From a cafe: Barna-CeloNa

I think of Barna as a city within the city of Barcelona. Barcelona is a city on the Mediterranean. It's big. It's confused about it's identity. It's still grappling with old problems. Problems of worth and importance. Problems with the past and with the times of Franco and before and with immigration from with in the country that it is currently located and from world outside it's lightly drawn borders. Barcelona has a dark side. A side that is closed, constricted, fearful and fatalistic. Old families and old money protecting their kingdoms. Protecting Catalunya from Spain and the world and from memories of times when the worst of human nature was well represented.

Barna on the other hand has many of the elements of Barcelona but it's more open, younger and less fearful. It's hipper and happier and less fatalistic. This hipness too has it's downside. Everything in Barna is "designed". It's fashion driven and temporary. It's expensive and sort of shallow. It has little concern for the future or for the past. It shares same love of money as Barcelona but rather than use it to control more it fritters it away. It's become wealthy in a very short amount of time and in some ways it's not wearing it's new clothes well.

But there is a another city with in this city. It's part Barcelona and part Barna and part something new and wonderful. It's open, it's hip in profoundly worldly way. It's light and hopeful and inviting. It honors its unique and wonderul culture while at the same time being interested and open to other cultures. It's a world of rossinyols and samosas. O calsots and breakdancing. Of bikes and 150 year old mercados selling oranges grown in the garden of an abuela who gives them out in handfuls to kids of any color. BCN is part of Spain. Part of Catalunya. And part of the world. This is my city. Visca BCN!

1st Aniversary of eating camel spaghetti

Well it's coming up on a year from my trip to save the Saharawi. Much has happened. I ate camel. I got sick. Hardly able to walk and instructed to not drink a drop of alcohol I sat on the couch for 3 months cold sober learning to play the harmonica. We moved to a new home in a working class barrio of Barcelona. Last month I began taking some new super expensive biological medication that grafts the DNA from a rat's butt onto my forehead, or something. Apparently it is working because I'm thinking about going skiing. Now if it would only just snow. Oh and I really like cheese. I am now a rockin' harp player. I can now have a glass of wine or a beer every once in a while. The 20 hours of footage that was to save the Saharawi sits in a box waiting for me to confront it. The book about the trip and the wierd unexpected side effects has yet to written. Zoe is 12 months older, as am I. Insights? Yep. Wisdom? Well, I'll let others judge that. It's time to hop back in the pool and start swimming.

Halloween in Catalunya

In Catalunya all Saints Day (Tot Sants) is a holiday. Traditionally people eat chestnuts and sweet potatoes from street side stalls. This is supposed to give you wisdom. OK cosa numero uno: these taste bad. Cosa numero dos: the folks who sell these things jack up thier prices for this day and this day only. Considering these two facts and that everybody continues to do this ritual I guess the truth is that they don’t work.

Ni hao

Zoe is learning Chinese. I got to tell you that my initial reaction to her school's suggestion that she take it was that it was sort like learning martian just before they invaded. Come on let's be real. It's not about appreciating shu mai and the folks who invented noodles it's about getting a job ordering widgets from a sweat shop or introducing pharmaceuticals or SUVS or in the case of Spain jamon to 885,000,000 Chinese speakers.

However Zoo Zoo loves it and is taking to it like a Peking duck to the mouth of a nuevo rico DVD bootlegger. We all sat around the coffee table as she instructed us how to write characters representing the numbers 1 through 10. Yep she learning how to write in mandarin. Wow. My kid is a genius.

A trip to the U.S. of A.

Zoe and I will be returning to my home town of Portland, Oregon for 3 weeks. Last week's bomb threats have pushed US air security in to the dreaded red zone. This means that 6 assorted dry sausages (chorizo picante and fuet), 2 chunks of Spanish cheese and 3 packets of pata negra jamon are now in the refridgerator and not in my suitcase. I'm risking a stay at federal bed and breakfast (3 squares a day and sex whether you want it or not) for even thinking about trying to slip a few cans of atun y sardinas through customs. But hey, it's for the padres.

Already I've been told that my harmonicas could be construed as menacing weapons (and if you've ever heard me play you'd know why), I should forget about my meds and do not under any circumstances drink water from an airplane even if it's from a bottle.

When I went back two years ago I completely freaked out when I saw self service check out at the grocery store. This could be an very interesting trip. Mas tarde.

IKEA SUCKS

Just got back from Ikea. It was worst experience I've had in years. Much more later.

Confessions

My friend Ann-Katrin sent me the new Eels DVD, "Eels with Strings." Firstly it's really good. E's fundamentally sad songs set to simple nursery rhyme like music are profound and disturbing.

I remember seeing E on his first tour. He seemed like a "goofy" young guy singing simple poppy tunes about... Well I guess I wasn't listening to the lyrics.

And on the literary front I recently finished reading Spaulding Grey's second to last book, "It's a Slippery Slope." Like E I always thought Grey was just a "goofy" guy who happened to recant his silly, funny East Coast life. But like with E I guess I wasn't really paying attention. "It's a Slippery Slope" is a "goofy" light romp describing a middle aged guy spinning out of control and spiraling downward to oblivion. Forget the uplifting ending, Grey eventually chose to jumped off the Staten Island Ferry.

The job of being a "Poetic Craftsman" can be dangerous and in the case of Spaulding Grey there can be industrial accidents. Confessions can on occasion not be good for the soul and the truth does not always set one free. I applaud the bravery of people like Grey and E but for some people for sanity's sake the phrase "Don't go there" could be the right path to take.

Habla Espanol?

Sometimes I don't know what is wrong with me. A confession. A real confession. Hablo espanol muy malo.

Let's face it I'm the poster boy for a strange malady which does not allow me to acquire a second language.

I have this friend Alan who is Scottish. Alan speaks English, French, German, Spanish and Catala. Alan has never had one lesson in any of these languages nor has he ever cracked a book regarding this.

I have another friend Evert. Evert is Dutch. Evert speaks Dutch, French, English, Spanish and maybe Catala but I am not sure. Evert told me that he never took one lesson is Spanish.

I have another friend Mark, Mark is British. Mark speaks English and Spanish and he too has never taken a lesson.

Now lets look at me. I have taken months if not years of classes. I have bought a library full of books and software. I have 3 hours of intercambio every week. I have had tutors and the support of many,many Spanish and Catalan friends. My wife is French. She has a huge family. They have all for the most part been very, very... understanding.

But I still suck big time when it comes to other languages.

Is there something I am missing? Is it my wiring? Should I be taking some special vitamins? Smoking some special dope?

Does anybody have any insight about this?

Sticks to fight the heat

It's hot. Too hot. It's going to be over 90 today and the forecast indicates that there is no end in site.

I've always thought my next door neighbors, an older couple named Edu and Orelia, were silly to live in a dark hole. Orelia would come over and marvel at how much light there was in our piso. After she'd left we'd roll our eyes and be amazed at older Spanish peoples fixation with the dark. How could they live in cavernous spaces with windows shuttered and curtains closed?

Well let me tell you right now I'm sitting in the living room. The windows are wide open but the exterior shutters firmly shut blocking the direct rays of the beast of el sol. It's calm, slightly romantic and much, much cooler. The beauty of shutters is that they block the light and as such the heat but let air circulate. It's a convection thing. It must reduce the temperature by 20%. All this with out a noisy, wet, ugly, expensive, poorly engineered inefficient machine blowing out refridgerated air. Shutters also let me sit here buck naked. Having been sewn into my underwear at a very young age this is to say the least a very new experience for me. Do you know how hot the bottom of an I Book gets? Believe me, I do.

Early Sunday Morning

I was awoken by voices of the lawyer and his friends. He lives 2 floors down in the entresuelo or the principal and as such has the benefit of a large terraza.

As opposed to many other pre dawn Sundays it was soft conversations that invade my sleep and not The Doobie Brothers or Leo Sayer.

The voices were part of my dreams long before I actually woke up. A buzz of Spanish words punctuated by the lawyers low, gruff, ducado voice. As my dreams gave way to the reality of Sunday morning a woman was softly saying, "No, Carino, no." Which was followed by an incongruously louder, "Estoy una Aleman." Estoy? I layed there with my eyes closed letting the voices wash over me, amazed at my luck of being here and being alive for another morning.

The lavender light of dawn was slowly replaced by the amber rays of the sun. The colors being accentuated by the ochre color of the building and the stories high ceramic blocks that someone had failed to paint.

The neighbor and his friends voices had seemingly also awoken the birds who make their home in the in the patio de la manzana. The weird free jazz noodlings of the swifts triggered the sharp chirping of the pet parakeets which in turn started the low cooing of the pigeons. I rolled over to see a single grey feather slowly spiral down to the floors below.

Dissing.

At my friend Lucy's insistence I just finished watching a DVD about Catalunya's own Ferran Adria, perhaps the most famous chef in the world. The show was hosted by "Kitchen Confidential's" Anthony Bourdain. Lucy served as a field producer and translator and even had a substantial on camera roll. And Lucy... You looked fabulous.

OK yes my perceptions about the fundamental notion of food were unalterably changed. It's that simple. He has reinvented cooking... And eating. But so many other things went though my mind as I watching the show. This guy and his team are the same time artists, physicists, neurobiologists, craftsmen, magicians, jesters, jugglers, strategists, entertainers...

A bigger question for me was why are we, sorry, why am I afraid of anything that is radically new. I've been respecting but at the same dissing Ferran Adria for years. It's not pretense, Adria is a simple guy from a very, very working class suburb of Barcelona. It's pure creativity. Like Richard Feynman. Or, what's an art analogy for Richard Feynman? Picasso, no too sophisticated. Too calculated. Marcel Duchamp. That's it. There is so much whimsy in Adria's work. It's childlike. It's simple. It's playful. And like good science it's seems like magic. There are lessons to be learned here. Yes indeed.

Too many interesting things...

I'm just to interested in too many things. And the internet doesn't help. I learned about a book promoting a completely new approach to playing and listening to jazz. It's terrific. The author is now my buddy. I started thinking about musical instruments that are below the radar, like the ocarina. Yep, there a huge number sites dealing with this sweet and very old instrument. I got a great ukelele for my birthday, now I want to make them. Uh huh, an encyclopedia of information on ukes and their construction. I thought I'd be funny and clever and learn to play a profoundly un-ukelele like tune like, "Smells like Teen Spirit." There are of course tabs and chord charts available online but there is also a highly distributed video of "The London Ukelele Orchestra" scratching out this tune on British television.

I really don't know if this access to everything is good or bad. But it sure is entertaining. See ya later, gotta go find out how to turn an old carburetor into a bagpipe.

This just in...

I have a yahoo mail account. It now only exists as a magnet for junk male. For some reason I thought I should check it. I have 3999 unopened pre-screened junk mails and 1500 non pre-screened junk mails. That latest email was from one Della Penn. Della's header says I have an expiring account or something similar. I check it only to find a notice about a herbal penis extender. Now the mysterious part was what I found at the bottom of the email. Has Mr. Burroughs returned to add poetry to solicitations for penile growth?

itch skid educated airport magnify hummel pristine southland
gleanings simon commissioner stack flat-broke psychotherapy
febrile discuss

Zippy songs for wierd times...

Here's a little number just for summer. Hit one of the streaming versions and you shall feel uplifted. While you are there marvel at the Internet Archive. Yow. Some things are just soooo cool.

As things get more complicated other things get less complicated. Hence the Ukelele revival.

Old poop listens to new bottles

I often go to David Byrne's web page and marvel at all the things Mr. Byrne seems to be capable of. For example, while the rest of us were busy decking the halls, down to the wire shopping for vaguely remembered relatives and whupping up clam dip, on Christmas Eve he took the red eye to Manila to do research for an operetta about Imelda Marcos. I mean he seems to have time to produce a series of albums featuring Inuit throat singers and Welsh mining choirs, building a sound instalation in Berlin that takes up a whole building, taking his kids to school, giving interviews, mantaining a complex website, doining a daily blog that is more than six lines and picking and tossing up a months worth of amazing music for his internet radio program.

Well no matter how he does it this month's radio offering is really special. He's focusing on "Avant Pop." What is "Avant Pop"? It's hard to describe; a little casio peeping, loops of hub caps being rubbed with a spatula, breathy, emotion drenched, whispered vocals and lyrics that could break the heart of Dick Chaney if he'd only tune in.

A big find for me is "Antony and the Johnsons." "For Today I am a Buoy," just kills me. At first listen I thought it was sung from the position of a strong but very gender confused 12 year old but considering that Antony is singing "Buoy" rather than "Boy" I can only guess that the message is something else entirely.

Man are we living great times or what. "poetic craftsman" are really whacking together some great stuff.

Artists

I have a problem with the word artist. I have a problem with the word art. They both have such weight, such baggage. Most "Art" I see, read, taste, feel I don't like. But some moves me to change. Some re-appears in my dreams or when I close my eyes.

I think we need a better phrase to describe intended creative work. How about "poetic craft" to describe art and "poetic craftsman" to describe those that make "poetic craft." Let's keep it lower case for awhile.

"Catalunya is a Nation" and four words a problem make.

This Sunday the region of Spain where I live will vote on a new constitution. As far as I can tell the changes are not really that substantial regarding this regions relationship with Spain. Economically the regions of Navarra and Pais Vasco already have a similar level of autonomy and big cultural changes like Catala being the language taught in public schools have already transpired.

The big issue really is four words that are in the new constitution, "Catalunya is a Nation." Words can be so powerful. What will be the effect of those four words on the future of this region and of Spain?

Time will tell.

Stranger in a Strange Movie

Benedicte and Zoe are in France this weekend for an 18th communion. I'm happily playing Senior Rodriguez which is Spanish shorthand for when the cat's away the mouse will drink directly out of milk cartons and leave the seat up.

So after putting my shod feet up on the couch I, in anticipation of making the years first batch of "Cheery Cherry Jam" (scroll down to the bottom of the page) , combined a kilo and a half of cherries with a kilo and a half of suger and left them to become one overnight. I then took myself to see Pedro Almodovar's new movie "Volver", which in Spanish means return .

I hoofed it down to the metro, made a connection and popped up a block away from one of this fair cities finer movie houses. I waited on line, got a ticket, bought a medium coke and an ice cream bar, found the right sala and settled in next to two slightly overwieght older women.

OK a confession, my spanish is only so-so so the complex and lengthy dialogue that Almodovar is fond of would be challenging. But I like his work and for some reason still can't get enough of Penelope Cruz. Let's analyze this Penelope Cruz thing a little bit. I don't really know what is about her but she is just so... Spanish. She walks funny, has a strange nose and odd lips and seems like she would be really a lot of trouble to live with but still she's irresistable in a wierd earthy way. Kind of like Spain.

So the film is this lovely combination of pathos and goofy comedy. Almodovar seems to own this style, nobody else even tries. It's the contridictions; real and fantastical and hopeful and almost happily fatalistic. There are parts of the story that would come off being tragic with anybody but Pedro. People die in Almodovar films. People are crippled in Almodavar films. They get cancer. They get beat up. They get gored by bulls. But it's moving and not sad. It's life; it's funny, magical and transcendant.

Every once in a rare while ans only when I see a film alone, I come out of theater somehow changed. It's like being in a lovely fog where the movie has continued and you're in it. Call it being movie drunk.

I could tell as the lights went up that Señor Almodovar had made me a little more than tipsy. I acknowledged the 2 ladies next to me got up and made my way down the aisle. Depositing my ice cream stick and my empty medium sized paper cup I exited the theater into a very long corridor. Futher along I noticed a sign indicating a bathroom and decided to take the offensive and use it before being trapped in the metro. I entered and was surprised to see that the room was full of loud chattering older Spanish ladies. One of them noticed my confusion. She smiled and pointed out that I was indeed in the right place as the bathroom had a common sink area. I entered the next room, did what I needed to do and rentered the rooms where the sinks were. All the women had left but the electric hand dryer was still going. Back in the long corridor I eventually came to a door that lead to the street which has oddly quiet for a Saturday night in Barcelona. I walked back to metro, passed through the turnstills and took the elevator down to the platform. The train came in a few minutes.

I got off at my station and walked back to my apartment reveling in my last few moments of being altered by a lovely film.

Harmonica break through

Whilst away on a job in Germany undt Austria I had quite a bit of time to practice my chromatic harmonica. Armed with my crazy French software I learned George Gershwin's "Summer Time", Ray Charles "Georgia on my Mind" and Steven Sondhiem's "Send in the Clowns." For some reason I'm still struggling with "Goodbye Pork Pie Hat." It's has such a long melody line and I always loose my place on the cool little fiddly bits towards the end. I'm going to try some Antonio Carlos Jobim next. Soon you will be able to find me in the long tunnel at the Paseo de Gracia metro stop. I'll be wearing a yellow scarf and flubbing the last few bars of "Goodbye Pork Pie Hat."

Poo Poo head

Although Zoo Zoo knows all about the birds and the bees as well as a whole whack of languages she still is 6 year old. I'm away on a job in Germany so every day I talk to her in the morning before she goes to school. The highlight of the call for Zoe is when she tells me her daily joke which goes something like this:

"Daddy, here's your joke for today. You have a nose made out of poo poo and there is spinach coming out of your ears." Or "You have a big fat culo." A culo is the word for butt in Spanish. These comments are always followed by Zoe's impression of Felix The Cat's laugh, "Aaaah hah hah hah haaaaaa...!" I regularly point out that I indeed do not have a big fat culo, I have always had a culo which only barely allows for my pants to stay up.

This morning I extended the joke to include the little madame. I said, "Well you have poo poo on your hair and a zucchini coming out of your nose." Ah kids, they bring out the best in ya, no?

M.C. Austin's Pancake Dinner

Every once in a while my grandma, the one, the only, Marie C. Austin, used to make my brother and I pancakes for dinner. It was a real ritual. They had to be served pipping hot and she would make them only a couple at a time. No making up a big batch and putting them in the oven for her. She also used this amazing old electric griddle that seemed to be capable of evenly applying the perfect amount of heat.

So at Zoe's request (once again introducing the idea that she really is Marie come back for seconds) last night I whupped up some pancakes for dinner. Living in Espanya means many things, including no access to Aunt Jemima. Nope it's pancakes from scratch or nada. And considering how easy "from scratch" is I wonder how Aunt Jemima stays in business.

It's "falling off a log simple". Beat one egg with one teaspoon of vegetable oil and a cup of milk.

Sift twice 1 and 1/2 cups of flour, 2 tablespoons of sugar, a pinch of salt and and 1 tablespoon of baking powder. You can leave out the sugar if you want to.

Using a whisk or a hand mixer (hey, a whisk is easier, there is little clean up and it is good exersize) gradually combine the dry ingredients with the liquids.

You have now completed the batter phase of this project.

Preheat a griddle or a skillet to medium low. Melt a tiny bit of butter in the pan and coat it as evenly as possible.

Using a ladle or a 1/2 cup measuring cup pour the batter into the pan. Use one ladle or measuring cup per pancake. When bubbles form on the surface of the pancakes it's time to flip 'em. So flip 'em. I have a nice commercial spatula. Peek at the other side and when
it's nice and golden brown that's it. Serve with butter and heated maple syrup.

I sometimes add frozen berries to the uncooked pancakes right after I ladle them on to the skillet. Small berries work better than big fist sized strawberries.

Also last night, in place of maple syrup I tried a some of my brother-in-law's liquidy blackberry jam that didn't set (obviously he is not reading the valuable information about making jam that is presented in this blog). Oh man, I love maple syrup but Francois' runny great tasting mistake won hands down.

Arroz Griego a la Saharawi

OK another adventure in leftovers. Thanks to the Saharawi Diet, I am always hungry. And for whatever reason at this moment in time I can eat, and eat and eat and have no physical consequences like a spare tire, a big butt or god forbid, a double chin. The end result is that I raid the refridgerator frequently. So amongst the jelly jars and pickles I sound some leftover rice, eggs, feta cheese, big fat acitunas verde and a hankerin' to chow down.

I started by frying the green olive pieces over fairly high heat in a little olive oil. Olive whacking secret: 1. Place olive on cutting board. 2. Take big knife and place flat side against the olive. 3. Take your fist and pound once or twice on the knife which smashes the olive into either pieces or mush, depending on the variety. It works even better for garlic.

Then I added maybe a cup of pre-cooked white rice. "Pre-cooked"... very important. Whilst this was transpiring I took an egg and whisked it with a little water (why water and not milk? Well milk just didn't seem very Greek to me) until it was nice and yellow and foamy, french omelete style. I lowered the heat to low and tossed this in with the rice and the olives and moved them all vigorously around the pan.

Finally I added some feta that I had previously chopped into 1/2" cubes. I covered the pan for a couple of minutes to soften but not melt the cheese. A little salt, a little pepper, OPAH! Lunch is served!

I tried it on Zoe a couple of nights later subsituting black olives for the green ones, adding some chopped up Jamon and leaving out the feta. She no like feta. Let's call that one Arroz Andaluz a la Frigador. She loved it. What a girl!

Quintessential: Scissors

So, sometimes I am astounded by really good thinking in a lot of day to day things. Scissors for example. What a cool and elegant tool. Using the magic of leverage and a bunch of other physical properties the names of which I can't think of 2 pieces of sort of sharpened metal, more or less joined at the middle can cut through cloth, paper, metal, tree branches and yes, meat.

I use them in the kitchen all the time. You wanna half an apple turn over? Snip. There you go. Zoe needs her steak chopped up. Snip, snip, snip. Open the milk carton. Yep. What else can do this without a potential loss of blood. Cuts though squid like butter. Cuts through butter like squid.

God bless who ever invented these things!

An education in humility

My friend Agustin has been educating me on the wonderful world of the harmonica in Spain. This week I saw a young guy named Antonio Serrano at this terrific jazz club called Jamboree. It was like seeing John Coltrane at the Village Vanguard in the early 60's. This guy is absolutely one of the greats on the chromatic harmonica. Ripping through everything from straight ahead bebop to nailing the neuvo tango of Astor Piazzola, I was completely beside my self watching this unassuming chico. It was also a pretty good review of how my progress on this instrument is going. Perhaps like the night when Bill Frissell saw John McLaughlin and Paco de Lucia at the Hollywood Bowl and decided that he would need to take a different direction on his chosen instrument or hang it up, I too got sort of a wake up call. I probably won't be playing "Flight of the Bumble Bee" anytime soon (and to be honest I can't imagine why I would want to) but I maybe able to develop a nice, round tone and make the few notes I can manage to get out count.

I'm 3/4 of the way though "Goodbye Pork Pie Hat." It 's interesting how just taking a little time to focus on just one thing can create other opportunities in seemingly unrelated areas. I was pretty much stuck a quarter of the way though after getting the first few bars pretty quickly. After getting way too frustrated I decided that I needed to:

1. Listen to the piece very carefully, over and over and over.

2. Get the score and...

3. Figure out a way to translate the notation to harmonica tabs (squiggly lines and arrows that tell you when and where to blow and suck).

Well amazingly I realized that I didn't have a copy of Mingus' original version. so off to I Tunes I went to contributed 99 cents to Mr. Job's king of the world campaign. Listening to the tune I realized that somehow I had taught myself the first few bars in the right key. Hmmmm... How do da brain do such things? It was great playing along with Mr. Mingus and the boys for the first part of the tune but as soon as the notes started going up I had to sit down and shut up.

OK time to invoke part 2. Except that for this tune I couldn't find any sheet music for free or other wise on the Internet. Hmmmm... I put a call out to my cyber harmonica buddies. Boom! A file and a chord chart. Thanks guys! Anyway to make a long story short I found another program made by these crazy French brothers that automatically spits out tabs for wierdo harmonicas like mine as well as Latvian Spike fiddle, and Ullean Hose Clamp. 20 bucks! Amazing what's out there!

So now I have a path for the last indecipherable bars of "Goodbye Pork Pie Hat." Now I am on the way to refreshing my ability to read music. Now I have a program that makes anything, including "Flight of the Bumble Bee", a tab. Now I know where to focus my attention, it's not speed and virtuosity, it's heart and soul. Or is that sole?

Fava beans, Chianti and an old friend for dinner...

Pal, confidant, hermano verdad... Mr. Glenn Miccalef came a visiting and inspired by the local mercado came up with this recipe for fresh fava beans which are as common as dirt here in Espanya. Hey if you ain't got no favas try it with limas or even green beans cut into something like 2 inch pieces. Remember favas can have many names; broad beans, horse beans, pigeon beans... they are all fava beans.

Over medium heat saute (AKA fry) a handful of 1/2" chunks of bacon. Add another handful of slightly larger chunks of spicy spanish chorizo (as opposed to Mexican chorizo which is not cured and is more finely ground). If can't find chorizo try any medium hard cured sausage. As open as I am I still would not consider canned vienna sausages, weenies or little smokies... well maybe little smokies. When thoroughly browned reduce heat to low and add cup and a half or so of shelled favas and a few (like maybe 6) whole peeled garlic cloves. Do not let the garlic burn. Here's a trick. On one side of the pan mound the cooked chorizo and bacon on top of the garlic. This holds in the heat and kind of makes a little oven and roasts the garlic. Move the favas around a bit. When the garlic is tender cover the pan for 10 minutes or so and let the favas steam there way home. When the favas are soft, eat.

Quintessential: The White Cotton T Shirt

Let's face it how much clothing do we really need? I've always dreamed of having a simple rack with 3 pairs of jeans and a drawer with 7 pairs of white cotton socks, 7 indentical pairs of boxer shorts and 7 pressed white shirts. Now T shirt wise up until recently wearing anything other than a garment only slightly smaller than a pup tent would have been out of the question but thanks to the Saharawi diet I can wear a medium with out people turning thier heads. Hence I have fallen in love with the idea of a clothing article that is a distillation of the essence of the notion of what we wear. Is this a "habit" like monks and nuns wear? A modern robe for a modern aestic who is just trying to learn to play the chromatic harmonica? I dunno but it feels great. Here's to a fresh shirt everyday.

Sex Ed. in Espanya

So I was walking home from school with my soon to be six year old Zoe and she said,"When I was born was it natural or was it by caesarian?" She said this while making a cutting motion across her stomach. "Uh, naturally", I responded trying to look as cool an as unpuzzled as possible. "So do you know how we are made?" "Well, yeah, you mean how are we conceived?", I said trying not to use the phrase "where babies come from." I mean the kid's fluent in four languages and regularly uses words like profound and facile. "Do you?", I asked with a slight amount of apprehension. ""Yeah, sure, the man places his penis in the woman's vulva and then he gives the woman a baby and she makes it grow." Note that when Zoe mentioned penis and vulva she touched mine and then of course hers. This went on on one of the busiest pedestrian streets in Barcelona. "Is that right?" "Yep, about 95% of it is right on the money." "You and Mommy did that?" "Yep," Laughter ensued.

I spoke with Senyor Casas who owns the school that Zoe attends about the conversation that I had with her. Mr. Casas is a swell guy and is always available to chat about things like penises and vulvas. Yes, in Spain schools are required by law to educate the children in kindergarten about, gulp, sex. Being an American I was a little bothered by this. But you know, why not? They take the dark mysteries out of it right away. The kids don't seem to freak out with this info. It sure beats my introduction at a much older age which lead to all sorts of confusion regarding appropriate orifices. The less said about this the better.

Quintessential

The older I get the more annoyed I get when "things" don't work. I'm going to start posting pictures of great things. Things that don't break. Things that work every time. Things that are perfectly designed to serve a purpose.

Here's number one: The aluminum espresso maker.

Darrell is a genius, again...

This just in from Darrell Williams:

The Enormous Nothing

The leaves moved across the sand like lizards until there were no more leaves and only the soft sound of countless specks of former mountains moving in slow-motion along the never-never. David Kngwarreye stood motionless in the sun. Today would be a better day, of this the birds had sung. Sky would turn to water, snakes would dance in the wind, and David would cross the Kakadu in bare feet like his ancestors before him. Tomorrow would be his death. Of this, he was sure. But today stretched before him like eternity and that would be a good thing. He was alive for today, and that was a good thing.

Makes you want to read more which is more than I can say for a lot of fiction these days. Darrell's abilities as a film-maker are so evident in his writing. It is just so visually and emotionally evocative.

Three gold stars

I bought myself a present for my birthday; a chromatic harmonica. Now this is not your usual chromatic harmonica it's a custom tuned (G diminished, if there are any musicos reading along) number made by a little company located what was formerly Eastern Germany.

The whole process of getting this beauty was a lovely experience (more on this later) but todays topic is a few thoughts on learning and accomplishments. OK let it be known that I have an aptitude for music. I can pretty much make a passable noise on a bunch of instruments. But with this aptitude comes laziness which has hindered my ability to move to a higher level of skill. Translation: I can fake it, so why bother with all the tedious stuff? I've been playing piano since I was 4 years old but if even you put a gun to my head I still couldn't play a scale the "correct" way.

I've been playing harmonicas off and on since my debut with Dave Johnson and Devan Garlock in the Fremont Jr. High talent show. I played the french horn (?) line on Simon and Garfunkel's "The Boxer." It was the beginning of my short but sweet academic "popularity phase" where at lunch time I actually got to sit at the same table as the groovy kids. Anyway, I kind of get harmonicas and can do (fake) some pretty mean "Chicago" blues riffs on the diatonic (OK jargon watch, a diatonic is the short one favored by cowboys, sharecroppers and burley black guys in sharp suites). The chromatic is another instrument all together. It has all 12 notes available (the diatonic, "officially" only has 7). Fewer people play the chromatic and as such there really are only a handful of relatively famous players. Toots Thielman is probably the most well known but Stevie Wonder started his career (when he was known as "Little Stevie Wonder") spicing up his lovely tunes with a chromatic.

Anyway I made a promise to myself to not to just dink around with this new intrument. I want to learn it properly; starting with the basics and then moving into tunes and then improvisation.

Allow me to bore you for a bit. The diminished tuned chromatic is a pretty novel harmonica. You can play all 12 keys by learning just three simple patterns. Compare this to a normal chromatic where playing 12 keys require you learn 12 patterns (some of which are pretty nasty) and you can see it's advantages.

So I gave myself a goal; one pattern in one week of 1/2 hour sessions. Well I was too generous with needed time, basically it took me an hour per pattern to more or less "get it."

By learning the patterns I felt as though I had really accomplished something with a small but well directed amount of effort. I then decided to reward my self by learning a tune. I've always wanted to play John Coltrane's beautiful ballad "Niama." You know what? On the "dimi" chromatic I had it picked out in half an hour! So reward rewarded it' back to the wood shed; task: play the patterns descending. Once that is acomplished the next reward is learning Charles Mingus' "Goodbye Pork Pie Hat." Another slow wonderful ballad that I've been dying to play for years.

It seems that just about everything in life is so intangible. What are we successful at? Being a parent? Our work? Friendships? Relationships? So much effort is put into day to day life and to be honest the rewards are often pretty hard to percieve. Money. Affection. Acknowledgement. Acceptance. Other than dinero these are all so vague. I've always wished there was somebody out there to put a gold stars on the top of the notebook paper of my life. I guess it's up to me to put those stars on. Getting this instrument maybe the best thing I've done for myself in years. Three gold stars for Robin. "Good Job! Keep it up!"

Spaghetti a la Hobo

Last night I got creative with the left overs. OK some of them were pretty high end, particularly the Jamon, but still it was a bold session of winging it.

First I chopped up a sad half an onion. Then the aforementioned ham. Hey, I've fallen in love with using scissors in the kitchen, it made quick work of an aging but still tasty, sort low level Jamon Serrano. OK, there was a scrawny weeny in the fridge too and rather than look at for the rest of my life I sniped that up as well. To be honest weenies will not be visiting this dish again...

In to the magic cast iron skillet it all went, of course with a little olive oil. I should have done the onions separately but who's counting.

Now comes the free form section. I tossed in some left over spaghetti, stirred it around and hey it looked pretty good but it certainly wasn't dangerous and out there and I suspect has been on Italian farm tables for 500 years. So to shake it up I broke 2 eggs, added some pre-grated bag guyere to the noodles and commenced to moving the stuff around the pan with two wooden spoons. After the eggs looked more of less cooked I sprinked on some Parmesan and tested the concoction on Zoe who gave it a favorable review by cleaning her plate and asking for more.

Alas this was not possible because there was just enough for moi. OK, I did slip her a few strands of pasta. Like I said, the only mistake was the old hot dog. Maybe spaghetti and hot dogs go together in the world of "Franco-American" but not in my kitchen. Hey no disrespect meant to "Spaghetti Os." I used to love that stuff. Who would of thought it, spaghetti in a can. Post war America was soooo easy.

Darrell is a genius...

This just in from my friend the genius writer:

Electricity flowed through the wires of his house, it rippled around the rooms and snaked through the outlet and slipped into the television set and coursed across the circuitry to ignite phosphors on and off until pixels danced and winked and altered their wavelength ultimately making Simon and Paula and that big black Randy animate as if they were real and not just a figment of a producer's imagination, a manifestation of a script written in silence while waiting for better ideas to emerge. When I snap my fingers, you will awaken and remember nothing. On the count of three, you will open your eyes and stumble into bed.

Darrell Williams

Fixing things

Last year I bought a very funky but lovely sounding guitar from a great old guy in Havana. Zoe pulled it out last Sunday to play the 5 and half year old blues. She strummed away for a while and then left it on the couch. I noticed that a pretty gnarly crack had developed on on the back. I immediately blamed the kid and had her go and clean the bathroom and wash the car... nah, she's always gentle with the instruments and besides we don't have a car.

I got on the internet, well I seem to always be on the internet... and googled "crack, accoustic guitar repair." I waded through all the sexual and drug related references and came cross this guitar maker who also teaches others how to make guitars. One of his students had written in to discuss fixing pretty much the same problem.

The guitar makers point was that the crack was probably caused by a change in humidity. Ditto... Havana humid to the point of needing a wet suit, Barcelona in the winter, dry as a bone.

So the guy says to first wet down the body of the guitar with a spray bottle and then stick it in a plastic garbage bag over night. Hmmm. OK I empty out a windex bottle and spritz my baby and then dug out out a garbage bag, put it inside and sealed off the neck with some masking tape. This apparently is supposed to re-humidify the instrument and will seal up the fissure that has been caused the wood drying out.

OK I wait until the next morning and remove the guitar from it's new damp environment. Viola! The wound healed!

Phase 2 was rubbing Elmer's glue to the now healed crack for " not less than 2 minutes using your finger tips." I cleaned up the excess glue with a wet paper towel as described and I now have a repaired guitar!

Much of my world is so abstract. The vagueness of what I do, the general lack of any kind of a schedule or a day to day rhythm... It felt good to do something physical and see the results of a small amount of labor. I 'll remember my success every time I play this old happily unfashionable guitar.

Sunday in Barcelona

Traditionally Sundays in Barcelona are for getting up early, fixing a big breakfast of bacon and eggs, hash browns, wheat toast, OJ and mugs of hot, hot coffee. Then it's off for an early bike ride and then on to a museum or two and finally a movie. IRONY! In general Spaniards stay up until 5 am 7 days a week. A typical Sunday consists of rolling out of the sack at 2 in the afternoon followed by hunk of dry bread and shot of espresso and depending on what you had the night before a shot of something else. Then it's off to lunch with some friends and then a movie and then a drink and then dinner and then a drink and then a club and then somehow it's 5 am again.

We came close to this today. Zoe woke me up at 8:30! I got her some juice and went back to bed. Everybody was officially up by 10:30. Good fer nuttin' lay-a-bout sinners were we.

A Sick Kid

Poor Zoe came back from school sick last night. The classic. The standard. The stomach flu. Yep lots of evacuation. We did the good parents thing and got her to bed. What felt good when I was kid when I was sick? My mom being with me. Soda crackers with margarine, Seven Up and Campbell's chicken noodle soup. An of course watching reruns of Perry Mason on TV.

Zoe's day was sort of similar but you can't find soda crackers or Seven Up here. Chicken Soup yes but no Perry Mason.

So you subsitute Catalan cooking shows and DVDs of Scooby Doo run off the laptop and you are almost there. But still those Perry Mason episodes were something; Della and Paul, Burger the DA and Perry sweating out a last minute on the stand confession from the dead guys nephew or business partner or wife. I'm sorry but bad Spanish Muppet clones cannot hold a candle to that.

Shadow of the Wind Time in BCN

It's definitely winter here. The trees are bare and it's damp and cold. Less people are on the streets. Barcelona is a very romantic city, a romantic city with a dark side. Black clouds gathering over the old amusement park on Tibidabo. Brooding modernista buildings with their organic shapes looking like grimacing mouths and bones. The old gothic part of town with it's labyrinth of dark and narrow streets. It's all in Carlos Ruiz Zafon's book, "The Shadow of the Wind." Get past the first chapter and you'll be hooked.

But for me considering my mood I think I need to re-read "The Great American Novel" by Philip Roth. One of the funniest books of all time. I kid you not. Hey! Anybody wanna make a movie of this! I know this director...

Dark Taxi Ride

I had to go way up on the hill to have an appointment with the Rhumatologist. It was scheduled for 6, well into the Spanish winter evening. My downstairs neighbor Alfredo came along as a translator. When it comes to money and health I need the information to be pretty concrete.

It was a weird dark ride. It was raining and the taxi driver was playing sitar music on the stereo and he had a plastic Jesus and a plastic Buddha stuck to the dash board. Alfredo kept visiting these extremely dark topics, topics that seemingly affect both of us. But it just wasn't the right time. We wound up through the Eixample and into Sarria. For much of the trip it was bumper to bumper traffic. Lots of time to hear just about how bad things could be. I couldn't get my leg comfortable. I appreciated the company and the help but I eventually asked him to please change the subject.

Finally we arrived at the office. We waited a for a while and I kept pretending to read Hola, sort of a Spanish "People" magazine but Alfredo kept getting back to bleakness. Eventually the Rhumatologist saw us. He just kept banging away in Spanish. OK, OK I know it's my fault I live in Spain, but he he wouldn't slow down and he wouldn't back up. It was 90% techno jargon that seemed to have a lot to do with my future.

On the way back Alfredo continued with his devil's advocacy. I occasionally closed my eyes and just wished I was in another place. A place where people spoke English, were nicely taciturn and didn't make everything an emotional upheaval out of cultural necessity. A place where my leg didn't hurt. I wanted a pine log on the fire, a dog on my lap and a slightly warm beer. OK put Zoe at my feet drawing pictures of raccoons and you have version of heaven.

Saturday morning at the biblioteca

Zoe and I go to the library either Friday night after school or on Saturday mornings. I like Saturday mornings because we can hang out for hours. She automatically goes to the kids section and I go grab a stack of magazines, the more trivial the better. Currently I seem to be attracted by mountain bike rags featuring 5,000 euro uberbicis made out of endangered bald eagle feathers and compressed hydrogen. Anyway I take my pile and join Zoo Zoo at one of the kiddy tables. Zoe has thing for this series called, "El Cuerpo Humano." She's always been interested in cartilage, why I dunno, but it just won't go away, but this Saturday she was fascinated by the immune system. Oh boy... Dads going to be a science project. For some reason white corpuscles are her favorites. I guess it's because they are cute, doughy and kind of cuddly.

She usually picks out a couple of books and a DVD or 2. Me I go for the DVDs and the CDs. I got Marc Ribot for the 4th time and "In the Name of the Father" or more accurately "En el Nombre Del Padre." OK I'm a real bookworm but let's face it the chances of me reading Catalan are slim to non-existent.

On the way home we stopped in a farmacia for some of the many things I am taking. The nice pharmacist was at the mercy of his brother's reorganization of the goods and couldn't at first find what I needed. I find that Catalans can get strangely fastidious over minutia but can live with a telephone cable hanging in front of their window for years. Maybe it's a subconcious reaction to the cable hanging in front the guy's brother's window that caused him to move all the boxes around. But he eventually found the right cubby hole.

The big news is what was on the counter. There was a display in happy kiddie colors from a major manufacturer of rubbers. The gadget, all wrapped up like it was a novelty candy like pop rocks or warheads, is a disposable vibrator kind of thingy. Apparently it's designed to be inserted where the sun don't shine and is guaranteed to last for 20 minutes. Jeez, twenty minutes! Comes with happy candy colored lube in a festive applicator. Imagine the research that went into this product. Can you imagine the focus group? Zoe was very interested. I told her it was a new kind of yo yo. She didn't buy it.

A short errand

I've been trying to get out more. My pal Lucy has me drinking homemade kefir. It's another cultured lactose thang sort of like yogurt. Anyway it has these chunky bits called grains that you are supposed to filter out and reuse to make more kefir. You need a medium fine strainer. So off I go to the tienda para everything you need including magnets and dog leashes. It's 2 blocks down the street so it will be a challenge. I shuffle along as all the fit and handsome people point and make comments about the poor guy struck down way too young by a vicious case of an overly aggressive immune system. I have now added a cane to my ensemble.

I make it to the shop and enter the closet like space. There is really a huge amount of stuff tucked inside. Pots, pans, knives, pasta machines, hedge clippers, toilet paper roll holders, decorative figurines and motor oil. Mr. Tienda is reading the newspaper. Mrs. Tienda greets me and ask me what I need. Wisely I had looked up the name for strainer in the dictionary before my departure. "Nesecito uno colado pequino y fino, por favor." "Si", she points to the wall behind her which has at least 50 different types of strainers. "Es para kefir, metalico es una problema, tiene plasticos?" Like she is going to know about kefir... Jamon si, kefir or kambucha forgetaboutit. Mr. Tienda looks up from his paper. "Abajo" there under a pile of swim fins are a few dusty lime green numbers. I acknowledge a successful search and say I'll take it. She wraps the strainer in beautifully printed paper and hands it to me. "Quando questa?" Back behind his paper Mr. Tienda says, "Uno euro" to his wife. Following protocol she tells me, "uno euro." I give a euro and take my new lime green strainer and hobble home slighter better for the experience.

Edu in the restaurant

In addition to yesterday's morning meeting I again descended the stairs of pain to go lunch with my buddy Alan. We went to the restaurant on the other side my front door. It's called Ca' Nuri, which pretty much means Nuri's joint. Over the August break they completely gutted the place and gave it the full BCN modo makeover. It's a nice place.

So Alan and I discussed relationships, how to be an artist and how to get into more trouble going to even more weird places with a camera. It was lovely.

Now here's the real story. Sitting next to us was Edu. Edu is probably 60 and owns a nice cafeteria (coffee shop) on the other side of street. He's an interesting guy, he has a grey pony tail and makes a good cup of coffee. Edu says he makes the best cup in all of Barcelona. OK, why not.

Alan wanders off to the servicios and although we really don't each other I strike up a conversation with Edu. So he tells me about his house in Horta (another neighborhood) and how it's on a quiet street and how the birds sing in the morning and how he can see the mountains and the sea if goes up on the roof and looks between the heating vent and crack in the wall... and then he says that this week I should come with him to his house and he'll fix me lunch because he's a great cook.

OK there it is again. That Spanish thing. "Hey how you doing?" turns into a invitation for a home cooked meal from some guy that you have bought a few cups of coffee from. Damn. What a country.

One Word... Joselito

So today I had my first meeting away from the casa since I got home. OK it was just at the corner of the street at the resturante called "Tapasbar" which of course does not serve tapas. Considering my pathetic Tim Conway old man walk I thought I'd get there early, find a chair and do the FDR thing. You know be regally seated as the other meetings participants arrive. But as it turned out my new friends arrived even earlier and were seated right in the window I would have to pass directly by. I didn't know what they looked like but I could tell from their wild gesticulating hands and smiles that they knew who I was. Damn... what a cartoon. I kept right on going around the corner to the health food shop, picked up my pal Lucy's recommended vitaminas and garlic capsules, 2 jugs of zumo de manzana and headed back to the resturante. Yep it was them. I sat down and regaled them with tales of the Saharawi, dysentery and camel humps.

Before we got down to business for some reason we started talking about Ham. Well in Spain just about before you do anything you usually eat ham and if have none to eat you talk about it. Word. Joselito. The Jamon of Jamon. Remember it.

Visits

Yesterday 2 friends stopped by. Well 3 friends were going to but one had a cold and wisely thought that with the immune system suppression rat poison I'm taking it might be such a good idea if he dropped in. Probably so.

Visitor 1 was the Dutch Flamenco Maestro Evert. Evert and I are in the midst of a budding friendship. He's wandered a long way off his musical path and wants to return. Me, I'll honk on my harmonica at the slightest sign of protest. Over a cup of coffee we finally hatched a plan. The goal: busking on Saturday mornings with our kids. Note: busking is performing on the street. We will learn 3 songs. One will be "Way Down Yonder in the Minor Key" by Woody Guthrie. Another will be "Niama" John Coltrane. Kind of a diverse rep, no? Another might be this song I wrote this summer. The kids pass the hat. Evert and I keep the cash.

Simple. Doable. Done.

Visitor 2 was the indomitable new Lucy. What ever she is taking I'll take 2. Over botifarras, peppers and potatoes we engineered a possible future for the Saharawi project.

Good friends. God bless them.

Conflict

I guess we have preconceived notions about what it might be like if we get sick. How people will react. How we will react. Will we be John Wayne toughing it out, step by step, on his way back in a navy hospital so he can return to fight evil? Emotionally and spiritually supported by his wife looking on with a slightly worried, affirmative, beatific smile.

Will tawdry problems go away? Will troubled relationships heal themselves in the face of a larger, more profound issue? Will we be better people because of this? Will connections deepen?

Well as in everything else it's not a black and white answer. Friends and family have come out of the wood work to offer so much. Twice daily calls from my parents. Bi-weekly calls from my brother. Visits from friends. Soup from neighbors. Cards. Presents. Flowers. Amazing acts of kindness. People acting out of love and compassion. Humanity at it's best.

An what about effects on the patient? Well I have been amazingly optimistic and positive. It's not something I have had to rise to, it's just there. I guess John Wayne is not a bad model.

But do the big, big unresolved problems go away. I don't think so. I know that there are other, new pressures that are added to mix. More work. More demands. More pain. More insecurity. More fear.

Domestic conflicts have unfortunately not gone away and intersection of the emotional and physical is magnified by the situation. A angry remark can completely negate the John Wayne effect, turning a stand up model patient into, well something else. It seems that in being ill everything becomes clearer. Angels appear. But unfortunately the other guy too.

The truth is: the truth is the truth.

A touch...

So this morning I had to go get a blood test. The process of getting there was pretty horrific. We live in an old apartment building without an elevator so I had to descend 3 flights of stairs. Thank God for hand rails. We got in a cab. Another world of pain. We then made it to the outpatient facility but unfortunately you have to descend another flight of stairs to get to the entrance. And no handrails. But there was this gadget to get wheelchairs up and down the anti-handicapped barrier. I used it and felt really sad for doing so. Inside they took me right away. I went with a nice middle aged nurse and she must of seen that I was in pretty bad shape. Here's the magic. She took my hand and stroked her fingers lightly against it for quite awhile. It felt so good. Another angel I'm sure.

Haitian Birthday Party

Zoe's friend Gamy and her older sister stopped by earlier this week to invite her to Gamy's birthday party. Gamy lives up stairs, is about to be 10 and and she and her family are from Haiti.

Zoe heads upstairs at the appointed hour. We hear an army of kids all having a great time. "Who let the dog out! Woof, woof, woof, woof!" seemed to be a favorite tune.

Anne Rose, Gamy's mom, showed up later to see why we weren't there. We thought it was a kids only party which apparently it wasn't so Benedicte accompanied Anne Rose back to the party. Me, I guarded the couch. Which what I've been doing mostly since I got back from the sterile slammer.

An hour or so passed and Benedicte and Zoe returned with platters of Haitian goodies. Dirty Rice, roast Pork, plantain fritters, macaroni and cheese, guava cake, spicey meat turnovers... in short, Caribbean heaven.

I love Caribbean cooking. I love black cooking. It's like it's made by angels. Black angels who kiss you on both cheeks, hug you and laugh like there is no tomorrow.

El Reyes

Traditionally in Spain it is not Santa Claus that brings kids presents it is the 3 Kings. Catalunya has Tio Caga but that is an entirely different matter having to do with happy children beating a log until he poops candy... I am not kidding. Anyway I digress... of course now kids in Spain get the full magilla of gift opportunities; Christmas Eve, Christmas Morning, but the big one is the 6th of January, the day after Epiphany.

Here's the deal, all over Spain, from the tiniest hamlet to the biggest cities the three kings arrive and are then paraded through town. In addition to looking noble and in general "king like" they also machine gun tons of rock hard candies into the surrounding throngs. Eyes are put out, fights ensue and in general a good time is had by all. After the participants return from various emergency rooms and first aid stations the children open a window and then put out a bowl of water and a plate of bread for the thirsty and hungry camels who are carrying the three kings. The next morning of course the water and the bread has dissappeared and gifts from the kings have appeared under the tree (or log if you live in Catalunya).

So of course Zoe did her bit for tradition and was rewarded with a fairly slutty "Baby Bratz" doll (I'm gonna have a word with the kings next year); some dance slippers, tights and tutu and a personal electron microscope from geeky old Baltazar.

OK when I was a kid I was up at 6 nagging my parents to get up so the festivities could ensue. Now it's me that is up at 6 nagging my wife and kid to get up. Funny how things never really change.

Another round of viva Espanya...

Tonight I got a house call from Dr. Jordi. Dr. Jordi is a doctor for Spain's amazing national health system. Thanks to Benedicte's hard work in addition to our health insurance I have been assigned a doctor from the national health system. He's a lovely guy with a family, completely unassuming an very proud of the health care in Spain. I mean he made a house call!!! He entertained my daughter with stories of the arrival of the three kings answered my and Benedicte's questions and then left to visit a little boy with a high fever.

Obviously spending taxes on education, transportation and health care just works out better than invading countries, short changing old people and letting black people drown.

I fell in love with Spain 15 years ago. The love affair is still going strong.

Back Home

I am back home. I was released yesterday afternoon. First another round of kudos to the hospital, the staff and the doctors. it would not be possible to have been more compassionate and thorough.

So while I was having my stitches out Benedicte went to meet with the rhumatologist. Shudder, hack, oooh boy. We're talking years of ingesting rat poison, bi-weekly blood tests and horror of horrors no booze for FOUR YEARS!!! Man, all because I ate camel?!

Zoe and Benedicte and I hopped in a cab. The driver was a nice middle aged woman. She was playing this chat show on the radio very loudly. Then she changed the station. This James Blunt song came on. I think it's called "You're Beautiful." The sun had just set. We descended down Balmes, past the tony charcuteries and bakeries. From upscale Sarria to middle class Eixample. People getting back from the 3 hour Spanish lunch. It seemed like a movie. I felt humble and lucky and apprehensive of the future. I felt alive. My girls were with me and we were heading home.

New Years Eve at Dexeus

OK so I'm still here in Room 219. It's been 12 days. I know every doctor, nurse, cleaning lady and orderly on every shift. There is my main man Antonio... great guy, always calls me caballero and I return the complment by calling him meastro. He keeps wanting to give me a bath and I keep resisting. Maybe I shouldn't and add it to the list of new experiencias. There is Jaunita and Juan the night nurses, very sweet. If any body can give you your 6am injection and make you almost look forward to it is those 2. There is Ester and Neus (which means snow in Catalan) the afternoon ladies. Doctor wise we have Dr. Robert the day to day internist who really has called every shot perfectly; Dr. Gaspar my man's man lecherous GP; nice Dr. Heuget the rhumatologist who I feel will be seeing until he retires; Dr. Vidaller the high powered immunologist and the weekend guys.

OK Telefonica sucks but I'm here to tell you that Spain gets the important things right. The care I've been given here has been amazing. If I was in the US it would have been a few pills and then out the door. Here I can't get them to release me! And it's all done with such a human, informal but professional touch. Yep Spaniards are amazing. Viva Espanya! Viva Catalunya! Viva Pais Vasco! Heck even Viva Extremadura! And like 8 people live there but I bet they are swell.

So last night Benedicte and Zoe and my downstairs neighbor Alfredo and his 5 year old Sergi showed up with Cava, really great ham, olives, a yule log from Paul the fancy french bakery and most importantly chips and salsa!!! It was kind of a tough day for me and my gamy leg but having a New Years Eve party sure helped.

Everybody has been so nice and supportive. My parents call twice a day. People stop by at all hours and hang out and bring books and videos and contraband goodies. Not to get all weepy but I feel really fortunate to have such nice people in my life. Wow, am I lucky.

Fiesta in the Hospital Room

So as I sit here in my room in the Hospital Dexeus waiting to see if my leg will need to be removed 4 adultos and 2 ninos are hanging out eating Panetone and listening to Cuban music. If one has to have an amputation this is the best way to do it. I am not serious about the amputation but this sucker does occasionally hurt like the blazes. Damn gamy leg! What, what!