask and snorkel, and she is awestruck.  Which is amazing, because there’s simply not much to see here.  A few little fish is really all she needs to keep her busy for a good long time.  I can’t wait to get her out to a coral reef.  She’ll flip.

* * *

On Sunday, our last day on the island, Alec had not given up his fish quest.  He had been told to go into Sobra, the small town in which the ferry port is located, to find a woman who would have fish at about 9 am.  So he set off with C.C. at about 8:30.

It was nearly 10, and Alec had not returned.  Luca was due to arrive for the boat ride, and Alec was the only adult who really wanted to participate.  I called him and he said he had been asked to come back at 10 to meet the fish lady.  Luca agreed to go have a coffee and come back. 

Alec and C.C. returned, triumphant, with three small lobsters and a beautiful looking fish that the fish lady had told him was a “Saint Pierre.”  Alec figured out that there’s something funny going on with fish on the island.  It seems that it’s all sold to the restaurants, or sent to Dubrovnik.  There is simply no fish to be had in the stores, and it was pretty hard to track down our dinner.

The kids and Alec went out with Luca on his boat for a couple of hours, we hung out on our cove some more, and we ate a delicious seafood dinner as we watched the sun set.  All in all, a relaxing, magical week.

Breakfast in France, Lunch and Dinner in Italy

We pulled into our hotel on the outskirts of Aix-en-Provence really, really late last night, so we slept in order to fuel ourselves for the long day of driving ahead.  We need to sleep in Ancona, which is where we catch our ferry tomorrow, so we faced an 8 ½ hour drive.  We drove east through France on a very high highway that afforded us glimpses of the Cote d’Azur on our right.  We decided to have lunch in Italy and so stopped in Taggio, where we ate outside on a sleepy plaza.  I asked the waiter whether the gnocchi and ravioli were made there, at the restaurant, but he said “I buy them.”  I set my expectations low.  But then he appeared with my steaming plate of ravioli, and proudly pronounced that his mother had made the sauce that morning.  It was delicious.

We walked a block to a playground to let the kids run for awhile, licked our cones of gelato, and then piled back in for another long stretch. 

We had thought we would eat dinner in Parma, but we had had a late lunch, so pushed on to Reggio nell’Emilia.  We are driving across the whole of Italy today, most of the time in Emilia Romagna.  Even though we are just driving through, it’s pretty cool to be see signs for Genoa (salami), Modena (vinegar) Parma (ham, and cheese), not to mention the Barilla and Riunite factories.

We ate dinner at a homey little trattoria—prosciuitto, salami, delicious reggiano cheese that our waiter emphasized was not parmagiana.  He did make sure we knew it was “the best.” 

The kids are tired.  A full week of camp, plus dinners out with friends the last two nights, and long, late drives yesterday and today.  Sleeping in the car is just not the same as getting forty weeks in your own bed.  I bought a FIFA soccer app for my iPad, and Milo plays it for hours in the car. C.C. reads and reads, and listens to music.  You can hear the Ramones escaping out of her earphones.  They are good travelers, but we will all be happy to get to our island and relax.

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.