Where everybody knows your name

A wandering American walks into a bar. The bartender has the Ribera poured before our hungry wanderer makes it from the door to the empty stool.

"¡Morcilla!", says the bartender to the wandering American, looking over the Ribera with a smile. "¿Morcilla, verdad?



Ummmm..this a good sign, right?

A good day in Spain

It's been a good day in Spain.

It all started bright and early at El Árbol, when an old woman asked if I'd help her reach the things she needed from the top shelves. I tend to be on the other side of that question, you understand. But, today, damn if I didn't reach every product. I was wearing my magic Camino de Santiago boots; I think they stretched me.

And..

Later, as I politely looked for someone to whom I could quietly ask which of the 6 closed cash register lanes we should line up at, the same firey old woman gave me a lesson in living in Spain. She bellowed "¿QUIÉN VIENE A LA CAJA?" ("WHO'S COMING TO THE REGISTER?") without moving an inch. A cashier arrived in seconds.

And then...

Back at home, my Spanish teacher gave me nothing but praise for the day's piece of writing.

And...

When I mentioned I was expecting my teacher, a client blurted out "But why do you have a Spanish teacher?"

God bless her and all of her offspring.

Although...

When I explained I was working on my Spanish writing, she neglected to comment on the brilliance and grammatical perfection of my business letters. I'm taking it as a sign the classes are a good idea.

But wait! There's more:

A few minutes after two, homemade morcilla and chorizo del pueblo walked through my front door, across my grill and onto the table, where they puffed up proud alongside boquerones en vinagre, fat, tasty olives, a bit of aged manchego, a good loaf of bread, a crunchy salad topped with toasted walnuts and the thick, rich balsamic I bought in Assisi and a lovely Ribera del Duero.

I told you it was a good day.

Because...

The food and I were joined by two charming Salmantinas who tripled the decibel level in this working-space apartment from the moment they came into view. Voices were raised. Points were argued. Arms flailed about and items unlucky enough to be in arm's way crashed to the floor.

And then...

One of these two cielos, one of these raucus angels laid before me a plate with queso fresco and a few of the figs, the figs, oh, the candied figs her mother made by the jarful late last summer.

And the gods smiled. And launched into a rousing rendition of Nina Simone's I Feel Good.

And together we nodded, the gods and I, and gave each other knowing looks.

A good day.

Well, somebody's got to win

Ah, the good habits the Spanish have taught me.

And the, well, other habits.


They've finally broken me down. I'm playing the lottery.

The Spanish Christmas Lottery (El Gordo), the year's biggest, is a national institution. Multiply the Super Bowl by 10 and you might close to the level of participation, excitement and news coverage.

I didn't buy a single décimo (tenth of a chance) for El Gordo this year, between the Camino and my travel home, and darn if I wasn't the only resident of the country who didn't. When I was forced to confess, I was greeted by a chorus of "¡Erin! ¡No se puede!" accompanied by shaking heads, shrugging shoulders and deep, heartfelt disappointment. No se puede live in Spain and not participate in El Gordo, it seems.

The thing is, now that I'm president, best performer and worst slacker of a company of one, no one conveniently stops by my desk to sell me a share of an El Gordo ticket.

I was happily returning to normal life, after the "no-se-puedes" and the hoopla of El Gordo, when I watched the nightly news instantly transform ordinary bar customers and supermarket workers into millionaires. I stared at the television, transfixed, while groups of neighbors and coworkers from across Spain discovered they'd hit El Gordo together, for millions.

During the next night's paseo, I suddenly noticed the laughter and witty chatter in those long lines outside Salamanca's lottery kiosks. And I thought, well, it's been 4 years.

I'm going in.

So, friends, I did what any intelligent expat faced with the complexities of a new Spanish institution would do. I asked for lessons.

Lottery lessons.

I was escorted to the kiosk by a generous and patient Salmantina, who, like any good Spaniard, took me into a complex subject step by step. We started outside the kiosk, acquainting ourselves with a bird's eye view of the many and various lottery options available to us. Once I had learned to distinguish my Primitiva from El Niño (El Gordo's little brother, to be awarded the first week of January, for Los Reyes) and my Eurobotes, we entered the building. My profe proceeded to instruct me, in a voice a tad loud if I may say so myself, profe, in the subtleties of form-filling, and buying and redeeming tickets with the confident swanker of a native.

So I filled out my little form, played my first Primitiva - and won a free ticket.

The best news is that like each of my friends and neighbors, I know El Niño is mine this year. Me va a tocar.

A friend likes to tell people who call me americana that I now qualify just as well for española. I've walked the Camino de Santiago and been present for an ETA attack. I make my own membrillo, refuse to eat lunch before 230 and consume mass quantities of morcilla.

Wait till she hears I've taken to hanging out in the line at the lottery kiosk.

Ah, that perfect combination of "that" home and "this" home

Snow in Salamanca!

Ok, a dusting. But I woke to snow in Salamanca!
Now if I pass a busking blues guitarist and a hot dog vendor on the way to the Plaza, the magical meshing shall be complete.

May I mention my golden city looks great in white?

Hope your personal good luck dust is falling round you as well.

Luck in a can

It must be December. The checkout counter at the convenience store outside the Plaza Mayor is stacked with tiny green cans, each one enticingly labelled "the 12 grapes of luck."

They're New Year's grapes, if you've yet to meet the Spanish tradition of downing one grape for every chime of the bells at midnight on Noche Vieja (New Year's Eve). 12 chimes, 12 grapes. I have yet to discuss this tradition with a single Spaniard who does not faithfully pop, chew and swallow12 grapes before the last chime has sounded on New Year's.

They claim it's not as easy as it sounds, but I tell you, I'm equal to the task.

The convenience store grapes are peeled and seedless. They're on display for the University's students, who one night soon will storm the Plaza Mayor while they celebrate a grape-stuffing early NewYear before going their separate ways for the holidays.

The cans reminded me that I've accomplished the unlikely feat of living four years in Spain without experiencing the legendary grape gobble. Ah, but this year! This year I shall gobble with the best.

I scoff at the 16-hour store's cans of peeled grapes! Hah!

I shall carefully select my grapes. I shall peel them myself. (Unless of course, I run across an appropriate volunteer. God knows I'm not above letting the right person peel grapes for me.)

Faithful friends and blog browsers, this year I have received the invitation I've been waiting for. This year I shall spend Noche Vieja with magical people in the enchanted Sierra de Francia.

I shall join a noisy, expressive, multitudinous Spanish family just like the one Spain has left me pining for, many a day.

Bus schedules willing, I shall pop my 12 grapes in La Alberca.

Now that's luck.

You know you've lived in Spain when....

This list showed up in an e-mail from a Salmantina who's been working for the Spanish tourism office in Chicago for just about a year now.

While I've enjoyed all of this Salmantina's reports from my "home town", not even this amusing list beats the photo of an ice encrusted bedroom window she forwarded last winter. If she dreamed of winning the eternal admiration of the Salmantinos she'd left behind, she did so with that photo. That frozen window is still the talk of Salamanca, and the courage and presumed clothes-layering talents of the woman who dared lived behind it are legendary.

Without further ado, here are a few amusing ways to recognize an American who's lived in Spain.

You know you've lived in Spain when:

1 You can't for the life of you figure out why bars and clubs keep closing down just as you get started with a night out. Surely the night's just beginning?

2 You aren't just surprised that the plumber, painter or repairman has turned up on time; you're surprised he turned up at all.

3 You think it's nice to tell everyone how great they look today.

4 Not giving every new acquaintance dos besos just feels so rude.

5 What's with all this butter on toast? And where's the olive oil? Toast without olive oil? Is this a joke?

6 You forget to say please and thank you when asking for things. You implied it in your tone of voice, right?

7 You don't see sunflower seeds as a healthy snack - they're just what the cool kids eat.

8 Every sentence you speak in English contains at least one of the following: 'bueno,' 'vale,' 'venga,' 'pues nada'...

9 You recognize clapping as an art form, not just a way to express approval.

10 You have friends named Jesus, José María, María José, Ángel, and Inmaculada Concepción. Many of each, in fact.


Let me add a few of my own:

You can't even think about drinking coffee with cold milk.

Nor will you entertain the possibility of a meal without bread. How will you get the food to your mouth?

You plan nothing until you are about to do it. And you think nothing of spontaneously calling friends, and yes, expecting them to drop what they're doing and join you.

You say goodbye at least a dozen times before actually leaving. Anywhere.
Often these goodbyes last long than the visit that preceded them.

Ah, and my favorite:

You plan a 5-week unpaid vacation to walk a pilgrim's route across the country, alone, and nobody blinks an eye. Even the most casual acquaintances merely make note of your start date, to be sure to call during the walk and egg you on.

When language and work style collide

I just thought I should ask.

Just ask.

It was hanging there, you see. A loose end. A roundabout sentence dangling mid-air, senseless, in this lyrical language I've learned to love.

I was working in my American working-way: direct, precise. Action oriented. Full of "who will do what and by when".

It all started when I noticed that some material a client and I had decided would be posted on the client's website after public release wasn't posted. My American side couldn't remember being told who had been assigned the job of posting it. My Spanish side longed for conversation, as she inevitably does mid-workday, so my naive typing finger wrote to ask.

All three of us had climbed directly into a castellano "who's on first".

Spanish has an oft-used passive voice, if you've yet to have the pleasure. A passive voice that is soft and subtle in literature. It's also annoying as hell in business.

"I was just wondering", I wrote to my client in Spanish. "How did we decide we'd post the new material on the site?"

"Well", came the calm and yes, lyrical reply, "it is supposed that it is made to arrive ("se hace llegar" ) to the programming team".

"But how does it get to the programmers?", I asked.

Within minutes Outlook was singing me the next verse: "It's made to arrive to the manager of the team, and she handles the responsibility of assigning the work."

"I know that", I replied, stepping every closer to the trip line, the eager net quivering above my head, anticipating a quick but gracefall fall. "But WHO makes it arrive? Doesn't someone have to prepare the text and send it to the manager?"

No reply.

That's when the net fell.

"Am I the one who's supposed to do it?", I typed. "That's all I want to know."

The reply was immediate.
"What a spectacular idea! YOU do it, cariño. I'll let everyone know. Do you need anything else?"


We're sure this language wasn't designed simply to trap unassuming English speakers, aren't we?

I have this vision of the rest of the project team gathered round a bar table, full glasses in hand............toasting (absent) asesora me.

Oh, well. At least I've found an advantage to having an American on the team. Must be nice. So precise, those Americans.

The Great Spanish Mother meets a peach

I am convinced that every española harbors, deep within herself, a very personal version of the Great Spanish Mother. Absolutely convinced. If you press me, I may concede that one or two manifestations of the Great Mother walk the streets of Madrid in a state of severe repression, but they are fighting to get out, I promise you.

I first met the Great Mother in Sevilla, in the form of my friend Isabel, years before she married and actually became somebody's Spanish mother. As long as I have known her, Isabel has been physically incapable of sending me away without handing me a paper bag stuffed with sandwiches and snacks for the train ride ahead. An hour or two after leaving Sevilla, I find myself following the lead of every other passenger in sight, with the notable exception of the odd travelling extranjero. I set up table on my train tray and enthusiastically sink my teeth into the waiting merienda. A bocadillo, usually. Jamón or chorizo. Straight from the hands of the Great Spanish Mother.

I've met this maternal instinct in many disguises. She shows up every time I walk in the rain without an umbrella, swim without a towel close at hand, or stand for more than 3 minutes with wet feet. She bellows when I wander onto my terraza a la californiana - gasp! - without shoes.

The Great Spanish Mother is younger than me, older than me and just my age. The only sure thing I can tell you about her is that she is invariably female.

If you've yet to make the acquaintance of this generous feminine spirit, I wish you the grace to meet her soon. Spanish mothers selflessly alternate between offering you food and telling you you are absolutely not gaining weight and now that you mention it, look a little thin, hija.

I offer you the latest manifestation, in a seemingly liberated 30-something:

The scene: a restaurant atop the Peña de Francia, the highest peak in the Sierra de Francia.

The adored-friend-who-shall-go-unnamed and I have just hiked, grunted and sweated our way up the stony path that carries the more energetic of the day's pilgrims from the Paso de Los Lobos to the Peña. We are eating an absolutely delicious menú (an ensalada mixta the size of your head, patatas meneadas, and fresh grilled cod, if you must know) after a pleasant walk around the Peña and the monastery it has hosted for five centuries.

I order a peach for dessert. The peach arrives, golden and chilly. It is one of those Spanish peaches - the exquisite yellow beauties that leave me reluctant to wander far from Spain in summertime.

Overcome with desire, I lift my treasure toward waiting teeth... and hear a blood curdling scream from the other side of the table.

I am ordered to wash the peach.

"Don't your think they've done that in the kitchen?", I ask.

Icy eyes meet mine. My travelling companion has suddenly been transformed into the legendarily stubborn and endlessly insistent Great Spanish Mother.

"Wash it."

I struggle to ignore the orders of the foreign maternal beast and push the peach toward my mouth but no! - I am frozen, held captive by the hypnotic rhythm of the Mother's bony index finger, tick tocking left and right in that way only Spanish index fingers can, marking that quintessentially Spanish NO. The beast's head follows the finger in perfect unison. Left, right, left, right.

"No."

While I watch, rapt, the adored and nameless friend pours the last of our drinking water over my peach, capturing the waste in the bowl in which the suspicious fruit was served. She hands the dripping peach across the table

"¡Ya!", says the adored voice. "Cómetelo."

Permission to eat is granted.

A mis 95 años, or, if you ever needed a reason to learn Spanish

I'm very late to this party, but I discovered a warm, funny, entertaining and inspiring blog yesterday: A mis 95 años.

A mis 95 años is the blog of a 95 year old grandmother (soon to be great-grandmother, as she enthusiastically announces on the blog) from Muxía, Galicia. María Amelia talks about the history she's seen and lived, current Spanish politics, the best way to prepare Galician dishes, life in her seaside pueblo, daily life at 95 and whatever else occurs to her, while her grandson types. The blog was a gift from that grandson:

Internet friends, today I turn 95. My name is María Amelia and I was born in Muxía (A Coruña - Spain) on December the 23rd of 1911. Today is my birthday and my grandson, who is very stingy, gave me a blog. I hope to be able to write alot and tell you about the life of a woman my age. (my translation)

How cool is that? She talks, he types. Man, to give a blog and a grandson like that to more people who have lived (and continue to live!) like María Amelia.

When she first started her blog, María Amelia claimed the title of oldest blogger in the world. She's since lost that crown to an Australian woman over 100, a woman who says she was inspired by María Amelia.

A mis 95 años reached 100,000 visitors in its first month online, and María Amelia was invited to interview with websites, newspapers, television shows and radio stations all over the world; the interviews are now posted on her site.

But I say it wasn't María Amelia's age that kept me at her blog for hours last night. It was her blogging...er....talking.

She's frank. She's funny. She's wise. She's warm, even when she's feistily telling off a reader who's spewing partisan politics in the comment box or suggesting her grandson and readers are manipulating a helpless (hah!) old woman.

And she's lived the 20th century. Her first memory is World War I, and she's posted photos, stories and memories of her life before the Spanish Civil War, and during, and after. When she writes about an army officer she believes was her family's salvation at the war's outset, the man's nephew writes in to compare notes, suspecting the officer might be his uncle, who had been in her village when the war broke out and died later, in combat. Within a few e-mails, they piece together the officer's story.

When a 15 year old Spanish boy asks her a series of questions about the Civil War for a school project, she answers politely, and then asks whether he likes spending time talking about war. Because she doesn't.

She clamors in post after passionate post for ADSL in every pueblo in Spain, including hers. When her cries fall on deaf ears at Telefónica, she posts an open letter to José Luis Zapatero, the current president of the Spanish government, suggesting that her many years of loyal service as a Socialist alone ought to earn her ADSL access, and that he is her only hope of persuading Telefónica to offer it in her area.

She is beautifully open about expecting death. Before she leaves on a trip to Brazil she leaves orders to ship her ashes back to Muxía if she doesn't make it back alive. (She not only makes it back, but gets up to dance at the dinner she attends the night of her arrival in Brazil - after a 20 hour flight! I want to be 95 like María Amelia.) She celebrates her birthday monthly, since, according to María Amelia, that's what you do at 95.

At the end of one of the interviews posted on her site, the interviewer asks María Amelia a question I suspect he poses to all the bloggers he speaks with: what do you think your blog will be like in 5 years?

A few excerpts from my new blogging hero's answer (translated quickly by me):

Well, God gave me this spirit and he's going to laugh. I want to live. I'll have to die by force, because I don't feel at all like dying. Are there things to make us sad? Okay, but there are joys as well.

....I'm keeping my feet in the earth until I just can't anymore. I like this world because it's beautiful. We don't know how to respect it. But it's a paradise!

And the 95 year old blogger closes:

If at the age of 100 I'm not a mummy, well, this will be a very big blog. Because I have a lot of grandchildren.

En fin. If you can't read María Amelia in Spanish, go learn.

Secreto, or a wandering woman finally meets Spanish caller ID

I bought a new phone the other day. A phone for the house.

Tired of answering telesales calls during the work day, and equally tired of hearing friends and family from the States complain I never pick up the land line (I don't) despite it being far cheaper for them to call that line, I picked up a phone with caller ID.

All week I've been taking my office chair for high speed spins straight back to the phone to make the ever important decision: to answer or not to answer

A minute ago, my new purchase rang anew. Away to the phone I flew like a flash! (This spinning in the desk chair is a lot of fun, actually.) I squinted at the text screen to see who it was.

My phone said it couldn't tell me.

Seriously, this may be standard for caller ID in Spain but it's a first for me. The phone's ID screen typed out: SECRETO.

Oooh. Secret.

I just received a SECRET call. Intriguing.
It was all I could do not to answer it. I mean, come on. SECRETO. Like you could resist that?

Now if one of you doesn't assure me SECRETO is Telefónica's way of translating a sterile English "UNLISTED", I'm going to spend the rest of my days regretting I didn't pick up that phone.

And hear the secreto.

A wandering woman, by any other name...

Well, it's official.

Leave it to me to have to keep up with the Garcías and los Fernández.

I am proud to announce I now contar con not one last name, no, not one measly anglosaxonized Irish surname but a full fledged double-appellido Spanish moniker.

At least in the depths of the Spanish Social Security administration's data system, that is.

I owe thanks to the shockingly persistent staff of the Social Security office in Salamanca, who spent much of Tuesday morning attempting to give me online access to the administration's web system. I urgently needed a document for my residency renewal, and getting web access to print any report I'd like any old bureaocratic day of the week seemed the best solution.

Until we asked the system to grant me digital permission to access data.

The problem showed its face quietly at first.

I began to pick up barely audible rumblings from the far side of the desk.

Pero sólo tiene un appellido.
But she only has one last name.

The rumblings soon grew in urgency and volume.

¡Pero ES que sólo TIENE uno! ¡Bueno!

The database that so cooperatively registers the euros it extracts from my bank account every month flatly refused to recognize a social security participant with one last name. It folded its arms and stuck its tongue out at us. Two last names or the database wasn't playing.

Of course I couldn't be the first extranjero with one surname. But the system had decided I was. What were we to do?

My now fully committed funcionaria quickly typed "no consta" in the field for the second surname, which would have christened me "Erin Corcoran NotApplicable", more or less. I could live with that.

No luck.

I suggested we simply grant me the surname of our choice, leaving
a small clue to its questionable origins.

My suggestion? "Erin Corcoran Ninguno".

The funcionaria then offered me García, far more elegant, until we remembered that the social security payments the system tracked for Erin Corcoran García wouldn't be mine. Which was the point, after all.

After a call to another office for help, we entered the symbol stage.

And after noble attempts with X's and dashes and a brief dalliance with the asterisk, a new social security paying Spanish resident was born.

Erin Corcoran ~~~

But you can call me Señora Corcoran TresGuiones.

Thank you, New Zealand

For beating those pesky Swedes of Victory Challenge in Valencia today, sending the Spanish America's Cup team, el Desafío Español, not the richest, not the highest tech, not the most famous, one of the last teams to join the competition, used boat and all

to the semifinals.

Let's all visit Di to say thank you. And send our condolences on the Kiwis' upcoming loss.

Oh, and ¡VIVA ESPAÑA!

Blogger's Note:
No, in fact I am not convinced I am not one of only 3 people in Spain excited by this news: myself, Prince Felipe and King Juan Carlos (both competitive sailors).

Doesn't dampen my enthusiasm a bit.
Basketball Schmasketball. We're going to the Cup, baby!

Paseo along the River Cuerpo del Hombre

Last Sunday I joined Salamanca's Ecologistas en Acción for a hike along the river Cuerpo del Hombre close to Béjar. After the required prehike stop for cafetitos and donuts, we left the bus and driver and made the easy descent from El Cerro to lovely Montemayor del Río (population an incredibly charming 378).


From Montemayor we continued on to Puerto de Béjar along part of the Vía de la Plata, the centuries old route connecting Sevilla with Santiago de Compostela.

We walked a short piece of the route known as the Ruta de los Miliarios. When the Vía de la Plata was the main thoroughfare through Roman Iberia, these stone milestones told the traveller how many Roman miles (each measured as 1000 human steps) stood between his feet and Rome, or another important destination.

The hike took us along the river Body of Man (El Cuerpo del Hombre). As if that mythical name, Roman milestones and the lovely Roman Puente de la Malena weren't enough to awe my practical American mind, we passed close to the Tranco del Diablo. Legend has it that the devil himself leapt across this deep ravine one fateful day, only to lose one of his boots in the process. The devil's boot, now turned to stone, sits high on a hill alongside the Body of Man.


In Montemayor we visited the Castle of Saint Vincent, then waited in the plaza with a crowd of townspeople who assured us the señora in charge would be along any moment to unlock the town's pretty Romanesque church for Sunday mass. A fifteen minute wait paid off: la encargada came scurrying up the hill keys in hand, bearing freshly cut flowers for the altar. The lovely, simple church was well worth the wait. After a quick stop for a beer and a pincho of callos in the bar in a nearby plaza, we were on our way to Puerto de Béjar.

We hiked past fresnos, chestnuts, oaks and crumbling stone cottages. As we skipped stone to stone along a narrow, flooded track close to the Puente de la Malena, another group of Salmantinos waited at the mouth of the track to make their way in the opposition direction. A woman from the other group pulled me aside to ask if the entire trail to Montemayor was wet. I assured her it was not. Comforted by my dry boots and my utterly uneducated guess at the distance (in meters, God help me) she'd be expected to hop stone to stone, she followed her fellow hikers into the shallow ravine.

Before heading into Puerto de Béjar we took a quick tour of El Jardín del Conde, a 19th century private botanic garden now housing a casa rural.

We finished the day at the Bar de Chinato in Puerto de Béjar, a dark, stone, inviting place owned by Manolillo Chinato, a local poet best known for the lyrics he's written for Spanish heavy metal bands.

Each of the two Ecologista excursions I've joined have started the day with a widely celebrated coffee stop. Sunday's itinerary included a lunch break of at least an hour in a shaded grove along the river. Time for lunch, time for talk and plenty of time for a quick nap. I looked up from my day-dreaming to find each and every one of my hiking companions blissfully tumbado, eyes closed, under a tree.

My kind of hike.

Grand opening of casa Erin and other tales of self-employment

It's like this.

I've discovered that while I cherish the endless travel my virtuality affords me and doubt I'll ever be able to give up this sweet absolute autonomy, I'm not exactly cut out to work alone all day in front of a laptop.

As luck would have it, my old company recently moved into an office dos pasos from my front door. And in a stroke of luck I didn't appreciate at first, a decent pincho tour is a challenge in my barrio. I have a weekly lunch date with two discriminating friends from that old company. Since the move, our weekly lunches have decidedly not been cutting it.

And so, today marked the grand opening of Casa Erin. I supplied a tasty Ribera, a fresh baked loaf of rustic bread, a fabulous salad and the grill. One of my lunch companions donated homemade morcillas - picante and dulce - and chorizo, all from her family's matanza back in the pueblo. Buika sang, and we feasted. We finished up two hours later with strawberries that inspired me to continue my song of spring, although my friends insisted that while they were exquisite, I mean exquisite, strawberries from Andalucia don't prove it's spring in Castilla Leon.

We toasted to living well.

That's all. Just one of those afternoons when I stop and remind myself:
I like my life in Salamanca.

C'mon, wherever you live, you could make room for two hours of good company and a bottle of wine this week, couldn't you?

Salamanca is a moveable feast.

A sure sign of spring, or: why did the Salmantina cross the road?

After three years, I expect the debate.

Every year right around this time I spot the storks collecting twigs for nest repair. I pack my winter coats away and dance round Salamanca announcing the arrival of spring.

And every year my friends assure me we are nowhere near spring. Nowhere, they hiss, while we stand talking in jean jackets. The other day a neighbor sternly warned me not to jinx the weather for all of us by daring to utter the "s" work (p, primavera, en español) before its time.

Today I gathered my strongest piece of evidence yet.

As I was climbing up toward la Rua, I watched the chica in front of make a sudden sharp left turn, followed by a quick 90 degree right once she'd placed herself firmly in the center of a shaded path. A shaded path, I tell you! I observed a precise, deliberate Spanish move to avoid walking in the sun.

Now everybody knows nothing gives away a tourist in Spain more than walking in the sun during summer or the shade in winter. Multiple street crossings and two point turns are perfectly acceptable; we all do what we must to stay cool or warm.

She sought the shade, I tell you! The shade! I consider the walking paths of my fellow Salmantinos far more reliable indicators of the season than the shadow of some drowsy groundhog in rural Pennsylvania.

A Salmantina sought the shade!

I hereby proclaim the arrival of spring.

Meanwhile, in a Salamanca convenience store

I can't tell you I was born to work alone in my home.

While I covet the convenience of a virtual life, I have discovered I am far from a virtual person. Every so often I get up and wander the neighborhood or toss a few stones off Salamanca's Roman bridge just to remind myself there's a world out there.

This morning's break was a stroll to the neighborhood kiosko for my daily bread and El País. As the owner was making my change, a man dropped off 2007 Semana Santa posters for him to hang in the shop's windows.

We were opening the posters when we heard someone in the doorway. An elderly woman was standing in front of the open door, trying to get the owner's attention. She was greyhaired, with spindly legs leading up to a black coat and a bright pink scarf. She desperately wanted to be heard.

Perdona. ¡Perdona! ¡¡Oye!!

We both looked up. Her next sentence started small, but built its way up to a dramatic Castillian finish.

Luego.... ENTRO.
Later....I'm coming in.

She jabbed her finger in the air like a politician who'd just promised to right every one of the world's wrongs. Satisfied, she marched away.

The store's owner looked up and shrugged.
Cuando quiera.
Whenever she wants.

We went back to the posters.

I must be Spanish

My cellphone just flashed the following message:

Ya no caben más mensajes.

Poor little phone. Can't store another SMS.


Why yes, wise guys, I have deleted old messages. Many a time. Still, giggle, it's full.

I'm feeling quite Spanish.

Think I'll clean it out right quick and send somebody an SMS.

A Saturday morning at Barajas

I met ETA Saturday morning.

Just about 9 am, while I was carrying two trays to the screening machines at Terminal 4 in Madrid's Barajas Airport, an ETA car bomb blew up the parking structure across from the terminal. I heard the explosion, then watched the check-in area on the other side of a glass wall shake for what seemed like 2 or 3 minutes. Airport guards raced by while a Guardia Civil told us to keep calm. People looked blankly at him, seeking answers; we looked hard at each other. Some people shouted "¡Por dios!" or "¡Joder!"; others simply broke into tears.

A young couple trying to run past the guards into the terminal began to shout when he ordered them to stay where they were. The woman in front of me began to cry. Sobbing quietly, she turned to look in my eyes, not saying anything, just lingering with me for awhile as if to confirm that we were in this together and not nearly as "strange" to each other as we'd been 2 minutes earlier. Smoke began to fill up the check-in area on the other side of the wall.

The security folks closed down the security line, then immediately reopened it. They rushed us through, encouraging us to travel as quickly as possible to the underground train that would take us to our gates. As I passed through security I watched guards try to calm an older women who was shouting angrily. She was desperate for the guards to assure her she'd be all right and furious that someone had managed to get a bomb into the airport.

Walking toward the escalators I passed glass exit doors leading from the smoke-filled check-in area. I heard shouts and watched a group of young men force their way through the locked exit doors into the main terminal, panicked and eager to escape the smoke. On the landing between escalators I walked by one of the Barajas employees posted to help customers find their way through the new terminal. These Barajas guides are usually cheerful and multilingual. Saturday, the guide was standing up straight at her position, tears streaming down her cheeks. She was scared to death, but still on duty.

On the train to the U gates a young Frenchman headed back to Paris told us the bomb had exploded outside the airport building. People speculated that we could be caught up in payback for Saddam's hanging, then moved toward an ETA theory as we counted our fingers and toes and realized perhaps this had been a bomb meant to create chaos and fear without killing any of us.

I spent the rest of the day waiting. Terminal 4 was closed until 2 or 230, and the train I'd arrived in was taken out of service until engineers could check its structural stability. Slowly, those of us who had made it immediately through security were joined by passengers bussed from the other terminals.

My 12pm flight to Chicago left Madrid a little after 430. I arrived at O'Hare 18 hours after catching the airport shuttle at my hotel in Madrid.

The bombing broke a ceasefire which had made me quite hopeful when it was first announced 9 months ago. Last I heard, Madrid police were still searching for two Ecuadorian immigrants believed to be buried beneath the rubble of the parking garage. Each had stayed behind in his car to sleep while his companion went into the airport to meet an arriving visitor. If confirmed dead, they will be ETA's first mortal victims in the three years I have lived in Spain.

I have friends, people I respect, who routinely argue that desperate people will "understandedly" take desperate means to get what they want, be they members of Hamas, or Hezbollah, or ETA or as many of my friends would add, the Israeli government. I now know that the collections taken up in Boston Irish-American pubs when I was young likely wound up in the hands of the IRA.

I don't see any signs anyone in the Basque Country suffers as Palestinians do. That aside, seeing senseless violence as closely as I did Saturday has only strengthened my conviction that nothing justifies violence against civilians. What good can possibly come from the needless deaths of two sleeping immigrants? More importantly, I still can't see any way violence can ever work -- ever get anyone, oppressed or not, what they are after. The day made me think of this old post, about Jo Berry, who met and now speaks alongside the IRA man who killed her father.

I have to tell you. As pleased as I was to be rushed onto a train after the bomb exploded and as thrilled as I was when my flight finally took off 7 hours later, I am sorry I missed the demonstrations after the bombing.

I feel a bit more Spanish. I met ETA Saturday morning.

Será Maravilloso.....a wandering woman singalong

Three cheers for Javier, who sent me a link to the song I sang for days after dancing to it at a recent wedding in Salamanca: El Puente by Los Mismos.

C'mon, now I don't ask for much. Sing out. It's an easy sing-a-long; just make sure you get your Nancy Sinatra moves going during that 60's bass vamp halfway through. Extra points if you act out the modes of transport (plane, boat, walking, bicycle, hitchhiking...) English words at the end of the post; no excuses!

Thanks Javier! You made my week, even if I'm not sure my friends thank you. Why do you think Nomadita seem lessed than pleased to hear ALL my newly learned lyrics at the bars on Friday?

http://www.dabadaba.com/dabadabamp3/mallorca/elpuente-losmismos.mp3

EL PUENTE

Tengo miedo al avion
También tengo miedo al barco
Por eso quiero saber lo que debo hacer para cruzar el charco
Por eso quiero saber lo que debo hacer para cruzar el charco

Yo sabría esperar, por el tiempo no me importa
Si construyeran un puente desde Valencia hasta Mallorca
Si construyeran un puente desde Valencia hasta Mallorca

Será maravilloso
Viajar hasta Mallorca
Sin necesidad de tomar el barco o el avion
Solo caminando, en bicicleta o autostop!!!

(repeat as necessary to fill a 60's pop arrangement....)

What's it mean, English speakers? From the top (without the catchy Spanish rhymes, sadly):
I'm afraid of planes
I'm also afraid of boats
So I want to know what I have to do to cross the puddle (the Mediterranean, between mainland Spain and Mallorca)

I'd know how to wait,
Because to me time is not important
If they'd build a bridge from Valencia to Mallorca

It would be marvellous (oh, but say it Spanish: Será maravilloso..)
To travel to Mallorca
With no need to take a boat or take a plane
just walking, riding a bicycle or hitchhiking (autostop!)

Wandering Woman's Laws of Life as a Blogging Expat

Well, this woman's been wandering more than writing, hasn't she?

The hardest part about writing up one's wanderings, I've decided, is stopping the wandering (or the unavoidable income-earning activities) to do the writing.

Look for a notebook full of "ooh! for the blog!" bits to start showing up here at the blog, one by one. First, in the way of an apology, I am pleased to share:

Wandering Woman's Irrefutable Laws of Life as an Expat

The Wanderer's First Law

When your self-employed gig involves drumming up publicity for clients in Spain, all of your hard work will come to nothing.

Until you take a working vacation, that is, at which time every website, newspaper and television contact you have ever talked with will suddenly require an immediate response.

Unavoidable Corollary to The Wanderer's First Law: If you've left a beloved blog untended during your working vacaction, the number of urgent work-related responses required during and immediately following your travels will double. Twice.

Life lesson to be gathered from The Wanderer's First Law: If your self employed gig involves drumming up publicity, take lots of working vacations. If you leave, they will call.

Wandering Woman's Second Law

When you move to Spain to live your life in Spanish, the language you've fallen head over heels in love with, your Spanish friends will decide it's time to perfect their English.

Corollary: You will desperately enjoy practicing with them, even as the irony amuses you. Especially if they draw cute blonde caricatures of you sporting an outfit you actually own.

Wandering-woman portrait above by the multi-talented Nomadita.

Omsbudsman's Note: Those of you who have met me in person will note that I am not, in fact, anywhere near that blonde. Shhhhhhh. My Spanish friends don't know that.... and I'm perfectly comfortable answering to "Rubia".