DinoPark Algar


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!


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.

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


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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Houses With Names

Findings: Oliva, Spain

A house is not a home until you have had visitors. It’s not a Party until a wine glass gets broken. The sound of rain is comforting unless you are sitting beneath a blue tarp. Over planning is wasted energy if you aren’t ready for things to defy expectations. Under planning requires the letting go we tell everyone else to practice. Arriving at our destinations is a miracle. GPS can send you down a dirt track towards giant mud puddles. Being followed by a black Mercedes makes the GPS detour seem universal.

E02A719D-6D63-4450-8681-8056E61ADB2C Coffee and pastry are better with a view of the Mediterranean. If Veronica makes the pastry the view is just a bonus. Home prices in the Valencia region increased by 4.5% in the first quarter of 2019 compared to the same period last year. Almost a third of the 78,8322 buyers were foreign.

Old men still break into song at Mel de Romer in Oliva. We prefer Gumbo to Paella. Hueva de Sepia won’t be what most people expect it to be. El Pelut will accommodate a large unexpected group with grace, but don’t push your luck. In the right hands cupcakes can become an Art form.

There was a barbershop quartet of snorers in our house, but I only heard the trio. Our light switches are well placed. Taking a bath in a turquoise bathroom is unexpectedly luxurious. A shower in the same bathtub is unexpectedly cramped, and somewhat finicky. Our neighborhood dogs are friendly. Gas for the burner lasted longer than I thought it would. 563FE2B3-31D1-4B3C-8D13-3298362F7A72

The children of Oliva will not be going to school during Holy Week. There was a celebration in front of Honey Dukes. The teachers dressed up like clowns. On Sunday a re-enactment of the Passion of Christ will wind past our house and climb up to the Castle. There will be Roman soldiers, whips, fake blood, and a crucifix. Jesus will grab a pint at the local pub before making his climb.

A healthy dessert of pineapple and melon might be served with mounds of whipped cream, and three scoops of ice cream. Eight and ten year olds will be delighted. Fish soup should be viewed before ordering. If it’s off you can tell when you walk through the door. Politics are more bearable when you are 5,000 miles away, and crucial discussions are conducted in another language.

Living is Spain is better than visiting it. Life has a way of putting you exactly where you are supposed to be. A view is not a luxury. A view of water is preferable. Warm sand is good for sore backs. Houses might need names, but for now “Home” will do!

“The beach is the thing, if bees don’t sting.”


Buying a Dream

13683EFE-B186-46D9-93F4-61CA973E61F6I resisted writing about any kind of “how to” until all the paperwork for our house in Spain was finalized, and the keys were in our hands. Once we crossed those thresholds there was painting to do, drips and drops to stop, and a wall that required stripping back until we reached solid concrete and stone. There was an aircon/heater that needed to be installed sooner instead of later. Then there were all of the things that make a house a home. Our settling in process has always been a whirlwind!

Now that we are mostly settled, and another to do list is ready for our next visit, there is time to reflect. This is to say the rental car has been returned, and our laundry has been done. I don’t think there is anything we’ll be lugging up the hill in the next 48 hours. So, how do you buy a dream?

1. Create Wishlists…

Having the decision makers in your family go off to their own corners to put their wishlist on a piece of paper is essential. If you don’t write wishes down the chances of them coming true are diminished. Donna likes to illustrate her wishlists with photos torn from magazines. I just type out a list. We are both pretty specific.

After our lists are written we compare notes. A view of a body of water, two bathrooms, the ability to walk to restaurants, stores, and bars were items of immediate agreement. Agreeing on the number of stairs we could live with, apartment or townhouse, and what constituted easy access to public transportation were areas we agreed to have open negotiations on. “Location! Location! Location!” That was always going to be a part of the process.

2. Go Online…


We tracked real estate markets in several countries and cities for at least two years. We looked at market analysis of Spanish real estate that was written with the British ex-pat in mind. We joined three ex-pat community Facebook pages. House Hunters International was binge watched just to get a sense of various locations. We cast a wide net and began pulling it in.

In terms of helpfulness, House Hunters is basically a wash. Watching a couple pretend to buy the house they already bought is 99% entertainment. Prices are reflective of the scriptwriters’ fantasies. “A dog trainer, and a professional blogger are looking for their $1,500,000 waterfront dream home, but might be willing to stretch the budget.”

Ex-pat Facebook pages on the other hand are a goldmine. Asking any question can be a little like opening Pandora’s box.  People aren’t shy about sharing their experiences. If you are a member of the group, you can pm other members once the moderator inevitably shuts a discussion down. Using community Facebook pages to find the top three real estate agencies, lawyers, electricians, plumbers, and general contractors was extremely fruitful. Looking back I’d say the feedback we received on these pages was biased, but pretty darn accurate.

3. Boots on the Ground…

How long a person should live somewhere before buying a house is open to debate. I believe it depends upon your overall process. Doing your research and trusting your gut works for us. Everything else felt like procrastination.

After we narrowed our search to coastal Spain we took a road trip. We hit every beach town between Alicante and Malaga. It was a giant neighborhood review. Locations that looked great in photos were not always so inviting in person. Some inviting locations were just too far off the beaten path. Our list got a workout.

Our list eventually lead us to Oliva, Spain. We didn’t get there on our road trip. A month long return trip was planned. That trip included seeing 18 properties in the space of a week. After two weeks of 14,000 step days we had a good feel for Oliva, and its real estate market.

4. The Real Estate Agent..,

In Spain the real estate agent represents the seller. As a buyer you pay them no commissions. The agent can only show you houses their agency has listed. The cute house next door to the one your agent showed you might not be one they can show. Seeing it will require finding someone from another agency.

While the real estate agent doesn’t represent you that doesn’t mean an ethical agent can’t be very forthcoming about the properties they are showing. That’s where our Facebook research came in handy. Our agent came highly recommended. She knew the market. She knew the condition of the properties she was showing. She knew highly recommended craftspeople, and how much it cost to repair things. Her reputation had been made by the support she provided after the sale was made. That last piece is critical.

5. The Attorney…

Since the real estate agency doesn’t represent you in Spain the broker’s role is fulfilled by an attorney. A person could try to file all of the paperwork by themselves. It’s written in Spanish legalese. Checking for previous titles, leins against the property, certificates of occupancy, writing and filing your Spanish will, and setting up your bank, water, and electric accounts, and dealing with bureaucrats is something best left to an attorney.D921A2D5-8C14-4DA0-8BFF-3E46FE8C7218.jpeg

Again, the Facebook community was quick to share their stories, good and bad. One local attorney was recommended over and over again. She was a good find and our process was incredibly smooth. Her 1,500 euro fee was well worth it. All that and she ends all of her email correspondence with “Besos!”

6. Fees…

In general buying a house in Spain will cost you another 13 to 15% in taxes and fees. Word on the street is that fees can be higher if you don’t have an attorney representing you. That was a discussion the Facebook moderator cut short. Similar observations were sprinkled throughout the site. At any rate there are Notaries to be paid, purchase taxes of 10%, national tax number application fees, filing fees, the expense of your Spanish will, and attorney fees. To be on the safe side we added  16% tothe purchase price. It’s never a bad feeling when you wind up with a little extra in your pocket.

8. Work Crews…

No matter how well a house is inspected there will be surprises after the ink has dried. The first house Donna and I bought together had a river running through the basement. Our house in Oliva has been relatively surprise free. Finding an honest and reliable worker who is willing to give you solid advice on how to fix things yourself, or give you a bid for their own work is indispensable. The real estate agent who provided support after our deal closed, and The Oliva Tattler helped us find that worker.

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I got up early and banked the fire. Then I made a cup of coffee. Outside crowds of Spanish children and their parents made their way up the street to the school. I looked around at all the work Donna and I accomplished. A slow smile spread across my face. “We have a home in Spain!”  I checked the copies of the lists I keep on my phone! There were at least seven items I could cross off.

Making wish lists works!!!


It’s Typical! It’s Complicated!

The dreams kept marching through my sleep. The dream started with an old clay tile coming loose on the roof of our Spanish dream home.  If I walked on the tiles, they would break like eggshells. If I left  them alone, the  house would  spring leaks. Somewhere in the middle of the dream our house morphed into one of the nightmares we considered buying. A caved in roof hung over two squash blossom filled garden beds. Our friend Tona’s kids helpfully skittered across the roof bringing me the wrong tiles. Welcome to our dream home!

The truth is we could be daunted. Simple cosmetic fixes have already turned into more complicated projects. The front room’s exterior wall is what locals call “blown-out”. Somewhere in the continuous cycle of soaking up water and drying out the paint and plaster chose not to stick to the wall. Years of temporary fixes finally cried, “Uncle!” Malcolm the Builder recommends chipping it all off and doing it the way it should have been done in the first place.

In our first twelve years together Donna and I lived in eight houses. We’ve remodeled six houses together. Remodeling is basically undoing the dreams of everyone who owned the house before you. The pink granny’s house became a Southwest inspired tract home. The historic Craftsman was an exercise in lovingly bringing back period details. To do this we wound up gutting half of the main floor. The Seattle house had us shrinking our Herron Island remodel and building a backyard cottage. We are nuts!

5a1d5a83-e525-4113-8206-b2f1c2bfbdf1Our house in Spain didn’t start its life as a human habitation. It was at one time in the distant past a horse stable. This means it is authentically rustic. There isn’t a smooth wall in the place. The walls swoop and dip showing past blowouts and genuine rocks embedded in the below structural grade concrete. By this I mean the concrete is a combination of 90% beach sand and 10% cement. At some point I expect to find a horseshoe buried behind the plaster. We aren’t undoing dreams here. We are tweaking things while addressing deferred maintenance.

dfc5db71-38fa-4880-8784-9c03d6fc631bDonna is in her own special version of heaven. I’ve been painting. Painting…and having elaborate dreams reminding me that somewhere down the line squash blossoms will glow in the sun. Well that…and thank God we didn’t buy one of those gloriously marvelous wrecks!a7225161-89dc-47ae-a414-d834291e011e

Closer To Home: Methow Valley Ciderhouse



IMG_9773Heading to far off places in September makes a lot of sense.  It’s the end of the season, rates are lower, and the multitudes have gone back home.  For retired teachers traveling in September is the realization of a deferred dream.  It also gives you a place to put the energy you had always put into your classroom.

There is a distinct smell in the air when the end of summer comes rolling around.  It creates that Sunday afternoon feeling for people who work in education.  It’s a signal telling you it’s time to gut up.  You won’t take a deep breath again until the last kid walks out the door in June.

Donna and I have been escaping the country for the months of September, October, and part of November ever since she retired.  It has been liberating, but we haven’t experienced a Pacific Northwest autumn for awhile.  We had almost forgotten what we were missing.

The corrective action was a series of karmic accidents.  For a brief instant in my youth Richard, John, Carl, Ric and I formed a band called Hale’s Angels. We practiced the hits of the day and performed two of them at our Sophomore talent show.  We were slated to perform everything else we knew in the lunchroom.  We were out in the hallway when a pie fight erupted.  The event was canceled.  I have never been sure what the greatest disappointment was…not playing, or missing pie fight.IMG_9962Fifty-two years later we decided to have another go.  We were practiced and scheduled to play at our 50th High School Reunion.  The thing about schedules is they have a tendency to slowly, quietly, and inevitably expand.  The extra minutes kept adding up, and in the end the Hale’s Angels figured not playing would only disappoint the four of us.  The folks who came to dance were not to be denied.  Watching them out the dance floor proved that point.  Everyone could still bust some impressive moves.  Nothing less could be expected from Franklin Quakers!

A tentative plan was made for the Angels to regroup up at the Methow Valley Ciderhouse in late October.  Richard, our percussionist and former bassist, is the Ciderhouse’s proprietor.  The rest of Hale’s Angels surviving members couldn’t make it, but Donna and I decided we were due for a road trip.

Some casual figuring told us neither one of us had been to Winthrop for 35 years.  Our eyes told us this was a huge mistake.  Highway 20 is one of Washington State’s natural wonders.  In autumn it’s a feast of yellows, golds, and reds.  The highway ends at Methow Valley Ciderhouse, and Winthrop.

Richard and his wife Lynne are the Ciderhouse’s owners, cider makers, and marvelous hosts.  In no time at all we were sampling their entire menu of ciders.  All of the ciders are made from apples grown on their property.  It was difficult to pick a favorite.  That meant it was necessary to order another King Cougar, and a Town Deer.  While we were sipping a crowd of celebrants arrived in Steampunk attire and decided to settle in for cider, brats, ribs, and sides.

The musical entertainment, Jerome and Sara, weren’t slated to perform until later in the evening.  So, there was just enough time to explore the Riser Lake Loop with Richard, Lynne, and their dogs Trip and Bree.  Autumn in the Methow is worth the drive.

IMG_9781Later in the evening Jerome and Sara played us back to the days of yore.  This means they played the stuff Hale’s Angels listened to back in high school.  Old pop songs have become folk music. After Jerome and Sara were done for the night I borrowed a guitar from a local folkster.  Richard and I played a couple of tunes.  In the following lull the folkster belted out Me and Bobby McGee.  Donna belted out Mercedes Benz and Sara joined in.  The Methow Valley Ciderhouse then experienced an impromptu flash mob Hootenanny.  Magic happens up at the end of Highway 20!

We took the route through Wenatchee on the way home.  Traveling to far off places during the autumn still has its appeal, but there are plenty slices of heaven closer to home.

Thanks to Richard and Lynne, and the folks up at the Methow Valley Ciderhouse! methowvalleyciderhouse.com


A Place in Spain: A New Chapter Begins

IMG_9169On the final day of our property search in Oliva, Spain we were back looking at properties with OlivaCasas’ intrepid Jane.  This was a nod to my expressed preference for apartments.  The apartments we saw were grand dowagers.  They were only in need of a little lipstick to bring them back to a sort of well-worn elegance.

One of my favorite books, Algonquin, is the sad telling of the end of a distinct Southern era.  It contains this gem of wisdom, “The young belles were always intimidated by my Grandmother.  She was truly beautiful, and they were merely young.”  This gem applies to real estate as well.  Walking up four flights of stairs to the best of these apartments reminded me I am no longer merely young.  The apartments were intriguing impossibilities.

We then visited a spacious townhouse at the bottom of the hill close to our VRBO.  I didn’t notice the sump pump in the living room until we were leaving.  It would have been a shorter visit if I had.

We called this property “The Blank Slate”.  It needed liberal doses of elbow grease, a couple hundred gallons of paint, a new kitchen, a gut job in the bathroom, and a ceiling repair in one of the bedrooms.  All of this could only occur after the source of the BIG leak was found.  There is a difference between putting lipstick on a grand dame, and putting lipstick on a pig. The pump was primed and ready to go!

Our Top Three List was down to the Top Two.  We returned for a second look at what we were calling “Almost Arabian”.  I was taking a casual approach.  Donna was documenting every defect.  Cracked tiles, patches of crumbling plaster, broken window latches, and delaminated wooden doors were all photographed.  I was off taking pictures of zebra print linoleum floors, and the view from the terrace.  If this place was a contender, visualizing the finished project was critical.  Then there was the five thousand dollar rewire that had to be factored in.  There was a lot of going backward to be done before you could start going forward.  I hate spending money on things that don’t show!

This brought us back to the “Stable House”.  It was always quietly on the top of Donna’s list.  It was also at the very upper end of our budget.  Every bit of our looking had been to find a suitable substitute for this house.  Donna hit the place with a vengeance.  Rugs were peeled back, damaged tiles were photographed.  Every question that kept her tossing and turning the night before was asked and answered.  Outside water spigots were located.  An outdoor kitchen was envisioned.  Donna’s wheels were spinning.

I was off taking photos of views, and trying to capture the color of the walls and tiles.  The “Stable House” needed tweaks. The Under the Sea bathroom could still be considered sumptuously gaudy.  I saw candles on black pillars in its future.  I saw scraping candle wax off the floor in mine.

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Like all old couples, Donna and I have worked out our own real estate buying process.  We go off in our own directions.  We set narrower and narrower parameters for the search.  Most of our communication is in practiced shorthand.  This time I kept repeating the bit about not wanting to travel half-way around the world to engage in endless projects.  Donna kept reminding me that she knows what she is looking for.  Neither repetition was necessary.  Eventually Donna firmly stated she was ready to make an offer.  I firmly replied, “We need to talk!”  The casual thumbs up I flashed was not a starting pistol.  Then we went off to formalize what we had been communicating through shorthand.

Our process is probably crap, and fraught with all sorts of relationship damaging pitfalls.  It’s always a matter of her speeding me up, and me slowing her down until we are in sync.  In this case the end result was an offer on the “Stable House”.  We waited for acceptance.  Made a counter offer, and finally agreed to a price with the furniture thrown in.  A chilled bottle of Cava was uncorked and we toasted the beginning of a new adventure!  It may not matter what our process is.  The shared goal is always another  adventure!!!


A Place in Spain: Part Two



After viewing the first 18 properties we started whittling our list down to the Top Three.  This meant factoring in new information about houses in Oliva.  They are subject to the whims of the climate.  Oliva is humid, and when it rains it pours.  A recent weather forecast predicted 7 inches of rain within a 24 hour period.  Few houses have foundations.  They are solidly built, but slowly suck up ground water.  Until you get higher than your waist chances are the paint isn’t sticking to the walls. It comes off in fist sized flakes, or turns into powder.  Roof terraces and tile roofs are susceptible to leaks.  The water from above and the water from below conspire to meet in the middle. Many of the houses we looked at told this tale.

You could scrape the paint on the back wall of a cute compact townhouse down to concrete with a bare fingernail.  The culprit was the next door neighbor’s roof terrace.  The lowest room of a mountain goat’s paradise of precarious stairs was tinged with pink powder.  It was either red tiles leaching through, or mold. A fixer with stunning tiles was dotted here and there with obvious damp spots and paint in various states of decay. It’s entryway was crumbling.  A little patch of powdery paint near the floor started looking like a good sign.  Occasionly you’d find a house where the paint had been meticulously maintained and was actually sticking to the walls.

Whittling down a list of 18 houses down to the Top Three could have been a daunting task.  Our focus on the amount of work a house would require made it a lot easier.  The Top Three were a reformed horse stable, a house we were calling Almost Arabian, and a generic townhouse we found through Oliva’s  ex-pat Facebook page.

The Stable had been reformed with attention to detail.  It would require tweaks, but it was mostly done.  Bold tiles in the bath and kitchen either overwhelmed, or wowed! The front room and dining room were graced with Valencian ceilings.  The roof terraces had been meticulously resealed.  The view was promising. Paint was sticking to walls.  The price tag underscored this.  The Stable was charming.

Almost Arabian earned that moniker because of its half-assed decorating scheme.  Someone aimed for hookah lounge sophistication, but only managed to execute shared student housing. When it came to naming the place, Bongwater Flats was definitely in the running. The house had good bones, a candy apple red IKEA kitchen, and a top floor with a snug and roof terrace that could host one Hell of a party.  We were mentally redecorating the place.  We were also weighing the time, effort, and expense it would take to make the place look like it didn’t need a stray dog to complete its vibe.

Casa Generic was comfortable in a spiffy late ’70’s way.  Spanish features were hinted at, but what do you do with floors that look like a rockhound’s Saturday afternoon project? The bathroom and kitchen were tiny and utilitarian. Casa Generic did have three stunning terraces. One right off the kitchen, one off the master bedroom, and a roof terrace with views over the town to the sea.  The terraces alone sold the place.  The bland interior created second thoughts.  The floors were something you’d have to get used to. Uck, but the price was right and the paint was sticking to the walls.

Donna and I don’t do the House Hunter’s International visit to the local cafe for a discussion thing.  We do our talking on the fly.  There were several more places to look at, and we were going to look at them. The 35,263 steps walked and 6 floors climbed finding the Top Three weren’t going to deter us!

A Place in Spain: Part One

IMG_8964The fantasy was always to buy a place in Italy, or maybe in Spain.  That kind of fantasy is always more romantic than practical.  We looked at this notion a thousand different ways.  Hours were spent researching countries, regions, cities, properties, and foreign real estate laws and procedures.  Research is critical because once you start looking at properties it is possible to fall in love with the wrong house, in the wrong city, at the wrong time, and possibly in the wrong country.

Common sense kicks in and tells you it’s better to rent.  There are always counter arguments when it comes to common sense.  You do your research to let you know how impractical you are being, and just how deep the water is.

Like a strong current pushing a boat into a shipping lane we were eventually guided to Spain.  There is no accounting for that exactly.  It is possible to get into the intricacies of food, coffee, hospitality, weather, the cost of living, and how it feels to sit on a terrace in the afternoon sun.  It is possible to talk about the price of real estate.  Pinning it down as an individual is tough enough.  Pinning it down as a couple is an exercise in futility. Donna will talk about the light.  I will talk about sunsets and night noises.  In the end it comes down to feeling at home in a distant place, and everything else lining up to turn a fantasy into reality.

We narrowed our search down to the area in and around Oliva, Spain.  It’s on the coast forty minutes from Valencia.  The closest cities are Denia and Gandia.  Unlike most coastal cities Oliva is not strictly a tourist destination.  It’s a working Spanish town.  It doesn’t pull up stakes and disappear during off seasons.  The beach is long, beautiful, and relatively uncrowded.  Real estate prices are attractive.  We knew all of this because we had done the research. We had actually never set foot in Oliva.

Within an hour of arriving in Oliva we were doing neighborhood reviews.  Donna had lined up 32 properties to look at.  We narrowed it down to an agreed upon Top 10 list.  It felt like we were doing a House Hunter’s International marathon.  This wasn’t couch surfing though.  This was feet on the ground, bring the tape measure and paint chips stuff.  Thankfully, we’ve had lots of experience doing this kind of thing.  Donna and I moved at least eight times the first twelve years we were together.  My youngest daughter, Marleigh, knew the drill by heart.  “Dad, everytime you guys buy a new refrigerator you move!” 

The Top 3 houses on our list were visited. None of them had signs in the windows anymore.  The apartment across the street from San Maria de Major Cathedral had already been decorated in our minds. The townhouse with a small yard was only grudgingly on my Top 10 list. To me it looked like a car had driven through its fence.  Donna disputed this.  After all it had a lemon tree in the backyard.  Similarly, the apartment next to the Municipal Market was not one of Donna’s favorites.  Location, location, location had her expressing a little more interest.  It was skeptical interest, but that was an improvement. Again, we weren’t seeing any signs in the windows.

A walk through town on a Sunday afternoon doesn’t really tell you much.  It tells you if they roll up the streets after Sunday Mass, but that’s about it.  Oliva was pretty dead.  A few locals were drinking in a small bar.  A “kebap” and pizza joint was open. So was a little bakery.  Other than small groups of kids riding bikes and scooters the streets were unoccupied.  Adults were sticking close to home.

Oliva could have been a small town anywhere in the world.  It was difficult to tell if we were actually going to like it.  Standing on the rooftop terrace of our VRBO provided a strong positive clue.  The view was outstanding!