Life: Idiotropic

No, this isn't a self-deprecating rant or a plea for compliments.  I am not being negative at all.  However; I am a realist who owns a mirror, a real mirror and not one of those slimming ones you'd find at a carnival fun house.

So, being that mirror-owning realist, I can say with certainty that though I look pretty good for a 35-year old mother of four, I do, in fact, look 35 and my jeans fit me like a mother of at least one if not four.

And this is where the title of this post comes into play because these next two moments to me were just funny and proved that Spanish beer creates the same "goggle" effect as beers from other nations, especially around fallas.

Moment 1 - March 18th:  This young bunch saw my camera and quickly gathered for a picture, smiling, raising their beer, then asking (several times), "Where are you staying?"  He he he.  Uh...  That took me off guard.  Wasn't sure how to respond.  "In Puzol,"  I shouted back and kept walking.  Uh.... I think they were off guard now.  Clearly I'm not a tourist looking for a "good time."

Moment 2 - March 19th:  I'm standing at Almirante watching and waiting for La Crema and talking with Tiara.  There's a cafe table between us and the fence where three "kids" in their early 20's sat smoking and re-ordering tall glasses of beer.  They had American accents.  At one point the guy said something to us and I responded immediately (habitually) in Spanish, then corrected myself and answered in English.  That began a conversation.  He asked where we were traveling from. 
     "We live here," I said. 
     "Oh, where to you go to school?"  Uh...
     "What???" 
     "Where do you go to school?" he asks again.  I am absolutely confused, standing there looking rather stupid because I don't know how to answer this basic question.  But he's looking at me.  It's directed at me.
     "I've been out of school a long time.  I'm a mom with 4 kids."  In their three youthful faces was shock and awe.  I'm quite thankful that beer didn't squirt out their noses.  They all three started talking at once.  "Really?!?!"  "Oh, well you don't have any wrinkles!"  "It's a compliment, really, don't be offended... you look young!"  And on and on.  They'd had a lot of beer and apparently their mothers must have A LOT of wrinkles.

Hmmm... so apparently fallas can be good for the ego if you don't count the empty beer mugs on the table.  ;)
   
    

It's Monday and I don't think I've fully recovered.  Could it be aging?  No.  Tiara's exhausted too.  But, we did it.  We saw the grand finale of Fallas, La Crema, where a year of hard work, a ton of money, and quite extraordinary works of art are burned to ashes.  Sacrifice?  Lent gone wild?  Madness?  May be a bit of each?  It's sad.  Profoundly sad.


Of course, we didn't do everything and we did take a vacation in the middle of it, but I did attend a mascleta, saw the children's parade of ninots,  and saw the Exposition de Ninots at Nuevo Centro.  Sadly, I missed all the night fireworks in person, but saw many of them from the relative safely of my balcony where they kept me up into the wee hours of the morning.  Valencian fireworks often don't begin until 1am.

What is Fallas?  Some say it stems from a medieval tradition when the carpenters would burn wood scraps for spring equinox.  A British ex-pat told me the church got involved in the 1950's to make it coincide more directly with St. Joseph's day.  There are probably as many theories as there are fallas.  So what does it matter?  Now, it's a block party on steroids.

I've read a few blogs and commentaries about this holiday.  A Spanish man told me back in February how emotional this celebration is for him.  The mascletas make him cry.  (Many have that reaction, but mostly because of pain from the noise.)  Others cry at La Crema.  A third of the city can't stand the daily noise and simply move out for the month.  A family in my neighborhood loves it so much, they move IN to the city for the last week.  Outsiders marvel at the sheer insanity of it all.  I mean, fireworks at all hours, and why would you spend a year planning and creating something amazing just to watch it burn???

But.. I love it.

My first reaction was that this is a celebration that is a bit overly hyped.  It is the second largest festival in the world next to Brazil's Carnival as far as the influx of people coming into the city.  The amount of money spent just blows my mind.  Add the fact that it all goes up literally in flames is incomprehensible - especially in this economy which was well documented in the falla sculptures themselves.  Mascletas daily for 19 days, each day getting bigger, longer, louder...  Fireworks at night many times also longer, louder, more impressive until the culmination at the end.  Three parades including the Cabalgata del Fuego - a fire parade where observers are literally showered with sparks from the various spark spouting torches and wands held by locals dressed as jokers and devils. 

We heard a lot of hype about this holiday.  Hype that is hard to live up to for an outsider.  I imagine if you are a beer thirsty college student looking for an insane environment to party in, this might be cool.  For an outsider watching it, it is profoundly interesting, beautiful, strange, but I didn't cry.  I wasn't moved emotionally.  I felt a bit sad though - like I was missing something.

See, this isn't for the outsiders.  It never was.  Fallas is for the Valencians.  Yes, they open up their city and welcome us in.  They welcome the tourists and the revenue that they bring.  But it isn't a party with an open invitation.  It's a private event.  It's actually over 700 private events.  It's a block party like no other.  And I think to really appreciate it, to really know and understand it, you need to be a part of it.

Any time of year when you walk around a town in the Comunidad Valenciana, you will come across a door with a little plaque near it that says, "Falla Something-or-Other" and, if the door is open you may see a few people inside talking, drinking beer, hanging out.   Children run in and out with soccer balls playing.  This is the meeting place, the Casal Faller.  Neighbors meet to discuss next year's fallas.  They are probably meeting now.  They choose a theme.  They find an artist.  They plan.  They have dinners and parties and paella contests with other Casal Fallers.  They have fundraisers.  Everyone donates money.  Local businesses donate money.  A year's worth of planning culminates in this one event, ending with La Crema on Saint Joseph's Day, March 19th.

They elect falleras and falleros majores and menores - the adult and child princes and princesses of the event.  There is pomp and ceremony and tradition and lots and lots of fireworks.  There is a contest to see who has the best ninot.  Everyone gets a vote.  Even me.  One ninot.  Just one small piece of one huge construction will be saved.  There are street light contests.  Amazing ones.  Each street is different.  Calle Cuba usually wins.

Each Casal Faller creates 2 fallas (the statues), one adult falla and one falla infantil.  Just in my small town of Puzol, there are 5 Casal Fallers.  In the city of Valencia, there are over 300 - more than 700 fallas to see.  It's amazing though.  Some are absolutely astounding 5 story tall monstrosities so full of color and detail you cringe at the thought they'll be ashes.  Some are small and simple - something you think you could do yourself at home.  But each are special.  Each represents their neighborhood.  Of course, the more money a Casal Faller has, the bigger and more amazing the falla will be.  But if you're a part of it, then it's your party and it really doesn't matter how fancy it is.  It's neat to zig zag through the city and see so much variety even in the tiniest plaza in the more run down parts of town.

So I spent the last two days of Fallas in Valencia, the busiest, loudest days of all.

On Thursday, Luci and I took the train in with friends.  From the moment we left the station, we could see changes in the city.  A huge churro stand faced us as we walked out the doors and behind that a falla stood near another churro stand.  The streets to our left were lined with pointy white tented booths selling fried food, souveniers, and all sorts of Made-in-China Randomness.  Nothing I couldn't live without.  We saw a giant Charlie Chaplin, then another block over was the first prize winner - the best falla in all of Valencia,  the falla of The Comision De Falla Convento Jerusalen on the street that bore its name.  The crowds around this one were thick, but for 4 Euros, Luci and I got inside the fence to get close and take better pictures.  We each got a traditional scarf to wear as well - blue and white plaid with the name of the Casal Faller on it.  Luci tied it around her neck.  (I later learned that these are fabulous to have when the Crema begins if you are unlucky enough to be standing in the direction that the smoke blows.)

There is a style of dress that is traditional for this celebration.  Of course the falleras and falleros (princesses and princes) wear fancy clothes with traditional hair styles and jewelry, but the regular folks dress up too.  A loose smock-style blouse is worn by men and women with a scarf that often matches.  They are sold in all the shops here close to fallas time and the Casal Fallers usually have certain colors, so you can tell who belongs to who.

From here we wandered, stopping and taking photos of each falla we saw and eventually made it up past the Ayutamiento's towering falla, past the Plaza de la Reina, to the Plaza de la Virgen where there wasn't a falla at all, but a towering Virgen de los Desamparados made of flowers.  On Wednesday at 4, falla groups from all over the Comunidad Valenciana come bearing flowers for "La Ofrenda," the offering.  A tall wooden form is created to act as the virgen's traditional gown.  Each year it changes and the artists who design it tell the falla groups what kind of flowers to bring.  The falleras in their beautiful gowns come from 4pm until 1am both Wednesday and Thursday bringing their offering of flowers which are put onto the wooden frame to create the gown.  They also bring huge bouquets as "offerings" that circle the Turia fountain behind her and people come too.  Normal people.  They come dressed up - even babies dress up.  And they bring flowers too - big bouquets and small to fill two big walls leaning against the church and blanket the ground with piles of blooms.   It's amazing.  On Thursday her cloak wasn't done so it was possible to see the wooden structure beneath.  When I returned on Friday, it was finished, the crowds were thick, and she was stunning. 

From here we stopped for the promised churro break.  Churros and bunuelos are both greasy deep-fried foods that taste amazing when dipped in thick Spanish drinking chocolate more the consistency of pudding then hot cocoa.  It clings to the dough as you dip it in coating it completely in a thick layer.  So delicious.  They aren't served all year here, but for fallas, it's a must.  Kind of like eating hot dogs at a baseball game.

It is impossible to be downtown now and now see something amazing.  It's more than just the statues themselves.  Each falla commission has a band.  There are parades of finely dressed people and bands happening at random all throughout the city.  There's dancing and food and fireworks everywhere.  Next to one falla a large pot of stew sat cooking over a wood fire.  No fancy gas grill.  Just wood built on campfire style into a triangle and lit.  A nice orange flame.  A bit pot with steam billowing from under the lid.  A man and a woman in lawn chairs watching it.  It cooks there on the side of the blocked off street just a few feet from the falla, there with tourists and visitors milling around.  But this is one of those special things - one of those things we just can't quite get as outsiders.  We can't join in the meal.  Oh, how I wish I could.  It smelled wonderful.  And just before I began to walk away I heard a band, looked up, and saw two rows of beautifully dressed people walking towards me. They reached the falla and broke into casual groupings while the band played one more song.  A fallero grabbed the hands of two falleras and did a short impromtu dance that made the ladies blush and giggle.

 
We walked on to another falla where members of their commission were just "hanging out."  A fallera in her gown sat on a plastic lawn chair with her feet propped up.  Children ran around.  Men sat at a little table drinking beer, talking.  A little girl, probably 4 years old, held a small rope in one hand, put the end of a firecracker to it, blew until the ember turned red, then threw the firecracker away from her, a trail of sparks following it.  It made a loud pop, she giggled with her friends, then grabbed another firecracker from her dad and started again.  Over and over again.  She captured my attention but she wasn't the only one.  I saw kids of all ages with short yellow or white ropes lighting not only tiny firecrackers, but larger fireworks as well, then throwing them sometimes quite near people (or at my feet), and laughing as they exploded.  It's something you'd never see in the states.  Or in Britain, one lady told me.  But it's everywhere at all hours.  And it's loud.  Several times we jumped.

My favorite falla and the one that I'd return to on Friday was what we called, "the money one," the falla of Almirante.

So these "fallas," the amazing wooden, foam, paper mache, painted statues are created around a theme that is usually satirical, always comical, and generally centers around events within the last year.  Political figures are rampant.  I counted over 8 Obamas.  Celebrities are frequent.  I saw 2 Michael Jackson's, one Charlie Chaplan, and one Ronaldo.  The mayor of Valencia and Zapatero, Spain's President, are easy targets.  And... the Crisis, pronounced Cree-sees, is the dominant theme.  So, my money falla of Almirante was a stack of US coins with a sprawled out tiger on top.  A overstuffed purple chair balanced on top of the tiger with a fat man smoking a cigar sitting in it.  His cufflinks were dollar signs.  Above him towered two slender women - flappers with short hair and long smoking wands, gloves and slinky dresses.  One had pound sign earrings and the other euro earrings.  A sleak car held three over-paid soccer stars and all around this enormous falla sat smaller ninots depicting world leaders.  Zapatero wore a santa suit and drove a sleigh full of presents waving a sign about  increased taxes.  Obama floated in a dollar covered inner tube.  Britain was an arm sticking out of the water holding a pound covered umbrella.  The Greek flag floated on the blue stones depicting water.  A Russian puppeteer held their new president.  And so on.  It was all there.  Angela Merkel singing opera on the Euro covered Titanic as it sunk.  The details were phenomenal.  Little things.  Right down to the gold charm bracelet one flapper wore.  And though most all the signs in and aroung these things are written in the local Valenciano, this one I could understand enough without the signs.  It was funny, beautiful, and made sense.  I took a million pictures.

We pulled ourselves away to see just a few more before leaving.  We had to see Calle de Cuba and Calle Sueca known as much for their phenomenal street lights that are impressive even in the day as their fallas that are also some of the best in the city.  Big, beautiful.  Calle Sueca's is another one that allowed entrance within the fences for a small fee.  I paid 1 Euro each for Luci and I.  She got a hard boiled egg and I got a shot of caramel Bailey's.  Yum.  Can I go in twice?

The train station parking lot was more crowded when we returned than when we left.  I imagine at night it will be even more packed.  Many will go in for the Nit de Foc - the biggest fireworks display of the season - and one I'll miss because it starts at 1 and I'm just too exhausted already.

So... Friday morning.  Elise had "mother-daughter" time on Wednesday grocery shopping and walking around Puzol.  Luci's day was yesterday - a longer one than we'd originally planned.  Today I had two more daughters to spend "quality time" with and many more fallas to see.

Arianna and I took the train in to town this morning at 0930.  The crowds were already bigger at the station than the day before and there was a marked difference in the city as well.  We walked past the Ayutamieto to the Mercado Central, through plaza Tossal where a giant piggy bank sat with a thermometer in his mouth hooked up to a Euro IV drip.  Saw a sweet falla at Torres de Quart - the only real obvious connection that I saw between the children and adult fallas.  The children's falla showed a young boy and girl bent towards each other about to kiss, a birthday cake with the number 9, and a circle of young chubby angels over their heads.  The adult falla showed an old man and an old woman bent towards each other as well about to kiss, the circle of angels aged as well, and a line of walkers and wheelchairs around them.  It was really sweet.  From there we saw more fallas on our way past the IVAM to the Plaza Na Jordana.  Before we saw this one though, we heard music, a clear sign that something is going on.

At 11 on the Puente de San Jose, the falla queens and their courts came to bring flower offerings to the patron saint of fallas whose statue stood along the bridge near the center.  It was a surprisingly loose, casual gathering.  The falleras talked amongst themselves laughing at private jokes.  Friends helped them fix their hair with the long lace veils streaming behind them.  Mothers told their finely dressed sons to behave.   And a short line formed little by little with each fallera major carefully mounting rickety steps to lay a bouquet of white roses at the feet of the celebration's patriarch, San Jose.  We stood, watched, took pictures, then left before it was over.

The falla behind us was calling.  Wow.  This is the best of the day and Arianna's favorite.  The falla de Na Jordana was an enormous haunted house that you could walk inside through a small passage.  There were butlers, cows, crazy animals on top of a giant lamppost as tall as the surrounding buildings, a crazed man with a crazed cat, and multiple references to Britain, though I couldn't understand them all.  The photos don't even begin to do it justice and sadly, there's no going back.  That just about kills me.  It's Monday and they are all gone with nothing remaining, but photographs and memories.

Arianna wanted to see the Virgen, so we pushed through the crowds a bit, then cut through quieter side streets to get to the plaza where the giant flower cloaked virgin stood.  She was finished now and stunning.  More flowers here than before, a group of pigeons standing in a blocked off area behind her flying away, then returning as if trained somehow.  The crowds were thicker, more suffocating, but we squeezed through, got photos, and marveled at her - the Virgin de los Desamparados - the unprotected.  The original smaller version stands in the nave of the Cathedral next to us.  People go to her to pray for protection.  This is why so many girls are named "Amparo" here.  It means protected.

Churros and chocolate waited for us at a small white tent near the train station.  We grabbed them quickly, then got our place on the train and enjoyed them relaxed there, a sweet reward to a long walk.


A few hours later the babysitter came and it was Tiara's turn for a night out with mom.  Surprisingly, there was someone pulling out just as I arrived at the train station, so we got a great parking spot.  The train was crowded, so there wasn't any place to sit and it seemed incredibly slow.  We didn't have a plan, really.  I hoped to see the Cabalgata de Fuego, but we got there after it had started and the crowds were so thick you could barely see the sparks flying upward past the throngs of people and making progress through the crowd meant pushing and using elbows just a little.  We tried though and we did make ahead of the parade just a little through the people to a place where the crowd was only 4 people deep and I had a small crack between a couple heads to point my camera lens and hope for a couple good shots.  Which didn't happen.  Night, fire, movement, a tiny space.  No luck.  But, we saw enough to know that next year we will get there early enough to get a spot at the end where the fireworks are so that we can get good photos of both and see more than flying sparks and fleeting white painted faces.

We made our way north towards Almirante and once again pushed through crowds to get around the parade, "La Gran Parada Mora," that their falla commission had staged.  The costumes were beautiful, but after seeing the 9 October parade, it was much of the same thing repeated.  We kept walking, seeing as many fallas as we could, pushed through crowds at Sueca and Cuba just to see the lights.  Hoped to see Cuba's falla close up, but were irritated by the shortness of the lady demanding 4 Euros each and for only 5 minutes to walk around it.    Found churros and chocolate and a tiny fence to sit on and rest our feet a bit near the Grand Via.  We'd already walked a lot.  There were fireworks everywhere.  Not just the noise, but real displays.  Seemed every corner we turned we'd see the impressive colored sparks flying high above the buildings ahead of us.  Sometimes we'd stop and watch.  Eventually, it became too "normal," and we just pressed on.  We saw a falla infantil being wired for burning.  Those would all burn at 10.  And as we walked back to Almirante, we saw one still burning.

We both like the Falla at Almirante and both agreed that if we were to see La Crema, then we should see one that we actually cared about.  I thought Almirante would burn at midnight.  Like Germany's St. Martin's Day horses which must be shared, so must these fallas share firefighters, "Bombers" in Valenciano.   It should have been obvious that there wouldn't be enough firemen in the city to burn 350 fallas at once.  We arrived just after 1030.  Just after 11, a gravelly voiced guard told the crowds it wouldn't begin until 1.  Then just after midnight his younger cohort gave us the update:  0130.  The sushi place nearby closed at 11.  We were out of luck.  So we stood there, in front, watching our favorite falla as workers scurried around her for those couple hours pulling out foam from inside the purple chair and the fat policeman and stuffing something inside.  Circling the falla with wires, playing with fuses, pushing long sticks inside the falla in some places.  Sticks of fireworks?  A plastic container of gasoline sat there.  They set up mini mascletas, a wheel that would later make sparks, a long line of little barrels of fireworks, and horizontal stringed "ladder" that would create of white veil of sparks as the fires were lit. 

Close to midnight they set off fireworks to cheering crowds.  Even young boys stood within the fences with lit sticks lighting the little barrels.  A man ducked between two spouting sparks to set off a third.  It was beautiful, fun, and really quite insane to see the amount of fire, sparks, and the relative closeness people got to it.  The crowds got thicker as it got closer to 1.  We were all squeezed it.   Standing may be 20 feet away from the falla which sat in a relatively small plaza with buildings on all sides.  Just after 1 a part of the crowd began to scream and then we saw the firetrucks.  The bombers readied themselves, stood around the falla with hoses already hooked up and pulsing with water.  They checked them, sprayed a little.  I was glad to be at an angle where we wouldn't get sprayed.  It was beginning to get cold.

0130.  A series of fireworks shot to the air in front.  Lights nestled in the falla went off.   Fountains of sparks shot off from the sides.  The wheel through out sparks next as billowing smoke rose.  The veil of white sparks showered for a couple minutes and I could see for the first time the orange flame behind them.  It went so quickly after that.  I focused on the flapper with the pound earrings and didn't even see the police man fall over and burst into flames.  When I looked at him, he was already a simple wooden scaffold blackened with the edges glowing orange.  The smoke was thick, but seemed to rise, so that where we were there was no odor or smoke to breath in.  The firefighters sprayed the fires from all sides, not to put it out, but to control it.  And it burned on.  My flapper was suddenly a face and an arm, then just an arm that didn't seem to want to go.  It hung on, humorously, with it's long cigarette, then finally toppled over into the heap of embers.  The magician and the cat fell over and just hung there untouched by flames.  Most everything else was gone.  And Tiara and I decided that it was late enough - we had a train to catch - and we didn't need to watch until it was nothing but ashes.

We fought the crowds to leave giving our front row spot to someone else, then walked past the falla a block over, now a circle of black ashes with a random flame here and there.  Left alone.  No one was watching it.  In some areas, trucks had already come to clear away the ashes so that you saw just a shaded circle where a falla had once been.  We saw other trucks working as we walked by.  I was impressed.  They were cleaning up quickly.  By the morning the city would be normal.  It's profoundly sad.

We stood on the train again going home.  Feeling exhausted.   Standing was difficult and the ride felt like forever.  Tired.  Sad.

That is it until next year.  It is profoundly sad to think that the opportunity is gone to see some of these again, or ones that I missed.  They aren't on tour, in a warehouse somewhere, or tucked away in a museum.  They are gone, reduced to ashes, and literally swept away.

Sunday the 21st.  The beginning of spring and the celebration of twelve years of marriage.  Kirk flew home from his 2 week work trip in Germany and we spent our day relaxing and spending time with the kids. 

A few days ago the littles heard about this anniversary of ours and got to work.  I never expected anything.  For me, anniversary's are more of a personal thing for the couple to celebrate.  My girls just like to celebrate.  They had clay and paint outside for days playing and making enormous (yet colorful) messes just about everywhere.  They asked for paper and tape.  They had string and glue.

They got mad that I was cooking breakfast, so I obeyed and just helped a tiny bit with dinner.  I still got in trouble.

And then we got our gifts.  Rocks.  Paper weights.  The three little ones had searched the yard for the biggest rocks they could find (some up to 7" long), painted them, then created clay figures to stick to them.  Kirk had a hard time unwrapping them because Arianna had used Elmer's glue to seal each package.  They wrapped the rocks and clay figures separately.  Assembly required.

Now we have a "gallery of art" on our bookshelf with all these treasures displayed.

It was a very nice anniversary.

It's been a while since I've washed this new coat of Luci's, but after our trip to Germany, it was time.  In order to properly wash any jacket well without worry of crayon stains, it is critical to first thoroughly check the pockets.  I think this is a good rule of thumb with any jacket, but when it comes to Luci, well, it's just absolutely essential or who knows what might happen.

This is it.  Without the trash, of course, which I carefully picked out and threw away.

• 1 travel tube of Colgate tooth paste which I saw her sneaking tastes from on and off during our trip.
• 1 lolly pop - from Il Genio's, I think.
• 1 wet wipe
• 1 small ball of clay
• 1 10 cent Euro coin
• 1 blue chocolate egg
• 1 folded up map of the Cordoba cathedral/mosque
• 1 heart shaped flashlight keychain
• 5 perfume sample strips
• 1 bobby pin
• 5 markers
• 1 magnifying glass

Going to get some sleep now so that I can get some rest before a packed day of Fallas activities tomorrow... but here are a few photos from today - a walk around town with Luci and friends.  Some amazing things down town.  Sad they'll all burn tomorrow.

Photos 1:  http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=200423&id=674507268&l=bd11b2f425
Photos 2:  http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=200433&id=674507268&l=083058b19b
Photos 3:  http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?pid=5043990&l=6843a83af5&id=674507268

This evening I'm sitting on the couch deeply enthralled with a new book when I hear excited tones in the three young voices outside.  My mother's hearing tunes in to hear words like "precious creature" and questions like "what do they eat?"  "Let's make a house for him."  Then I hear two little voices of agreement.  A moment later, Luci and Arianna come inside asking if we have honey.

They have a bee and they want to feed it.

No, girls.  We can't feed the bee.  And please don't touch him.  He's slow now in the cold of the evening, but he can still sting you.  Please be careful.

And they scurry around and put him gently into the styrofoam "castle" that Arianna's been working on.  When I go out to check on him, he's been covered gently with a piece of fleece to keep him warm on this chilly night.

Now it's bedtime and Luci's worried about her bee.  We move him to a more "natural" setting - clinging to a shoot in a potted palm.  Luci picks yellow flowers since bees like yellow.  They should make him feel at home.   She adds bees now to her list of favorite animals and cries a little at bedtime because she's worried about him and hopes he doesn't die in the night.

She is upset that people are so cruel to insects.  "We need to protect them," she says.  So we are.  I wonder if this little bee realizes just how lucky he is.  My girls are awfully special.

I thought I'd sit down for a few minutes and work on blogging my last wonderful week back "home" in Germany where everything felt natural and comfortable and ordered.  Where even the people at the airport were kind and efficient.

But I'm sitting here listening to the clink of the shovel hit the wheelbarrow as the gardener sprinkles rich black soil all over my lawn and wondering how I will keep my dog from tracking this delicious smelling stuff all over the house.  (Pray it doesn't rain.  Oh please, don't let it rain.)  Ugh.  I just looked again.  My lawn is completely black.   My flower beds have barely been touched.  They sprinked a little on top of the hardened ground at the base of the bushes, but more is on the lawn and my flower beds are green with weeds.  I don't understand this gardener.  I don't understand why my landlord insists on paying 150 Euros each month for 2-4 hours of work where my lawn turns black and my weeds thrive.

May be it's just the grog.  That mind aching sleepiness that you get the morning after a travel day when the fireworks in Valencia keep you up until 0130.  No, not complaining, they were beautiful and I could watch them from the warmth of my bed, but 0130?  I don't understand that either.  Partly my fault.  I was trying to sleep, then I'd hear a series of heart thumping booms, but though I knew it was just fireworks, I also knew that that many booms close together must mean something special and may be the end, so I'd sit up again and watch.  And lay down and try to sleep.  Then boombady boom boom and I'd be up again.  Down, then up.  Hey, may be these late night fireworks could be good for my abs?

Will post a photo of the black lawn soon.  I just don't get it.

Tears and laughter.  That's been the last 24 hours.  Tears of joy when the plane landed here in Germany.  Happy tears and laughter at my girls old school where they had lunch with friends and visited old teachers.  Where I saw so many friends I missed so much.  Hugs.  Real tight sincere hugs.  Coffee at the cafe that I called my second home - the place where they knew me - my meeting place.  Time with friends Italian, Turkish, Hungarian, and American.  More hugs.  Kisses.  More laughter. Lots of laughter.  4.5 hours of absolutely priceless time with Tinny on her birthday.  Cake and coffee first.  Bread and wurst after.  That's how it should be.  Tea and games.  Talk and tears.  Happy tears 'cause I'm here.  Sad tears because I can't stay forever.  Tinny took a birthday call.  I soaked a napkin in salt water and mascara.  But it was perfect.  The girls loved the time.  We walked next door to see Kurt and his miniature pony and goat.  He was just as warm and sweet.  Hugged us tightly too. 

An absolutely perfect day.  Ice cold, but sunny and blue.  I'd forgotten how beautiful it is here.  The land and the people.  So good to be "home."

Back in the guesthouse to a nice email.  My seventh TBR article is online!  Fun for me since the TBR wasn't online when the previous 6 were written.  Available in a PDF version too now which is a nice way for me to keep it.  If you'd like to read this little article (written the night before it was due, so don't judge it too harshly), you can find it here:  http://www.triborderreporter.com/.  Look for the beach photo near the top... the link to the Granada article is below.  :)

just one last bit of Fallas before leaving for a one week vacation back "home" in Germany.  Will fill you in on all the details later when I'm resting in my Gillrath gasthaus and munching on a broetchen with schinkenwurst. 


TBC... later.

Cold and windy here and spitting rain.  No one can seem to muster the motivation to go out, so it's time to find a bit of comfort in a plate of hot food.  Tiara felt inspired...


Paprika Rub Ribeye Steak
adapted from an Epicurious.com recipe by Tiara

• 2 tablespoons chopped fresh oregano
• 2 teaspoons ground cumin
• 2 teaspoons Hungarian sweet paprika
• 2 3/4-inch-thick rib-eye steaks

• 1 tablespoon olive oil
• 3/4 cup beef broth
• 2 teaspoons Sherry wine vinegar
• 2 teaspoons honey
• 2 tablespoons chilled butter

1. Mix oregano, cumin, and paprika in small bowl.
2. Sprinkle steaks with salt and pepper, then sprinkle each side of each steak with generous 1 teaspoon spice mixture, pressing to adhere.
3. Heat oil in large nonstick skillet over medium-high heat.
4. Add steaks and cook to desired doneness, about 5 minutes per side for medium-rare.
5. Transfer to platter.
6. Combine broth, vinegar, honey, and remaining spice mixture in same skillet; boil until sauce is slightly reduced, about 3 minutes.
7. Remove from heat; whisk in butter. Season sauce with salt and pepper. Pour sauce over steaks and serve.

Lemon Risotto

I've begun to make a risotto of sorts using a Spanish pasta called piñones that end up just smaller than a pine nut when cooked.  Usually, I add a full cup of parmesan cheese, but today, cheeseless, I made a "lighter" lemony version.

I bring a 1/2 pot of water to boil, then add the full package of piñones and 3T. lemon juice - may be 3 cups water and 1 1/2 cups piñones.  I don't measure.

When the pasta has soaked up most of the water, I add a little chicken broth.  I continue to add a bit of lemon juice (to taste) and chicken broth stirring frequently until the pasta is done.  Stir in 1/4 cream.  Cook 2 more minutes.  Today I added a pit of parsely as well.  It was delicious.


Artichokes:
Guess what?  Small, young artichokes don't have the prickley fuzzy stuff protecting the heart.  It's amazing!  Same great taste, no work!  I've been disappointed when fresh piles of tiny young artichokes have been popping up at all the outdoor markets.  I wanted something big.  But, wow!  These are like no artichoke I've ever tasted with leaves so tender instead of scraping off the end of the leaves with your teeth, 1/2 the leaf comes off all soft tender.  Cut the tops off, then boil in water with a dash of lemon juice.  The girls eat theirs with melted butter, but these are so tender alone, it's really not even necessary.

From March first until the end of Fallas on the 19th, there is a mascletá every day at 2pm in front of the Ayuntamiento (city hall).   Every day the Fallera Major and the Fallera Menor (the princesses of this festival) stand on the balcony of the city hall and exactly at two announce that the mascletá should begin.

Begonia and I arrived just after 1.  The streets were already blocked off with iron barriers creating a wide empty space around the large metal caged plaza.  Thick crowds had already gathered.  There was no way to make my way to the front with Begonia with me though I'd really hoped for a few good photos.

We waited over 45 minutes watching a steady stream of humanity gather.  Many had waited longer.  At the 3rd warning blast, people were still streaming in.

A man stood by a plaid shopping cart on wheels - the same sort of cart that I see old ladies using at the Mercado Central.  He had a cigarette hanging out one side of his mouth and held up a torn cardboard sign and a beer together with one hand.  It said "cerveza 1 euro."  A few minutes later another man with a similar cart pushed his way through the crowd selling more euro beer.

The crowd pushed forward.  Spaces filled.  Smokers were everywhere.  I hated that I was going home smelling like cigarette smoke.

The final blast sounded and it began right at 2.  And then it began.  Noise.  Blam blast.  More noise.  Screaming things like - oh - what were those things?  Piper Peats?  A swirling mass of red tipped sirens screaming towards the sky then exploding booms.  Rhythmic.  Loud.  Then louder.  4 minutes of loud and smoke.

Really, the first mascletá that I saw was after the children's ninot parade, but that was at night and had real fireworks with it.  That was intoxicating.  The addicting combination of color and blood stirring sound was intense.  I expected that here too.  May be I wasn't quite close enough, but I was closer than I'd been before and the intensity just wasn't quite the same.

Still, there is something bizarrely alluring about this Valencian custom.    They only happen here in the Valencian community.   Only here where they have a love for all things pyrotechnic and all things noisy.

Four minutes.  That was it.  A culmination of smoke and sound.  It could have been a war zone except for the cheer that went up from the crowd when it was over.

And then the breeze blew away the thick brown smoke and the crowd was gone as quickly.  Waiting over an hour 4 minutes of noise, then rushing to the train station.  I don't get it.

Now I don't smell of cigarette smoke.  I smell like gunpowder.



Lucky for me, there's this local blogger who does great HD videos of these things, so though I don't have a video, you can see and hear the same mascletá that I did here:  http://www.youtube.com/profile?user=valenciablog#p/u/0/ibwnV5Ba8fo

Aging gracefully is a concept that very few have mastered without a little outside help.  Even here, as you walk through towns centuries old and look at paintings and sculptures that seem untouched by time, there are hundreds of restoration artists hidden in the background, the plastic surgeons of art and architecture who return these wonders to their former glory.

Today I had the pleasure to doing a small tour of three of Valencia's Baroque churches, three churches that King Jaime ordered to be built on the grounds of Muslim Mosques after he conquered the city in 1238.

The "Light of the Images" foundation has been restoring churches and monuments in the Comunidad Valenciana for the past 10 years and this exhibit is the latest of their work.  Apparently the baroque style from Italy had a large impression on Valencian artists in the 17th century creating a new baroque, the Valencian baroque, that can be seen in the bright blue ceramic domes seen profusely in this region of Spain.

The tour begins in a mill built on the site of a mosque that is now an exhibit hall with just a small series of columns remaining inside.  This part of the tour talked about the foundation, the restoration process, and the long list of buildings that the LoI have worked on these past ten years.  It wasn't very exciting, but even then, they wouldn't allow photographs.  None of the churches allowed photographs, so I was reprimanded in 2/3.

Saint Stephen's Church reminds me of Bavaria's Vierzehnheiligen with so much pale blue and white.   It's difficult to get the scope of the church with so many walls set up in the center.  A maze of artwork on grey "office-style" walls.  It's like a Dilbert cubicle inside this church.  They also have all of the side chapels blocked with art as well, so though it's beautiful, the feeling that you're walking through an exquisite church is pretty lost.  The fact photography is forbidden and there are a plethora of bored employees listening for the smallest click, makes it difficult - for me, at least - to enjoy.

Still, this blue and white beauty is where El Cid's daughters were married and where El Cid himself was buried, so it must not be too shabby.


The next on our tour is one that has been closed for years - so long, that Begonia had never been inside.  It's open now as more museum than church with a zig zag of walls throughout with artwork and glass cases of reliquaries and fancy garments.  This Church of Saint Martin and Saint Anthony the Abbot shows a completely different style of baroque - this one in white and gold, an uplifting image of heaven in stark contrast to the fearful darkness of gothic cathedrals.

The nave stucco was destroyed in a fire and is unable to be restored, so they have left up the scaffolding there so that visitors can get a view of the church and a closer look at this impressive ceiling and the dome with the dove inside.

The St. John of the Cross Church is where my landlord's oldest son was married years ago - before it was restored.  Then, the interior was grey.  Now, it's been returned to a bright white background with relief work in a bronze color - not nearly as pretty and shiny as Martin's.   The nave here is covered as well and there is another museum-like set up with paintings and religious artifacts, but, the chapels here are not covered and they themselves are the jewel of this church.  Tiles.  In true Valencian style, each chapel is lined on each side with a beautiful painting in blues and greens on tiles.  I've never seen anything like it anywhere else.  Created here in the 18th century, there are 6000 tiles.  Amazing.

A nice walk, a little shopping, some time before the mascleta... lunch.

Apparently, in Spain, anything can be made into sandwich.  Really.  I was shocked the first time I saw a tortilla sandwich (the Spanish tortilla is a think egg and potato pie - not really sandwich material... but that's just me.  Apparently, Tiara's friends get excited when they have bocadillo de tortilla at school.)  Today, I had, on bread, something that I've only enjoyed before served on a plate.  tddddddddddd... drumroll.  The ever popular, apparently all the rage in Madrid, calamari sandwich!!!

And it was good.  Really good.  I'd actually order one again.

So we sat in a tiny little bar with a buzz of people walking in and out and a thick crowed pushing in at the bar where bowls of pre-fried fish sat waiting.  Begonia ordered two calamari sandwiches without mayo (thank goodness) and a beer.  I ordered a coffee and got the "are you nuts?" look from both of them.  Fine.  So the boy came back with my coffee and Begonia told him I'd have a glass of white wine also.  She and Manuel lived in a dry county in Mississippi for a few months years ago and just about died the day that they were served hot tea with lunch.  Nope.  With food, only beer or wine will do.

Savvy Bego asked for the check as she ordered, paid before we'd started to eat, so as I was chugging my last few drops of coffee, we were already beginning to stand, gather our purses, and head out the door for the mascleta.  (next post)

See.  If they can get along...

Don't worry.   They are just playing.  And the cat enjoys this.  In fact, half of the time, the cat starts this.

So the dog is genetically wired to want to eat the cat.  Her little brain waves are going "chase, attack, throw around like a chew toy."  But somewhere along the way, she stopped and though, "but the cat is not a horrible conversationalist and if I eat him, then I'll get fur stuck in my teeth and I really hate flossing."  And so, if even to prevent the pain of flossing, the dog decides to think another way.   She goes to have a chat with cat.

Cat's brain wants to arch his back, hiss menacingly, and run from dog.  But, he thinks a bit.  "I do lay around and do a lot of nothing and may be a bit of one on one will keep my muscles rippling more than my flabby belly."

So dog and cat converse and come up with this wrestling play plan that will lead outsiders to believe that they are ferociously fighting,  but to a trained eye, you can see that the claws and fangs don't actually penetrate.  They are Hollywood style superstars of play fighting.

They are the children that chase each other all around the house up on beds and down and make a ton of racket until I stand up and find them and shout as if they were young siblings, "Would you both please stop fighting and settle down!  Enough!!"

So may be there's more than one way to view the world.  ;)

May be it's not as simple as 2+2=4.  Or may be, another view could see things differently.  May be 2+2=24.  In the case of rabbits, this could certainly be the case.

Just days ago I was absolutely confident in my 2nd grade knowledge that there are seven continents.  I learned that years ago.  It is fact.  Just like 2+2.


Then this issue came up at school.  I argued it.  Of course, there are seven continents.  Who would be stupid enough to think otherwise?  Then I looked it up just for fun.  And you know what?  That's just one view.  Much of the world teaches 6.  Some even teach 5.


You can argue that North and South America are on two different tectonic plates and are thus, two.  But many would argue that they are touching and are only 1.  Many believe that Europe and Asia are one because really, it is just one gargantuan landmass separated more by ethnicity than by any geographical means.


So, my paradigm has shifted.  Slightly.  I can see it now and understand better.

And I believe that's important.  My initial reaction and the reaction of others that I know over something as minor as the number of continents was a bit strong.  I immediately decided that we (in the states) were correct and thus, the education that my children are receiving here - in this place that would dare teach that there are 5 or 6 must be horribly bad.  That they were the ignorant ones.

May be no one is "ignorant."  We are all just approaching the same picture with a different view and a different set of rules.  I can still play by my rules, but if I know and understand their rules, then instead of ignorance, we can talk about it.  It now becomes something interesting instead of maddening.


As for the hubrous that is thrust upon the US.  No.  I won't buy that.  The United States gets called a lot of things by folks over here - often, I believe, because like me, they aren't fully informed.   It is difficult enough to get an accurate picture through US news, but to learn about our country through EU news, and the US music and movies, doesn't really say what the United States really is.

Although, I think it's important to try to understand it, we can't accept it either.  To sit down and accept the view of the US that the world would put upon us, we give up our ideals.  To say that we are arrogant aggressors, we are playing into a world view that will do much more harm than good. 
 
No, we don't teach 7 continents to create a division that keeps South America poor and inferior.  No we are not oppressors.   It is quite the opposite.  The US is arguably the most generous country out there - often to our own financial detriment.  Yes we have rich - many have worked for that.  Yes we have greedy - it comes with the territory.  No, we aren't perfect - no country is.


But Americans can be proud.  Or United Statsians.  Or UncleSamians.


I'm just a US Oregonian.

Most people come to Spain to escape the rain.  Here, we had over 2x the average rain for Feb and March is looking about the same.  Cold and wet.  So, cultural outings are postponed yet again and I'm learning to adopt my German mantra of getting out each and every day that it's sunny because chances are it won't be long.

Oh well, it gives me time to catch up.

Here's the latest.

Tiara came home on Monday with a scratchy voice from arguing.  She wouldn't normally raise her voice, but here you almost have to.  Her friends are loud, thus she must be loud to be heard. 

The argument?  The number of continents. 

Ok, so how many continents are there?  Tiara posed this question to me when she got home hoarse and flustered.  So, I started to list them. 
      "North America, South America -" 

      "Stop, you've just proved my point."

Well, Tiara's friends (who happen to be some of the top students in their year) said that there are only 6 continents and that North and South America are one continent, not two.  They argued all through lunch.  After lunch, they asked one of the British teachers who said that they are two separate continents.  Tiara's friends didn't believe that, so they went to see their Sociales teacher - a Spanish woman, who agreed with them that yes, in fact, there is one continent of America, not two.

This is one of the top schools in Spain.  These are some of the top students in their year.  6 continents.  Huh.

And they think that Columbus named his discovery "America,"  (Amerigo Vespucci is rolling in his grave) which led to the complaint about the hubristic Americans who use that title as their own.

"People from the US are wrong to call themselves American because in fact, everyone from the continent of America is an American." Huh.  When I say I'm an "Americana", they don't ask which country I mean.  And when I'm asked where I'm from (which happens a lot) and I answer, "de Los Estados Unidos," they respond with "Eres Americana."  You said it, not me.  I don't want to be arrogant.

Columbians don't call themselves Americans.  Nor do Mexicans.  Nor anyone else.  You ask a European where they are from and they say, "I'm a German," or "I'm Italian," etc.  We call ourselves Americans and the world knows us as Americans not because we're claiming the continent as our own, but because our country is called "The United States of America" and frankly every one is way too lazy to figure out how to turn that into an adjective.

Prime example here... back in the days of the USSR, we called them Russians.  Probably because most people didn't know what the USS meant, but still.  They were the Russians.  All of them.  And no one griped about the title then.  Or may be they did and then rotted in prison because of it... but that's another story.

Fine.  I'm an United Statsian.  Feel better?  Ugh.

To date, though I haven't really kept you up well on the pain of adjusting to school here, I can tell you that my girls have all come to a point of equilibrium.  Though all yearn for Germany and none will declare any sort of love for this school, they all are content enough, for the most part.

I have begun to hear complaints from all four; however, that they must write and spell in British at school.  Luci even complained that she has to refer to me as "mum,"  and don't get her started on the way they spell color!  Tiara studies spelling for her science tests so that she can properly spell "oesophogus."  Because if she spells like an American, it will be counted wrong.

And we are all learning new translations.

Popsicle = Lolly  (In Germany, lolly = lollypop or sucker)
Candy Cane = Rock  (Why?)
Caramel Apple = Toffee Apple
Candies (small wrapped ones) = Chews
Chips = Crisps
Jelly Beans = Jellies
Cotton Candy = Candy Floss

Homework:  "My brother John has _____ eyes."  (The student should insert an adjective in the blank.)

Arianna:  "Mom, I don't get it.  I don't have a brother!"

I explain.  She gets it. 

The adjective she chooses?  Punky.  If she had a brother... AND his name was John... he's have punky eyes.  ;)

GRIPE 1:

I've been complaining for months that our water was barely warm.  My landlord dropped off the water
heater information packet (in Spanish, of course) and told me that may be it's just too cold outside to heat up the water as much as I like.  Months of barely hot and often lukewarm.

Last week I washed my hair 3 times with ice cold water and Arianna did that once.

Yesterday there was no hot water for my shower, none for dishes, none for anything anywhere in the house.


Manuel and Begonia came over.  We looked under the hot water heater and gently pulled on the little black door.  I took out a D battery.

"Do you have this kind of battery?" 
"I think so."

I go into the kitchen, rifle around in the "junk" drawer, and pull out a new Energizer D battery.  I go back to the garage and put it in then closed that little black door.

"Let's try it," suggests Manuel.
"Ok."  I went into the kitchen, turned the water on hot, put my hand under the icy stream and waited.

"It hasn't changed at all," I told Manuel as he puts his hand into the icy water.
"Are you sure?"  He says smiling.  So I put my hand back into the water and it's hot!  Actually hot!  The hottest it's been in months!

Because of one battery.  Who knew that a hot water tank would run off one single battery?

GRIPE 2: 

Today.  Just now.  I checked my local bank online.  The number looked really low.  So I looked at the "detalles."  Today, Iberdrola took 822 Euros from my account for electricity.  2 months of electricity, but even in half, this is Euros!  That's a lot of electricity.  I suppose it's because of the cold winter and the lack of insulation and the windows that let the cold in through cracks and even under doors.  It's 2 months of trying to stay warm.  Ouch. 

See, here, in Spain, just like in Germany, you give your bank information to businesses and they take out the money you owe - often before you even get the statements in the mail.  It's a horrible system.  Yeah, I'd still have to pay the 822 Euro bill, but at least I wouldn't have a heart attack just by checking my account balance.