The Christmas Dinner Experience

0970ADCA-91B7-4761-BA3F-572A1A42D555In ancient times people made pilgrimages to Rome. We flew here, but logged in three 8 mile days in a row. The Christmas Market in Piazza Navona was a daily destination. We saw the official opening being filmed by a television crew, and shared a glass of celebratory champagne. That was on Monday morning. Electrical problems delayed the opening. We made the trek again on Christmas morning. It was gloriously open. We strolled through. Then we visited small churches and shops for the rest of the day. By the time Christmas dinner rolled around we were hungry.

The Fork gives Casa Coppelle 9.1 points out of 10. It’s easy to see why. It’s probably the most elegant restaurant Donna and I have ever eaten in. We were tucked into a romantic corner featuring a black velvet settee, black and gold fabric wall coverings, classic portraits, and a black leather table cover. A glass of champagne was in order.

While we sipped champagne we decided to order the fish based Christmas Dinner with wine pairings. Eating  in Rome is about the food and the hospitality.  Casa Coppelle’s wait staff is charming, engaging, and comfortably attentive. You feel like a guest instead of a customer. Within minutes after ordering we were served a mini portion of thinly sliced veal with micro pea vines. We were hungry and inhaled it without taking a photo.

A generous pour of dark pink rosato was served next. Then out came the octopus served with a leek purée, and what was by my count five peas. We were hungry and sopped up every last bit of that purée with deliciously crunchy crusted Italian bread. 4CDE06FE-86B8-4EF9-BF5F-BD6E57C7118C

At Casa Coppelle when it comes to the food it’s quality over quantity. When it comes to the wine parings it’s quality and quantity. I really would have liked five more peas with my octopus.

The next course was mussels served with bean 76278737-7618-440F-AA41-A55268394EACfilled ravioli and a bean based sauce. Donna thought the sauce was delicious. I remarked that it tasted like Heinz Pork ‘n Beans, or Beanie Weenies in the vernacular of the day. I could have easily counted the mussels, but knew crunchy crusted Italian bread does an admirable job of pairing with Beanie Weenie sauce.

The wine kept flowing, and we were having B8B2B2A9-3B7E-4C18-8BAC-608E496BADF6fun. I banished thoughts of the photo of lasagna stuffed with Italian meatballs Emily Hudon taunted me with. I sipped a delicious white wine while waiting for the main course. It was a bouillabaisse served in a cooking bag. The sauce was as rich and delicious as any I’ve tried. Thank goodness for that Italian bread.

Dessert was served with a generous pour of sweet wine. The Christmas menu offered a choice of Mont Blanc, or Mont Blanc. The chef was offering to go off menu and make substitutions. We ordered a Mont Blanc and the wild card. Donna thought the plate the wild card was served on contained a pool of dark chocolate. It was a hole in the plate. We laughed!

The meal was rounded out with strong Italian espressos and an excellent limoncello. It had more zest and less Lemon Pledge I think. The server gave Donna a handwritten list of the wines we’d been served, and we strolled back to Trastevere. Seconds after Donna hung up her coat she was pulling off a big piece of Panatone declaring, “I’m still hungry!” We laughed again! It was a very Merry Christmas!!!

 

 

Christmas in Rome

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As bucket list items go returning to Rome and Romulas “luxury suite in Trastevere” was right up there at the top of the list. At Christmas with tickets to the Basilica Vaticana with Santo Padre Francesco presiding??? This wasn’t even in our wildest dreams.

Our hosts in Rome, Romula and Claudio, moved Heaven and Earth to find tickets for us. Their efforts alone were blessings. This is Rome and great cities are first of all made by great people. The history, the architecture, and the food are all products of human endeavors. Ahhh! The food!!!

The first bite of the mussels at Osteria Der Belli had me saying, “This is Italy!!!” right out loud. The broth was a perfect balance of sharp saltiness backed by heat and rounded off with garlic. The signature dish at Der Belli, tagliarini of sea bass and cherry tomatoes, was as good as the sample we had the first time we were in Rome. The pasta is homemade and in Donna’s opinion, “The best I’ve ever had!” The proprietor’s sisters make it in a nearby shop.

Rome is a city to consume on your feet. The French couple we shared a table with at Enzo’s agreed. “I walked 9 kilometers yesterday, and 8 today. I can no longer feel my feet!” We use a different measurement system, but my body feels every step of the 126 floors we climbed in two days.

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Window shopping and visiting neighborhood churches consumed most of our time. Well, that and trying to choose which beautifully atmospheric cafe was most likely to serve the best food. The one with thick steaks displayed in a refrigerated case and candles on every table got Donna’s vote.

I had always known the Pope held a Christmas Eve service in front of The Basilica. That communal experience was attractive to me. To experience Christmas Eve mass inside The Basilica with Pope Francis presiding was never a consideration. Donna, with the kind assistance of Romula and Claudio, had other ideas.

Having experienced this mass I can only tell you I was surrounded by overwhelming beauty. To hear what is a very simple and universal story in that setting will take time to sort out. I arrived and left with the same thoughts.

Every mother deserves to hold her child for the first time with joy in her heart, and eyes full of hope. Every father who looks upon his child’s face deserves to know the pride he feels will extend into a limitless future. If we close the door on Joy, Hope, and Potential, it really doesn’t matter what beliefs we profess.

I heard the sounds of many languages being spoken inside The Basilica. Within that vast lavish testament to faith Pope Francis carried a newborn Jesus through the throngs and placed him in a manger. The wonder was undeniable.

Every night a child is born. Mothers and fathers experience that primal joy. They hope, often against all odds. They dream of an unlimited future. They pray for safety.  If we have any sort of faith in anything at all, we should join them.

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New Year Review: Before and After

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We are almost a year into our Spanish home adventures. With the New Year coming up it’s time to review what we’ve been up to. We’ve been busy!

The first time we viewed our house in Oliva I knew the mop water white tiles and stained grout in the living and dining room wouldn’t survive. They were the first thing on our to do list. I tried to resurrect the grout, but it wasn’t grout. The stuff wouldn’t budge. A conference with my daughter, Alyssa, a former flooring estimator, convinced me starting over was the best option. The other option was buying a skill saw and a special blade and grinding between every sickly white tile. My knees, back, and Donna thought that was a stupid idea!

Malcom Burt was hired to put new tile over the old stuff. A trip to Manises to buy decorative tiles was all that was66DC834D-9EE3-4D8E-9FEE-0A2870B8FCAE needed. Our living and dining room are completely out of square. Putting in a tile floor that looked right would be a challenge. Malcom surveyed the room and knew exactly how to proceed. The results exceeded expectations.

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In the middle of installing the tile in the living and dining room, Malcom discovered a leak in our main bathroom. The leak was repairable, but the lead pipe was old. Leaks could spring up anywhere. The lines were buried beneath tiles and plaster. The cold water line was near the floor. The hot water line was waist high. Replacing the lines without gutting the bathroom was the challenge.

Google searches brought up photos of externally mounted copper pipe. We decided to copy the best examples we found. Copper  would become a design element. From there replacing damaged tiles with large copper toned tiles started to make sense. The trick was to make the repair solutions look intentional.

We came back to Spain with a suitcase full of secondhand store copper objects. It’s either our new awareness, or copper is making a comeback. Keeping the copper bright will require making a paste out of salt and vinegar, or investing in a commercial copper cleaner.

An added bonus of exterior mounted copper plumbing is that it retains some heat after you take a shower. It’s just enough to take the edge off, or give you warm socks on chilly mornings.

Painting the exterior of the house presented the biggest challenges. Permits took forever to go through Oliva’s idiosyncratic system. A long history of water intrusion problems created blowouts in the plaster. We thought it was confined to the lower portion of the front of the house. The entire front of the house was compromised. The plaster on the side of the house looked solid. It wasn’t. Scraping the house down to bricks revealed doors that were no longer doors, the house’s original roof line, and windows that had been hastily filled in. Everything, including a roof drain that was connected to air, had to be repaired.

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Turning a 150 year old former horse stable into habitable living quarters has involved three owners so far. Our contributions have extended the building’s life. It’s also made the house feel like home! It’s been a wonderful year!!!

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Pickpocket Decoy

 

In 2013 pickpockets got me in Cinque Terra. I was confident my leather coin purse was safely protected by a zipper and Velcro. What I experienced were the moves of a classic pickpocket team. There was a distractor, a cannon, and a handoff man. The crowd might as well have tossed their valuables in the air. I didn’t discover the lift until we were back in Vernazza.

My discovery earned me a big, “I Told You So!”  This was true. So, the rest of the lecture was unnecessary, but thoroughly enjoyed by the person delivering it.B063CACB-9EE7-40D2-885F-52CA681C214FBack at Rooms Elisabetta I constructed a decoy wallet out of feminine hygiene products.  I carried it in my back pocket for the rest of the trip.  It was never snagged, and I still have it.

For our adventures in Spain and Italy in 2016 I constructed a new decoy.  It lacked the illustrative passion of the first one.  My initial experience as an easy mark inspired a certain artistic fervor. It sent me to the Italian/English dictionary to invent insults.

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My current decoy was hastily constructed and illustrated.  It’s thicker than the first one.  It’s modeled after the leather coin purse I lost in Cinque Terra.  It’s stuffed with random business cards, a Canadian dollar, and a U.S. penny.

I’ve done some research on pickpockets.  It’s research I should have done before our trip to Cinque Terra.  The key piece of advice is, “Never keep anything in your back pocket!”  The only thing that will ever go in my back pocket again is the decoy.

My fake wallet made it through Spain, Portugal, Italy, Ireland, the canals of France, Ecuador, and back again without incident. Now veteran vagabonds tell me to beware of The Vatican.

The thought of thieves on Holy Ground during the Christmas season didn’t spring readily to mind. It makes perfect sense though. Where there are crowds there will be nimble fingers. Perhaps Jesus tossed the money changers out of the temple to save thieves from themselves.

I fully expect to be in possession of my decoy wallet at the end of our trip.  It will probably only fool rank amateurs. That’s OK!  It means if I become a victim, it will be at the hands of a true artist. You have to respect the kind of skills that can get past Velcro and zippers without a single tug.  If someone is going to take money out of your pocket, you don’t want them to be a snatch and dash street punk.  You want them to be the best, and only the best!

 

Thanksgiving in Oliva, Spain

DF261B25-A375-4F22-BCAF-85E7004DF70AMy Thanksgivings are always inspired by childhood memories of Uncle George and Aunt Bobbie’s house. I think that’s true for my siblings as well. Mother was not an extravagant cook. She prided herself on how cheaply she could feed a family of five. Her beef stroganoff might include a piece of meat that expanded as you chewed it. This could lead to two impolite options. A single Cornish game hen stewed in orange juice was not a surprising family meal. In comparison Thanksgiving at Uncle George and Aunt Bobbie’s was a sumptuous no-holds-barred feast.

In my memory there is a Thanksgiving when a turkey, a goose, and a honey glazed ham graced the table. Vienna sausages, cocktail onions, sweet pickles, pickled watermelon, jumbo black olives, candied walnuts, hard candy, several kinds of cranberry sauce, stuffing with sausage, another one with oysters, and whatever was popular in Good Housekeeping filled in all the nooks and crannies on the table. Uncle George made his baked beans with ham hocks. Rich with molasses they were nearly black. For dessert their was mincemeat pie with apricot brandy, and a pumpkin chiffon pie with peanut brittle folded into the whipped cream topping. It was a kid’s dream, and a diabetics nightmare.

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At breakfast two days before Thanksgiving Donna and I planned a Spanish Thanksgiving feast for two. The menu was traditional, but limited by our knowledge of what is available in Spanish markets. Donna’s clam dip is an essential holiday item. Cottage cheese is difficult to find. The canned clams that are available in Oliva’s markets are not recognizable. Cream cheese isn’t where you might expect it to be. Poultry seasoning will have to be made from scratch. Spanish celery is woody and hairy. The turkey breast was a special order.

Donna’s idea of a feast involves cooking for an army. My idea is to cook for two and avoid leftovers. The discussion is as follows: Donna says,  “But…leftovers are my favorite part!” I say, “Very few things are improved by reheating them!” The final word is Donna’s, “I like leftovers!” There will be leftovers.

We hit the Mercadona with a shopping list that was in our heads. An hour later we found almost everything we were looking for. We never shop side by side, but there was only one duplication this time. A pack of mushrooms was put back. Regular hairless celery was found. Two bottles of Spanish wine and a bottle of whiskey were put into the basket. The total bill was €63. In Spain that’s a splurge. We shopped for an army of two.

Politics will not be avoided at our Thanksgiving table. The sad history of the occasion will be cause for serious contemplation. Thanksgiving is a time for looking back.  We are blessed that our seasonal nostalgia comes swathed in privilege. All the more fortunate that we grew up surrounded by love, hard work, and strong values. Values that made questioning the world around us as natural as breathing. Silence about important issues isn’t celebrated at our table.  Most of all we will reflect upon our families’ blessings. We miss them. We celebrate as they create traditions of their own.

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Ah, but the feast! There will be a turkey breast, cranberry and mushroom stuffing, mashed potatoes and gravy, baked yams, an excellent €5 bottle of Grenache, and a bargain Rioja. There will also be clam dip and Lays potato chips, pickles, olives, and dilled green beans, butternut squash pie filling for dessert, and Irish coffee. There will be leftovers!

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Friday morning Donna will roll up her sleeves and make lefse for breakfast. They will be served with a side of sass. “I’m not sure you should be eating any of these. You do know they are leftovers. Hey! Go easy on that jam! I can’t believe you!” Blessed!!!

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So, Any Second Thoughts?

0A26729D-912D-4D0B-8723-7E96A47250C5As a rule second thoughts should be resolved before any commitments are made. You ponder, soul search, research, and then go over it all again. Well, that’s my process. Donna’s process involves gut instincts and a clear sense of possibilities.  It’s, “We can do this!” “Should we do this?”  That comes later.

Donna tends to suffer from buyer’s remorse. I don’t. My role is to assure her, quite accurately, that her instincts have always served us well.

No one has ever created a house that is maintenance free. Frank Lloyd Wright’s houses are considered architectural masterpieces. They leak. Water, bugs, shifting ground, basic wear and tear, deferred maintenance, design flaws, and shoddy work all conspire to bring a house down. New, old, newly renovated it doesn’t matter.

When you put all of this in a foreign country the rent vs buy debate looms large. The generic advice is always to rent for a year, and then buy. There is merit in that advice, but very little romance.

Any discussion Donna and I had about renting was short lived. We knew we loved Spain and wanted to be there. We knew constantly rearranging furniture, something Donna has done in every VRBO we’ve ever stayed in, would get old. “If you rent a house, it’s never really yours! You adapt to it. It never adapts to you!”

It’s true. You wind up trying to ignore an ugly couch sized painting that acquires an obscene nickname within the first week. The fridge is inadequate, and poorly placed. The rug looks like a dog blanket, and the drawer pulls look like clowns’ noses. So, we bought our house, its problems, and it’s surprises.

Without really understanding the torrential rains that come with Spain’s Gota Fria I knew the catwalk at the bottom of a run of roof tiles was problematic. The drain was too small. It was easily clogged, and difficult to get to. The plaster blowouts in the living room, and  leakage in Donna’s dressing room, were evidence of water infiltration problems. The exterior of the house needed painting.  There were blowouts on the front exterior wall that needed to be addressed. A crew was retained to repair the blowouts and paint the house.

While the tile in the living and dining room was being replaced a bathroom pipe sprung a leak. To address the leak fragile antique tiles had to be removed. This revealed lead pipes, and left a hole in the wall. Donna’s response was, “The pipes are lead? Did my grandbabies drink the water???”

Exterior mounted copper pipe was ordered and installed. Copper tile replaced the irreplaceable and irretrievably damaged blue tiles. The bank account took at hit. The end result is pleasing. Without the help of our neighbor, Kirsteen, the project  would have been a nightmare.

The house was scheduled to be painted before we arrived in October. Bureaucratic sludge put our project on hold. October came and went. Promises of “tomorrow” became promises of “next week”. Permission to occupy the street and put up a scaffold appeared to be the holdup. Permission was an unnecessary formality. Our house is set back. The scaffolding was never going to block the street.

The project started on November 20th. There was no fanfare. The crew rolled up, erected the scaffold, and started banging on the front of the house.

The houses in Oliva’s historic old town are constructed with “God Knows What”, and repaired with whatever is on hand. Paint doesn’t appear to want to stick to any of it. A short walk down Calle Antonio Maura reveals a dozen failed attempts.

Our house was built with bricks, rocks, blocks, and boulders. Paint prep requires scraping the walls down to solid material, filling the bigger holes with honeycombed bricks, creating a solid concrete base, and then applying architectural plaster. We hoped most of this work would be limited to the bottom half of the front wall. That was wishful thinking.

The drain on the catwalk below the roof tiles was the culprit. It was a decorative feature.  Moving up from the street there was a new plastic pipe. It was connected to a metal pipe. The metal pipe was connected to a clay pipe, and the clay pipe wasn’t connected to anything. There was a large gap between the drain and the rest of the downspout. Water flowed into the catwalk drain and from there seeped to the ground between “God Knows What” and the plaster. The blowouts were inevitable, and more extensive than anyone figured. D8A69454-73C7-41DD-9895-38FDB7383995

“So, any second thoughts?” The new floortile Malcom installed is perfect.  It’s just as Donna imagined it. The exterior mounted copper plumbing has decorative appeal and isn’t toxic. The copper tile covering the hole in the bathroom looks almost intentional. That I insisted on addressing the catwalk drain and having the house painted pleases Donna. It also makes my insistence look reasonable. Anything that makes a Taurus look reasonable instead of just plain stubborn is a good thing.

Rent or buy? Wrestling with a house’s problems and surprises is what makes it yours. You come to understand and appreciate what previous owners tried to accomplish. The house acquires a personality of its own. Sometimes you come to despise a house. Sometimes a house is just a way station. When gut instincts and best laid plans come together you can wind up loving a house. In this case a house that has always felt like home is being given a longer life. At our age we can see the beauty in that.

 

It’s Not Paella

IMG_2645Twenty-two professional chefs took on Spanish cuisine during the second episode of the Netflix series The Final Table. The contestants were asked to make Spain’s most emblematic dish…paella. The winners of this challenge made a textbook version of Valencian paella. The middle tier contestants didn’t stray too far from that template. They made close to the earth versions informed by hunting and gathering. The chefs on the bottom created dishes that were deemed undone, not authentic, or too spicy. The chefs who got sent home brought their Mexican and Jamaican influences to the task. A decorative rock and too much kick were their downfalls. Judge Miguel Bose spat out a fierce declaration, “Paella is not spicy!”

Donna and I have eaten in some celebrated Valencian restaurants. They are known for their paella. The best of these was just down the hill from our place in Oliva. It was a traditional interpretation with the requisite rabbit, and chicken. Snails were gratefully left out. According to Bible de la Paella ditching the snails is perfectly acceptable. Snails, or not, paella hasn’t managed to become a dish we are likely to seek out.

We are not alone in this. In many cases what paella lacks in spice is made up for with the addition of feet swelling quantities of salt. One traditional recipe included instructions to make the broth a little too salty. I don’t use much salt when I cook. So, “a little too salty” quickly becomes “too damn salty” for me. The consensus view of what paella lacks is that it doesn’t have a  balance of flavors. I love the earthy smokiness the paprika brings out, but there is a brightness that is missing.

The spicy Mexican/Jamaican version of paella that sent two chefs home on The Final Table looked and sounded delicious. What I am looking for when I am eating paella is not paella. The flavor profile I am looking for is closer to paella’s Louisiana cousin, jambalaya, or maybe even gumbo. A little bit of heat may be heresy if you are Miguel Bose, but I’ve always wished I brought a good bottle of hot sauce with me whenever I’ve ordered paella.

What happens when you create a paella/gumbo/jambalaya hybrid? It won’t be paella, and it won’t be gumbo, or jambalaya. It will be a rice dish. A gumbo is served over rice. Jambalaya tends to be soupy. A paella skillfully cooks the rice and other ingredients in one specially designed pan. Cooking a New Orleans style paella isn’t a big culinary leap. The ingredients are similar, and they share a similar heritage. You just can’t call the results ”paella”.

“It’s Not Paella” Recipe

Ingredients: 2 lbs boneless chicken thighs, 1/4 lb flat beans, 1 lb tomatoes peeled and seeded, 8 oz of spicy sausage (chorizo, andouille, or linguica), 1 1/2 lbs of clams scrubbed with a brush and lightly salted water, 1 small red pepper skin removed, 2 minced garlic cloves, 1 medium sweet onion chopped, 1/2 tsp cayenne, 1 tsp smoked paprika, 1/2 tsp saffron, 1 cup Bomba rice, olive oil (I never measure olive oil. I watch the absorption rate and add more as needed.  I also want the oil hot, but not smoking.), 1 cup chicken broth, or clam nectar, 1 cup water, 1/2 tsp salt, Italian parsley, 1 lemon, hot sauce

Other stuff: 1/2 cup fresh peas, 1/2 cup white beans, 1 lb clams, 1/2 tsp thyme, 1/2 tsp lemon zest, substitute 1/4 cup of sherry vinegar for 1/4 cup of water, 1 bay leaf, or 1 sprig of rosemary. If you want to confuse your guests use okra instead of broad beans.

Cooking Instructions: Where jambalaya and paella really differ is in the cooking method. No one is looking for that crunchy goodness the Spanish call socarrat when they are eating jambalaya. Maybe they should. That comes down to closely timed changes in cooking temperature.

Cut the chicken into uniform pieces. Place the pieces in a bowl and add a pinch of salt, and lightly coat with salt and cayenne. Chop the onions and reserve. Clean and cut beans. Slice sausage into 1/2 slices. Mince the garlic. Blister the red pepper over a flame, or in a cast iron frying pan. Place the pepper in a plastic bag. When the pepper has cooled peel the skin. Cut the pepper into strips. Remove the skin from the tomatoes by briefly placing them in boiling water. Cut the tomatoes into quarters and remove the seeds. Roughly grate the tomatoes and reserve.

Heat the oil in a 14 inch pan until it shimmers. Fry the chicken. Move the meat to the outside of the pan. Gently fry the beans (okra) in the meat juice. Fry the onions, garlic, and sausage. You are sweating the sausage in order to color and flavor the onion. Move the onion and sausage mixture to the outside of the pan.

Add the grated tomato. Reduce it until the tomato water has evaporated. Gently mix in the ingredients that are on the outside of the pan.

Add the water and the chicken stock, or clam nectar. Add the saffron, and the paprika. Gently stir the last two ingredients into the broth. Add the rice when the water is rapidly boiling. No more stirring.

There are three stages in cooking the rice. Cook on high heat for the first 7 to 8 minutes. When you can see the rice go on to the second stage. Reduce the heat to medium or low for 8 to 10 minutes. During the last 4 minutes of the second stage add the clams by pushing them lightly into the rice. Cover the pan with a lid, or foil. Also arrange the red peppers on top of the rice. Take the lid off the pan once the clams have opened. Discard any unopened clams. At the end crank the heat for 1 to 2 minutes to create the socarrat. (Note: Check the water absorption at every stage of cooking the rice. Adjust the timings accordingly.)

Garnish with Italian parsley, and serve with lemon wedges. Several bottles of good hot sauce should be on the table. It isn’t paella!

 

DinoPark Algar

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It’s 8 AM and it’s already 80 degrees. The van we rented doesn’t have A/C. A dog ate the gear shift knob and everything useful on the dashboard. The sound of the diesel engine is punctuated by shock absorber squeaks and unidentified pings. Shifting gears doesn’t require sports car finesse. Anyone who knows my relationship with motor vehicles understands that I am in heaven! I only wish the dog who ate the gear shift was mine.

Seven of us are packed into the van and headed to DinoPark Algar. There we hope to find life-sized robotic dinosaurs, a paddling pool, a paleontological playground, and a 3D cinema. The weather channel predicts 97 degree weather by noon. I am hoping the theater has air conditioning!

A spray bottle full of ice water and some frozen dishrags will hopefully keep 5 yr. old Oscar, and 3 yr. old Linus suitably lukewarm. Google thinks it will take us 56 minutes to get DinoPark. Google doesn’t take wrong turns, narrow winding roads, farm equipment, or slow going vehicles into account. I believe I was heard to say, “It’s a stick. I’m in first gear. If we go any slower, the van will die!” ”Die” wasn’t the best word choice.

Oscar knows the names of all of the dinosaurs, even the ones I can’t pronounce. He knows what era they lived in, and dismisses my claim that most lived during the “Splendiferous” era and farted glitter rainbows.

It becomes a race to see as many dinosaurs as possible. It’s a slow race. Linus isn’t one to hurry, and Oscar wants to soak up every detail. The adults are dragged along, and suitably impressed. I am intent on finding out if the 3D theater is air conditioned.

While everyone else was still finishing their  frozen treats the theater opened its doors. I located the A/C units immediately. With a cursory wave I entered the building. Once inside I texted, “It’s cool!!!” The film was a well-crafted pre-teen adventure with enough humor to amuse the grownups. I was prepared to see it twice just to sit in a cool room.

After the 3D theater experience we headed over to the splash pool. Extra coats of sunscreen were applied, and those who dared splashed about. I sat in a lounge chair under a tree. Donna frequently reminds me that my father was a bacteriologist and I should be more wary of germs. No reminder is needed when it comes to wading pools full of children. Donna and her daughters splashed about. So did Oscar, and Linus. I did not. I don’t believe Oscar and Linus’ dad, Ben, did either. Given the squeals of glee in and around the pool I assume the water was just fine.

On the way home we made an unscheduled stop in Polop. It was a “Just pull over!” moment. Luckily there was a bar in the square around the corner from where we parked. It was open. The food was good, and the drinks were cold.

We were ready to climb back in the van and head home. Across the street was a wonder that equaled DinoPark for me. A discarded piece of Spanish ironwork behind a metal fence was artfully propped up and photo ready.

It was our first real tourist adventure this time around, and there’s nothing quite like taking an adventure in a packed van with no air conditioning. It took me back 30 years!

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The Rain In Spain

E181E173-3857-4430-898B-6D4CFAF4B19BThe news from 5,487 miles away went from interesting to alarming, “Muy probable GOTA FRIA.” became, “The level of threat for EXTREMELY HEAVY RAIN has been raised to red, which means the National Met Office assesses the risk as extreme.”  Well O.K. then, but what is a Gota Fria???

This is what culturespain.com has to say. “A Gota Fria is a meteorological phenomenon common on the Spanish Mediterranean coast, most particularly that of the Valencian Comunitat.” That’s us!!!

“When a Gota Fria occurs all of a sudden you can experience a sustained storm of 3597D933-C1FF-473B-82BA-EA2DF86BCA77considerable power – a deluge of quite simply staggering amounts of water.” At this point I was paying complete attention.

A Gota Fria has been likened to standing under a power shower…or being inside of a washing machine!” I also read that winds can range from 60 to 120 mph. Not to worry though, a Gota Fria only lasts from 4 hours up to 4 days – non-stop.  The map included in the latest Urgent Update had our house clearly within the red zone.9A4D6F22-E668-410C-B3F9-7C4FA6EE17D3

At this point I was going through our house’s vulnerabilities. As a Seattle native I know a bit about rain. In a nutshell, water is going to do whatever it takes to find a way into your house. I’ve seen a waterfall flowing over a fireplace and threatening to turn a sunken living room into a wading pool. I’ve seen a lively stream spout from a concrete foundation and bubble across a basement floor. I recall my sister’s three story house and the never ending saga of trying to find the leak.

The tile roof on our Oliva house has always given me pause. Tile roofs are not unlike cedar shake roofs. A drip from the ceiling gives you no indication of where the leak in the roof is. My next worry was the glass ceiling above the main floor sun room. Where would all that water go? Yow! Pulverizing rain might overwhelm the drain running from the top terrace into the floor of the sun room. I imagined furniture being swept on a freshet and jamming up against the front door. Then too, there is the roof drain at the corner of the house. Discolorations on the flat part of the roof told me it was inadequate. It wasn’t completely handling average rainfall. The top terrace? I should have waterproofed it in March.

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Stuart Hamilton

Then the rain hit! From my perch on a couch 5,487 miles away I read posts from Oliva. David Hale posted a picture of Noah’s Ark. A photo from La Drova showed a raging stream threatening to collapse a garden wall. Photos of buckets under drips in lounges, and water flowing down walls were common. New roofs were leaking. Leaks that had been repaired two and three times were leaking. Roads were closed. Gale force winds were driving rain under seventh floor deck sliders. Saturated towels were pulled from window sills and doorways. They were wrung out and stacked in piles. All of this for five wild days.  Our neighbor, Ian, wrote, “The rain in Spain…falls mainly…here!”

A Gota Fria parks itself and doesn’t stop raining until it’s all rained out. This one set records. It was the largest Easter Storm in 73 years. The normal April rainfall in Oliva is 31mm. In one 12 hour period Oliva experienced 107mm of the kind of rain that makes people recalibrate what torrential means! 7BE264C0-280A-4C27-A6BB-2B90C36E80EB

At this point our unspoken question was, “How did our house fare?”  An email exchange from Malcolm, Oliva’s intrepid Mr. Fix-it, included three photos. None of my worst fears were realized. The floors were dry. There was leakage under the inadequate drain on the roof. The bedroom under the top terrace leaked. Not where I expected it to, or very much. The main bathroom ceiling got the worst of it. What I had written off as signs of poor ventilation was something else.  It was the lower terrace. Our Scottish neighbor’s observation that the red waterproof paint doesn’t do the job was dead on accurate.

 

 

Overall, Donna and I are pleased. Our house in Oliva survived a 76 year weather event and sustained power wash with minor leakage. The current weather forecast calls for sun and temperatures in the 70’s. Summer is right around the corner!IMG_9262

Jesus in the Streets

Oliva, Spain, 04/07/19

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When the theater production of The Passion of Christ left the stage in Placa de San Roc something changed. The Roman guard was fierce and unhinged. He could have been a counter protester at a peace march. Teenagers swaggered. Some faces were tear streaked. Others were solemn. Some in the crowd were carried along with a sense of buoyancy. Their grins almost out of place as the cross carrying Jesus was whipped over and over again. Then too there were cell phones.

At first the cell phones distracted from the authenticity of the production. Then they began to lend authenticity. If Jesus was being marched to his death today, we would dutifully record it with our phones. Just as we recorded the burning of Notre Dame. What then of the story being told?

 

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As I watched Jesus viciously whipped and saw the sweat of exertion cover the body of the Roman guard the story became visceral. The experience was not easily shaken off. This was not the accumulated history of Christianity.  I wasn’t witnessing the story of the Father, or the Holy Ghost. This was the story of a man. A man who was a friend, a storyteller, a man of wisdom, and a son.

History had to be subtracted. Jesus never built a cathedral and started opening franchises. He never built an army to kill in God’s name. He didn’t preach the killing of the Indian to save the man. He didn’t conspire to hide abuses committed by priests. Jesus didn’t condone turning religious enterprises into profit centers, and money laundering operations. Mankind did those things. The core story didn’t change, but its hero and it’s interpretation became malleable.

 

I used to study in the University of Washington’s Suzzallo Library.  I was an English major, but I studied in the Art History section. When I was tired of English I’d pour through Art History books. One of my favorite finds was a book about how depictions of Jesus changed throughout history.  When the societal need was caring for the poor, Jesus was careworn and shown among the downtrodden. When Jesus was elevating and protecting the status of the powerful, he dressed better. Through the ages Jesus lost his Middle Eastern looks and became almost Aryan. Jesus had become an all purpose nostrum as useful to the conman as to the faithful.

As for Jesus being a unifying figure, the number of Christian denominations is daunting. Each promises to be the true path, and will split hairs to prove it. So, what has become of Jesus?DE181DAD-256E-43EA-ACF5-8BEF8EFD914C

Stripped to it’s human core the story of Jesus remains unchanged.  Jesus was a Jew who began a ministry. He used parables to teach about the Kingdom of God. Jesus spoke up for the poor and oppressed. He did not adhere to the  orthodoxies of his faith. As his ministry began to grow, religious leaders began to question him. During Jesus’s final days he rode a young donkey into Jerusalem. This reflected an oracle from the Book of Zachariah in which a humble king entered the same way. Later in the same week Jesus threw the money changers out of the temple. His conflict with the elders escalated. By challenging power and authority Jesus became a threat. He was tried, found guilty, and executed. Mary wept. Martyrdom followed. It’s the story of unyielding belief, and the conviction to pursue those beliefs at all costs.42B3E30A-1BCF-4541-9D34-95A126849CF5

The story of Jesus has undeniable power. At the very least it is a story with staying power. On Calle Antonio Maura it was easy to imagine that Jesus walks among us. It was just as easy to imagine that given the chance we’d crucify him again. The power of a story is not merely in the answers it provides. It’s real power lies in the questions it provokes. The story of Jesus is still worth telling.

Our spiritual life is a journey. The fastest way to cut a journey short is to announce our arrival, and with that arrival stop questioning. The question that bubbled up to the surface as I followed The Passion of Christ up the hill past our house was, “Where do we find Jesus and his works?” Is he in corporate boardrooms, in gilded temples, or in the streets?

 

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