Stop and listen to the music

Do you ever have those moments in your life when you wish you could reach out and grasp the whole thing, just to scoop it up and bottle it for later? Then, in a darker, rainier season of life, you could open the bottle and let the essence of your summer invade the gloom of autumn.

I had one of those moments the other evening. The Mister and I had been out having tapas with some friends, and we were walking home in the warm flood of the streetlights.

We were just passing by the cathedral and it was all lit up like a candle in the night. We heard him before we saw him - a street musician, sitting quietly with his head bowed over his guitar, playing notes so luxurious and rich that it was almost impossible to think there was only one set of hands playing. He opened his mouth and started singing, and we slowed to a stop, awed into stillness.

His voice rippled over the notes like water flowing over river rocks. It was deep and rich, a perfect symphony of sound. It was stunning.

The Mister and I marvelled. He tugged on my hand and pulled me toward a set of steps, and we sat there, in shadow, listening and watching. It was at this point that I wanted to bottle the memory, every part of it: the angel voice and the quiet song; the feel of The Mister's strong hand in mine; the chilly winter night with the warm pool of the streetlights; the feeling of gratefulness for it all. I never want to forget it. Any of it.

When the song was finished, the player bowed his head over his guitar again. The quiet tinkling of a nearby fountain sounded like muted applause for the player's song.

Wordlessly, The Mister and I started clapping. We were joined by several other passersby, people like us who had been going about their rather ordinary evening before the unexpected gift of beauty stopped them for a moment and made them take it all in.

The player looked at us in suprise. He had been so involved in his song that he hadn't noticed us.  He smiled at us.

It was perfect.

  

Mosquito dessert

Having lived in the desert for the last three years, I'd forgotten how awful humidity is.  It is, it's awful.  Muggy and swampy and full of mosquitoes.  I am one of those lucky people who mosquitoes don't usually bother with.  I was in the middle of Africa during the summer a few years ago and just stopped taking my anti-malarial meds because I realized that I hadn't gotten a single bite in months.

The Mister, however, is another story.  They flock to him. They love him. They think he is delicious. He is their chocolate.

So we've spent the past few weeks having middle-of-the-night wake up calls where he turns on the light and goes berserk trying to hunt down and kill the one mosquito that slipped in through the curtains, while I blearily look around and slap the wall once or twice to make him think I am helping too, when really I am just trying to go back to sleep. And wouldn't you know that the random wall slapping has actually worked - twice?

Either way, one thing I'll be looking forward to about our upcoming month in the forest is the lack of humidity and, hopefully, mosquitoes.

Because I am not a miracle worker.

Four.

Today I want to tell you about this man I live with. I adore this man.  I liked him so much that four years ago today, I married him.

In what is quickly becoming a bit of an anniversary tradition, here are a few things I learned about The Mister this year:

He likes olives but only if they're Spanish olives and only if they're green and have pits.  No pre-pitted olives, please. Half the fun is getting the pit out well (says he).

For the words "coup" and "recoup" he forgets which one has a silent p and which one doesn't.

He doesn't mind putting a cold soda can directly on the beach sand. If the can gets sand on the outside, it gets sand on it. No worries. He's not going to let it ruin his day.

If he finds a pair of shoes he really, really likes, he will buy two pairs for when the first one wears out.

He still hates coffee, mushrooms, and oatmeal, and continues to feel very ambivalent about breakfast eggs.

He now eats fish if it's something nice and mild like cod, and fried eggplant, octopus, and he has acquired a taste for a nice crisp piece of lettuce on top of deli sandwiches.

He's an occasional sucker for watching really bad movies all the way through to the end, long after reasonable people (and by that I mean me) have drifted away to do something else.

He likes soccer and is a Barcelona fan, not a Madrid fan.

When he says the wrong thing when he's speaking Spanish, he shakes his head and gives this cute little grin that makes his dimple pop out, so I kind of look forward to him messing up.

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More fun trivia for you is that I took the below picture on our honeymoon, and I added in the text a few months later.  We came to Europe on our honeymoon, and spent a week in  (*drumroll please*) Marbella, Spain. Which is about 20 minutes away from where we live now.  We really had no idea that we'd ever be back. Life is funny sometimes.

Very, very funny.

In which The Mister is a rock star and I am a failed Mexican/American cook

Over the past few months, The Mister and I found a way to help others, practice our Spanish, make new friends, make our part of the world a little friendlier, and use up some free time - all in one fell swoop.  We started volunteering.

Our location of choice is a cool organization here in Málaga that transitions new refugees into living a normal Spanish life.  To declare refugee status under the existing international conventions, someone's life has to be in imminent danger in their home country, so people who are granted refugee status are usually scared, confused and just a teensy bit stressed.  We started heading down there to pitch in some various organizational efforts, and just recently The Mister and I started an intensive English language class a couple times a week.

I haven't blogged about it much at all because, of course, there are some pretty serious privacy and safety concerns, and there isn't much I can say (or show, pictures-wise) in such a public forum. But it's been without a doubt one of the most rewarding parts of our time here in Spain.  Who doesn't like cuddling sweet babies, watching adults bravely sit down for reading and writing lessons, and making all sorts of new international friends?

Anyway, this past weekend, the center celebrated La Fiesta de la Primavera - otherwise known as a spring festival, for those of you who took French in high school.  We were each supposed to bring something representative of our culture.  The Mister played the guitar and sang a short concert of American hits like Hotel California, and I made 7-layer dip (an American friend here argued that this is actually Mexican, and I said, show me a Mexican who even knows what this is and I will grant you the point, and she said, touché.)

I thought you might like to know that a.) Nobody wanted to touch the dip and I still had 80% of the pan full at the end (they don't know what they're missing), and b.) The Mister is, was, and forever will be a rock star.  Dude killed it, as they'd say in industry parlance.  Who am I kidding? I don't know any industry parlance.  But anyway, if you see The Mister around, give him a pat on the back.  He represented well.

    

The Mister has a party

Claire. Me. Becca.

Jose Carlos, The Mister, Bradley, and Torston

I felt like making The Mister a cake for his birthday. And it would be rude to make a whole cake and then eat it all by ourselves, right?

So we had a nice little party.  Our apartment is barely large enough for a box of Kleenex, so our friends Becca and Bradley provided the five-star location, and we had ourselves a nice little shindig.

(Oh, and The Mister liked the cake)

Santiago de Compostela

We had a fantastic weekend celebrating our anniversary and The Mister's birthday.  We headed to Santiago de Compostela, in the northwest corner of Spain, for a relaxing weekend.

They're known for making some of the best octopus around, so we played along.  We've had octopus, but it's been here in Andalucia where the fried kind is popular, so of course it's good.  You can fry practically anything and it's got a 93% chance of being delicious.  Unfortunately we ended up preferring the fried version, because the fatty, almost jello-y texture on a few of these pieces got a little intense, and we ended up stuffing a few pieces in our napkins so the waiter wouldn't get offended that we weren't exactly swooning over their signature dish.

Overall though, a fabulous time and a fabulous birthday.  We wandered around parks, took naps on the grass, had leisurely lunches with good wine, and slept in late.  I was with my favorite person in the world, and the spring daffodils are blooming in Spain.

Not too shabby overall.

Ten.

Picture by Tara at Third Book Photography

Ten years ago today, we were a couple of 15-year-olds who were googly-eyed over each other. He asked me out. I said yes.

Ten years and one wedding later, I find him more and more fascinating each passing year.

We're off to Galicia this weekend, in the north of Spain, to enjoy the weekend. His birthday's also tomorrow, so it's a big grand celebration of life and love and time together.

(If I had any of our old-school pictures with me here in Spain, this is where I would have put one.  They're fantastic.)

Rain, rain, don't go away

Rainy, windy, cold day on the Coast of the Sun.

The kind of day that turns your umbrella inside out - twice.

I love it.

I think that's a statement you can only truly understand if you've spent any time living in the desert.  I feel like my three years in Phoenix created a huge longing in me for rainy days that hasn't quite gone away yet.  I had lived in Maryland for 13 years before I left for Phoenix, and had regarded rain as a necessary evil - something to be endured rather than enjoyed.

But there's nothing that will get you to appreciate something like experiencing the near-total absence of it.  Don't get me wrong, the relentless sunshine of Phoenix is one thing I like a lot about the city. But sometimes the soul just needs a good stormy day, for balance.

Today my bus stopped early and I had to walk the few minutes home along the beach (rough life), the whitecaps frothing, the sea silver and heaving. The rain was darting down like missiles, and I was getting creamed in the fight to stay dry.

But I knew that waiting for me at the end of the cold, wet walk was warm pajamas, a cold beer, a movie and The Mister.

And that made it all okay.

Happy weekend!

Sometimes people tell me that there aren't enough pictures of me on my blog. To those people: here you go. You're welcome.  (Also, The Mister feels that in order to accurately assess my likeness to Shakira there must be a photograph. What do you think?)

Some people also said, where was the Valentine's Day post? And I say, hmph, Valentine's Schmalentine's.  I don't need a special day.  When it comes to husbands, The Mister is totally boss. He is the cheese to my macaroni.  I don't see what anyone can see in anyone else but him. (Name that movie?).  Plus I blog all the time about how much I adore that man, see for example here, here and here (the latter, my sister Hannah informs me, is one of her favorite all-time posts).  

Next week I'll be introducing a new! blog! series! 

(oooh, get excited)

Longfellow, Shakespeare, and me

Today The Mister and I were lazing around, luxuriating in just having completed our second-to-last practice LSAT ever, when I asked him what I should blog about today.  He got a gleam in his eye like he always does right before he says something mischievous (which, if you know The Mister, is pretty much about 93% of the time), and he said he thought I should write a poem about this house (house pictured above) that we saw while on a walk today.  

A poem.

Me.

But, he asked, and I cannot deny him what is in my power to give.

For your consideration:

Old house

How nice you look

And so very blue

Like a smurf.

Or Mountain Blast Powerade.

Or, if that isn't your liking, how about this one:

Door.

Lovely, weathered, sun-bleached.

You open in the middle.

That does not seem convenient.

Unless your inhabitants are very skinny.

No?  Try this.

Textured walls.

They look pretty.

But they are tricky to swat flies on.

All poems copyright to moi, all rights reserved.  Dedicated with utmost affection and a mischievous twinkle, to The Mister.

How do you follow that?

I think you all have surmised by now that I have married a rock star.

I mean, did you see his post yesterday? And the picture with the green pen writing? That kind of had me chuckling for hours, I am not going to lie.

So the question is, how do you follow that up?

I decided to pull a photograph randomly from my computer archives, since my photography might, might *ahem* have an edge over The Mister's iPhone camera work.

And here is what I found:  Hebron, the West Bank.  Deserted marketplace, the only customer (vendor?) being this lonely donkey.  March 2010.

And that's all I have to say about that (I'm channelling Forrest Gump here).

Have a great weekend!

The Mister gets taken to school

I know this isn't the photographic quality you all have come to expect.  But this is what you get when I blog, so tough luck.

The Mister here.

As a disclaimer before continuing with this post, I would like to point out that Spaniards on the whole have been unbelievably friendly, helpful, and welcoming.  And as for my experience described below, I'm not positive that it was meant seriously or as a joke.  Possibly a mix of the two.  Anyways, I digress.

Upon walking into the staff room at my school, opening my shoulder bag (NOT a man purse, despite what Sarah thinks.  No really, it's just a laptop bag.  Don't listen to her.) and finding myself without my trusty #2 hexagonal pencil, no rounds here thank you, with the extra cap eraser on top (you know the kind, they become necessary because the eraser that comes attached to the pencil is designed to last approximately 0.3 seconds), I took immediate action.

Not yet having intimately familiarized myself enough with my surroundings to know where the school supplies are kept, I did the obvious and spoke to the person nearest to me.  I told her, in an extremely polite manner, that, alas, I had forgotten my pencil and asked if she would be kind enough to tell me where I could find another.  She didn't immediately respond, but instead gave me a quizzical look, which left me wondering if I had completely murdered my Spanish when I spoke to her, but I dismissed that outright since I had definitely been thinking about what I was going to say for like 5 minutes before I even said anything.

She looked at me for so long that I began to think that maybe I had accidentally spoken to her in English without thinking about it.  Finally there was movement.  She pursed her lips, furrowed her brow, and said, "Look, wait here", and walked out of the room with purpose.  I was a little surprised, and still not even sure if she understood me, so I continued on to the next closest person and asked him if he knew where I could find a pencil.  He promptly produced one from his bag, I thanked him, sat down, and started writing.

A few minutes later the woman I had first spoken to came marching back into the room with her hands full.  I immediately hid my newfound pencil in my pocket and stood up to meet her halfway.  She motioned and told me to stay seated.  She came right up to the table where I was sitting and put down the objects in her hand one at a time while saying, "Look, here you have a red pen, a pencil, another pen, an eraser, and a roll of tape.  Now you've got everything you could possibly need, so never ask me for anything ever again".

I was too stunned to do anything except say thank you and then continue looking stunned.  I'm choosing to believe that she has a very dry sense of humor and meant it as a joke, but we haven't spoken since, so I'm not really sure.  

Either way, I've got a red pen, which every teacher needs, especially one teaching English in Spain, AND one of those sweet pens that has four different color pens inside it, including green.  I mean, where else can you find a green pen?  I definitely came out the winner.

I'll have a Mister and coke, please

Note from Sarah: We are in rural Spain this week, so I've prescheduled this post by The Mister to keep you busy. Be back soon!

I am posting a picture of her because I can. Look at those baby blues. Mine mine mine.

The Mister here.

For reasons that I've never been able to understand, people have a lot of trouble understanding my name when I tell it to them.  More often than not, it takes multiple repetitions, me saying my name and them repeating what they think they heard, before we get it all figured out.

I get a lot of, "Ryan?"

Nope.  I say it again.

"Randy?"

Sorry, not that either.  And two syllables? Really?

Sometimes its so bad that I give up and just let the person believe my name is whatever they heard.

This has led me to question my own pronunciation of my name, at times practicing in front of the mirror, or recording it as a voice note on my phone and playing it back.  I always think it sounds impossible to mistake for anything else (but maybe I'm biased).

And apparently my name is also difficult for Spaniards to understand, even when its pronounced with a Spanish accent.  I was resigned to the fact that, even here in Spain, it would be business as usual during introductions for me.  Until I was given a virtual fast pass.

How excited I was when I discovered that my name happens to be the Spanish word for a certain type of liquor.  These days, introductions take a maximum of two tries.  The first is where I say my name, and they either look at me quizzically or respond with something that's not even close, followed by me saying my name one more time and adding, "sabes, como la bebida" (you know, like the drink).  This is usually followed by a good laugh from whomever I'm meeting, or sometimes an impressed look, or even a suspicious expression.  If you're named after a well-known alcoholic drink, you must be trouble.

I have yet to discover a fail-proof method for introducing myself in English, but I am enjoying my time on top.

The Mister loses 100 points

While I'm working on some other writing projects, The Mister has taken the reins today. Enjoy.


While sitting in my usual spot in the corner of the room at the teacher's desk the other day (while the actual English teacher proceeded with the lesson and did his best to forget that I was there), the two students sitting at the two desks opposite me asked me if I knew any jokes.  Apparently they were as bored as I was.

As it turned out, I had just heard a "real" Spanish joke on a Spanish-teaching podcast that I listen to.  So, puffed up with my recently acquired cultural savvy, I replied that indeed, I did know a joke.  Their eyes lit up and one of them yelled "cuenta!" (do tell!) so loudly that the English teacher interrupted his monologue and looked in our direction.  I gently reminded the student that this is a classroom and is no place for that sort of behavior, waited until the English teacher went back to his monologue, and then proceeded with telling my joke.  (As The Missus will confirm, I can't resist the opportunity to try and be funny, however doomed it is.)

The joke precedes as such:

Hay dos peces en el mar.
There are two fish in the sea.

Un pez dice al otro pez, "Que hace tu padre?"
One fish says to the other, "What does your father do?"

El otro pez dice, "Nada."
The other fish says, "Nothing/He swims."


The "funny" part of the joke comes from the double-meaning of the word "nada".  It can mean "nothing" or "he swims" in Spanish (from the verb nadar, for those who care).

I knew I wasn't bringing the house down like I'd hoped when the two students stared at me blankly for a few seconds upon my finishing.  I was afraid they weren't going to get it, and then I was a little excited at the prospect of having to explain the joke, being in teacher mode and all.  But then everything changed.

Their little noses both started to crinkle at the same time, and then came the boos.  Loud boos.

Loud enough that the English teacher started throwing quizzical looks in our direction.  I frantically tried to get them to hush, so they decided to express their disappointment through other means.  One student quickly drew a stick figure with my name and an arrow pointing to it, and the words "-100 puntos".  He held it up for me to see and loudly proclaimed in Spanglish, "YOU" (pointing at me then at the stick figure), "MENOS ONE HUNDRED PUNTOS".

I sat there, thoroughly chagrined, but not too chagrined to be sassy. "You mean minus one hundred points".

To which he vigorously nodded his head.

And I went back to being bored.

I would be well on my way to being European now if only I liked tuna in everything

Classic Europe

First off, welcome to anyone hopping over from travelblogs.com!  They featured my blog yesterday, (oh my gosh I always seem to leave off a letter when I'm hyperlinking - will you forgive me this once if I just leave it?).  On a side note, I like their use of the phrase "hatch a plan" in my blog description, and I think I am going to start slipping it into everyday conversation, i.e. "What are you up to at the moment?" "Oh me? I am hatching a plan to go to the grocery store."  It has a nice ring.

The Mister, I am happy to say, is much better, after I hatched a plan (see?) for him involving Tylenol, about 8 collective gallons of water, tea and 7-Up, and the fourth Harry Potter movie. He is now resting and hatching a plan (okay, I'm done) to use his sickness to soften me into watching The Matrix with him. Just between you and me, I see right through him.

I am also proud to announce that I have reached a milestone in this adventure called "living in Europe" - have crossed the invisible barrier, if you will.

*Drum roll please*

 I got my first ride on a moto last night.


Oh yes, I did.

I gave some private English classes to a family from my school, and afterwards the dad gave me a helmet and asked me if I minded getting a ride home on his Vespa.  I was jazzed. I did have to confess to him, rather embarrassingly, that it was my very first time on one, because I was a little worried that if I did not, I would sit down and wrap my arms around his waist and he would be shocked, thinking, "is this girl trying to HIT ON ME? Why isn't she USING THE HANDLES?" or something to that effect. So I thought that all things considered, it was better to confess my naivete and get a full tutorial than risk doing it wrong (in a possibly disastrous way), you know?

Oh, and the ride was everything I thought it would be. It was so Europe. Narrow cobblestone streets with the streetlights flying by, viewing the world through a Vespa helmet. Perfect.



Also a note: My button for Africa posts on the sidebar is now working.  Oops, didn't realize it had been broken.

I will miss the lazy evening concerts

The Mister doesn't get to take his guitar to Spain.

Too heavy and bulky - doesn't travel well.

Le sigh.

I will miss this sight - and the sounds.  My favorite song that he plays is a slowed-down acoustic version of Elton John's "Rocket Man" - similar to the one Jason Mraz does sometimes in concert.

On the bright side, he wants to figure out how to play Spanish guitar.  And then I will be his flamenco girl (please note: this plays perfectly with my stated goals here *wink*)

To my favorite

happy birthday

to my favorite human being on the planet

P.S.

Love and Beethoven

When I was in college I spent a summer interning as a museum curator in Death Valley National Park.

Which seems odd to me now on several levels.

So I was in California for weeks on end, and The Mister (before he was The Mister) was lonely and sad in Maryland all by his lonesome.

So he hatched a diabolical plan, as he is wont to do.

He knew that I love classical music - piano solos in particular, and Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata to be very specific. So very quietly, without telling, me, he started taking piano lessons.

He would talk to me on the phone, innocently tell me he was up to nothing in particular, and then laugh with glee and rub his hands together in devilish delight after he hung up.

(Or so I picture it).

So when I came back from my weeks away, The Mister sat me down and stunned me with his fluid rendition of Moonlight Sonata.

Romantic? Oh yes. And true to boot.

Then, when I went away one last time, to study abroad for a semester in Prague our senior year of college, he knew he had his work cut out.

And so he picked up a guitar.

And he's been playing ever since.

And sometimes, people ask him how he started playing the guitar.

And he says, "Well, Sarah went away".

And to him, this explains it all.

(I really love that man)

Wireless Wednesday

A new tradition has been taken root over the past several months. Some would call it "Sabbath". Some would call it "Blackout". We call it "Wireless Wednesday".

One evening per week with no cell phones, no television, no laptops or internet.

A few Wednesdays ago, we had a Trivial Pursuit throwdown. I won't tell you who the winner was, because I am classy, but let's just say hypothetically that it was me. (Just between you and I...that's because it was me.)

Did you know that the Phoenix Art Museum is free on Wednesday nights? It's open until 9. And my favorite restaurant happens to be inside the museum. Dinner and an evening at the quiet, empty art gallery? One of my favorite Wireless Wednesday activities.

Another Wednesday, we went to the library on a cold evening and holed up in the group study room, studying Spanish sans laptops and drinking hot tea out of travel mugs. It was way more productive than studying WITH the laptop, to my surprise - amazing how distracting all the information in the world can be.

Tonight we are going to make dinner, cuddle up with blankets on what is supposed to be a rainy night, light some candles, and talk about our future. Some major things could be looming for The Mister and I.

I'll take that over technology any day.

Glad I lost after all.

The Mister and I are in a book club. We get together once a month with friends and laugh and eat and drink wine and talk about a book. It's fun for people like us, who are dorky and yet social.

This month the book selected was A Prayer for Owen Meany. And boy, it is a big book. I mean, I don't usually get too intimidated by length but this is a VERY big book. With tiny font size and teensy margins.

I thought about lazing around and not reading it. Then The Mister read it, and proclaimed it AMAZING. That's how he said it, just like that - "this book is AMAZING".

But I still wasn't going to read it. Too long, and I have a book list as long as my arm that I want to get to.

Then, two weeks ago The Mister and I were having a spirited discussion about the word placement of a few lines from the TV show The Office. And we made a bet that we were each right about the exact quote. And we rewatched the episode, and of course I lost (was there any doubt?).

What did we bet? You guessed it - that I would have to read Owen Meany.

And you know what? It was seriously AMAZING.