My new winter coat

As I fingered my winter coat, I noticed the excellent quality of the fabric and stitching. The bus was bouncing through roundabouts; still, it was worth risking motion sickness to do a quick google search of the brand.

I wasn’t wrong. My coat was excellent quality.

But by now you’re probably wondering why I hadn’t figured this out before. After all, hadn’t I been the one to buy the coat in the first place? Well, yes, but I bought it in the same place I buy most of my clothing: a thrift shop.

It was exactly what I wanted–just a bit long, sturdy, warm but not too warm for Spanish winters, a hood, pockets, and dark. And that hole in the pocket wouldn’t take more than 2 minutes to mend and that dog hair would wash out because, yes, it was even washable too. And who besides me would notice that scuff on the cuff?

Besides, I was past due to replace the $5 coat I had picked up at a second-hand market in North Africa seven years ago. So I bought this new coat for $12 plus tax and brought it back to Spain with me, where I was just discovering that Goodwill had offered quite a steal.

As we bounced along, I felt rather pleased with myself. And as other winter coats brushed past me, I felt even more pleased with myself. Doubtless, I had the nicest coat on board the bus.

Yes, there was a rush of pride as I forgot how surprised I had just been to find myself the owner of something of quality. I mentally classified myself with the elite. My classy coat may not have been a luxury brand, but was subtly luxurious, nonetheless. I sat up straighter.

And then I looked down at the skirt I was wearing and it occurred to me that it was pilling from overuse. And the sneakers poking out the bottom were smudged from all of the streets they had walked with me. Hmm. Was I the first to notice the incongruous quality of my clothing?

And then I wanted to laugh. Who cared? Who really cared? Let the world scratch their heads if they wanted to. I planned to enjoy both worlds even if I ended up looking like a walking thrift store.

At my stop, I hopped off the bus feeling like a million dollars.

Birthday reflections

Welcome to the world, Della Grace. You are wanted. You are loved, you little imago Dei, you. I’m so excited to be your aunt and to share your little world.

And you joined the family string of November birthdays. Happy birthday Della, Zayne, Joanna, Alex, and Bennett… and me.

Zayne’s word for all candles is “happy-to-you.” Alex and Bennett love to sing happy birthday. In August they got stuck on singing to “Clarkie” and continued singing to “Clarkie” well after Clark’s birthday.

So now there is one more of us in this crush of birthdays. One more life to celebrate, and do we ever celebrate you, Della!

As I think about another year, I want to face it head on–to throw my arms around it and laugh. I am not naïve enough to believe that the power of positive thinking will let me skip my share of heartache along the way. But I don’t want pain to keep me from the delight of another day, another opportunity to live well.

Happy birthday to us, Della, Zayne, Joanna, Alex, and Bennett. 🙂

Photo credit: K.K.

Blooming and growing

Less than a month ago, I was driving a winding road through trees that were just changing color. As I drove, golden leaves sprinkled my car, catching the afternoon sunlight.

My chest ached like something was trying to get out. Or in. The beauty of the moment was so sharp it physically hurt.

I knew I was leaving this beauty–the golden leaves and dry cornfields–for a different world with a different beauty. I was in between seasons of life again.

Despite the busyness of an Illinois summer, my family managed to make quite a few memories. I became “Isha” to three of my nephews. Exclamations of “Isha” were usually accompanied by sparkling eyes and an equally sparkly grins. Well, except that rough day during potty-training when Alex said wistfully, “Bye-bye, Isha.”

My oldest niece decided to pray for a “good husband” for me. When did this little fluffy blondie get so big? Every time I visited their house, her little sister Joanna asked me to “pick stones.” She has a fondness for all things little and finds remarkable traits in the unremarkable. I love that about her.

When feeling particularly independent, some of us would quote Camden, “Camden do it self!”

Zayne called a tiny Fisher Price slide a “wee.” We spent our last moments together on our backs, wildly kicking the air like we were running and then dissolving into giggles much to the amused consternation of the other adults in the house.

Nettie came over to me after church to tell me that her new little cousin, Boone, “–is like a tiny pea!” She squeezed the tips of her thumbs and index fingers to make a tiny dot as if to indicate Boone’s unnatural smallness.

Boone was small, although not quite that small. Just small enough to snuggle and smell like a new baby.

I read stories to ones who are learning to read for themselves. I had them read to me too. They were excited when Grandma brought home The Pancake Pie from the library (one of the best children’s books ever!).

There were days I just wanted to squeeze them tight because they were so cute–like when Dylan pointed out the “-ole” in his sock. There were also days when I was relieved when everyone went home and the house stilled. Oh, we made lots of memories, not just the littles but the “bigs” too. And I return to Spain with a full heart.

It’s time for another season. This season includes a time of not feeling well. I spend more hours than I would like in bed or curled around a hot water bottle, as my body fights the bacteria in my system. But seasons don’t last forever, and the drier seasons often make room for us to dig our roots deeper as we search for water and nutrients.

Besides, I heard recently that one doesn’t have to bloom to be growing.

Leaving, arriving, and the perks of Spain

Leaving Illinois–leaving family, friends, and church community–was hard as usual. Well, maybe even harder than usual. I flip on the electric kettle and wait at the counter’s edge while my Barry’s tea bag floats atop the milk in the bottom of my favorite mug. I’m back in Spain and life in the States feels far away. “Well, here I am. Alone again.”

My bags are unpacked. My house is relatively clean except the random projects strewn around the living room. I live downtown and it just feels so quiet.

Then again…

A neighbor (and her irritating dog) dropped by because I’d promised her chocolate for watching my apartment while I was gone. She apologized over and over again for killing my plants and insisted I take the remaining straggler with me before she killed that one too.

Another neighbor (a new one) dropped by to ask if my apartment was for rent. Umm…

Yet another neighbor dropped by to ask if I could pick up her daughter from school. She caught me during a salad laden with chia seeds. While we were chatting, I felt a seed swelling between my front teeth. I couldn’t subtly pry it out with my tongue, so there it stayed and I punctuated the conversation with seedy smiles.

My neighbor boy dropped by to visit, strewing cookie crumbs across the floor as he made his rounds, examining everything new in the house. “What did you miss most?” his mom asked him. “Her or her toys?” He grinned and looked away. But he pointed at me.

As I was out and about this morning, I decided to make a list of the things I like about being back in Spain. The cons can go without mention this time.

The sunshine!
The accessibility to quality food, especially fresh produce.
Knowing my way around stores.
Having sales tax included in the price.
Living downtown where neighbors pop in and out and almost everything I need is within walking distance.
Good ol’ Spanish directness. (Yes, this can get annoying too, but I’m choosing the positive side today.) This morning, as I was standing at the hardware store counter, another customer plunked a packet of screws on the counter and said they were the wrong size. “How do we know you didn’t take some out?” asked the clerk, eyes narrowing. “There’s a screw of a different class.” Indeed, on a bed of bland screws was a gold-colored one. Where had it come from? There would be no getting around the fact that the package had been tampered with. I felt a giggle bubbling up but tried to swallow it down. Even in customer service, there were no niceties. No frills or lace bordering this conversation.
Amazon packages that arrive rápidamente with or without Prime.
Fast internet.
Cheap phone plans.
The reminder that God is here too.
The variety of people–colors, ages, personalities, nationalities–all piled into my neighborhood.
The late schedule. When I roll out of bed at 8:00, the streets are still pretty quiet, as if I’m not the only one reluctant to get started on the day.
My apartment. Knowing my kitchen–what utensils and pots and pans I have and what is in my fridge because I’m the one who put it there.

That’s all for now. See? I’m already feeling less alone and more… I don’t know… ready.

Photo by John McArthur on Unsplash

Alaska part 1: Where the bears and the red salmon play

It started in a quiet airport. I was one of a handful going through security. Everyone was that small-town sort of friendly, but that didn’t keep the guards from noticing the water sloshing around in the bottom third of my water bottle. *face palm* That was the second time I’ve done that recently: forgetting to drink my water before marching through security with the confidence of a seasoned traveler… and then returning shame-faced to the end of the line.

So maybe it wasn’t the most suave start to my journey, but I arrived in Anchorage mostly as planned and found the tiny airline that would take me down to the Kenai Peninsula. Tiny, as in, I was one of four travelers. I had never imagined traveling to Alaska, at least not until a friend had invited me up several years ago. But there I was, flying over miles and miles of unpolluted scenery as the sun set.

I stepped outside of the Kenai Municipal Airport to await my friend. It was cold and mostly dark. I was pretty alone, which, after a day of traveling, was pleasant. Pleasant, that is, until I went to toss some trash and saw that the trash can was one of those bear-proof ones.

Bears in an airport? That wasn’t the only alarming thing I would see during my weeklong visit. This was the land in which hearing a snap of a twig while on a walk sent adrenaline surging through one’s veins. The land in which moose were regular roadkill. The land in which vicious brown bears wandered through one’s backyard, right past the swing set.

In the untamed Alaskan outdoors, I began to realize just how soft I’ve become as a city dweller.

My friend arrived at the airport and managed to find me before a bear did, so things ended well for me. The two of us had three years worth of news to catch up on, but we postponed some of it until another time, due to the late hour.

The forecast promised sunshine the next day in a week of mostly rain; so, despite the fact that we were all pretty tired, we knew we had to seize the day. My friend bravely loaded up her six adventurous boys and we hiked part of the Kenai River Trail. Every now and then, we would stop to catch our breath, only to find that due to the scenery, our stops were mostly breathtaking rather than breathgiving. Even the fairytale mushrooms and the blushing fireweed looked so untouched by the world.

We watched bright salmon jumping as they wound their way up a river turquoise with glacier silt. The sunlight caught their rosy backs. The boys splashed around in the river, trying to catch salmon. Even the littlest splashed, letting his boots fill with river water. I dipped my toes in and pulled them back out quickly. The water was icy.

The next day was nicer than the weather had forecasted, which was wonderful considering that we had train tickets to a glacier park. Again, we headed out: six boys, three adults, lunches, snacks, and DVDs for the trip home.

We had heard the park was a bit of a letdown, and were admittedly pessimistic. However, we only wasted our time fretting. I will say that having a vanilla chai latte with whipped cream for the second day in a row did help our moods considerably. (In fact, I had quite a few of those vanilla chai lattes over the course of the week, always expecting it to be my last chance to get one.) Of course, the latte stop combined with road construction delayed us enough that even the boys were making negative train-missing predictions from the backseat.

Spencer Glacier Park was exciting from the oldest to the youngest. The scenery from the train was gorgeous, even more gorgeous considering that in was inaccessible by car. It felt sort of like luxury scenery, if there is such a thing.

We took off hiking once we arrived at the park. In just over a mile, we arrived at the foot of a glacier. Stunning. So stunning. And cold. We shivered, even in the sunshine. That didn’t stop the boys from getting a bit wet while rescuing glistening glacial chunks.

glacier with ice chunks floating in river

We almost missed our return train. No excuses. Just pure negligence on our part. But we did make it. On the way home we took a different route in hopes of seeing some bears, but even the beariest trail of the region was bare. Wildlife seemed to be hiding from me. But it couldn’t hide forever…

Quick update of life in the States

It’s been a fast month. Month and a half, really.

Since I wrote last, I feel like I’ve traveled the world. If not the world, then much of the United States at least. After an unexpected night in London, I landed in Chicago and spent enough days among the cornfields to get over my jetlag before I was packing my bags for Ohio, Pennsylvania, Delaware, NYC, Virginia, and North Carolina, for a PR trip dotted with visits to dear friends. I returned to the cornfields just long enough to catch my breath before heading to Nebraska for part of a week. And now I’m about to embark on another adventure.

I’m not sure why I’m writing all this except maybe to excuse myself for neglecting my blog. Besides, I’ve been spending time with many of my most faithful readers so writing has seemed less important.

Should I summarize the last month? Wrap it up with a tidy bow when inside is only sweet chaos? I don’t know. The truth is that I have hardly touched the memories I’m making. I feel like I am skimming along their tops, saving them to remember later.

Learning to know my nieces and nephews all over again: changing diapers, reading stories, wiping noses, giving golf cart rides, explaining things I don’t even know how to explain and how did they grow up so fast?
Speaking almost exclusively in my mother tongue.
Spending time with friends over tea and coffee and dark chocolate peanut butter cups, looking at recipes on coaches or sprawled in nylon hammocks with a cloud of mosquitoes whining above us. Or maybe a time or two peering out an upstairs window at an unusual neighbor.
Almost never eating alone.
Laughing with family until tears streamed and abs ached.
Traveling, traveling, traveling. And now traveling again.

Oh, look! It’s almost time to head to the airport!

Limiting choices and such

When I sit down to write, I like to have a plan. Today I have none. I have a mental list of undeveloped ideas that I haven’t had time to think through. Not yet. So welcome to my stream of consciousness, which has no theme nor plot nor point.

Summer is coming. The forecast says that May is supposed to cool off partway through, but so far we’re careening towards a hot and dry summer. It makes me glad to miss it. I’m booked now: my bus ticket, my Airbnb, my flights, my airport pick-up. Everything is arranged for physically arriving Stateside come July.

The trip is planned. It’s everything else that worries me.

I don’t enjoy closing down a house for three months, especially when I have an inkling that a host of other townies would be delighted to change the locks and move into my house while I’m gone. (Yes, yes. This does happen. And regularly.) The landlady says she’ll drop in every now and then to check on things, and it’s her house, so I guess I’ll let that inkling evaporate. But cleaning out the fridge and freezer and purging the cupboard of anything inclined to hatch moths or rot… Sigh. My down-the-hall neighbor volunteered to babysit my plants. “Don’t worry if they die,” I told her. They lead a fairly risky life with me anyway.

I’d like to buy some new clothes and maybe sew too so I don’t return to my passport country looking like a tramp. The other day, my neighbor boy was delighted to find the shoe rack I recently tucked behind an inner door. “Shoes!” he cried, exposing the rack to his mother and me. Shoes indeed. All two pairs of them. Well, three if you count my walking shoes which can only be differentiated from my “good” shoes by how worn the soles are. Oh, and my good shoes have a smudge of yellow paint from when I slipped on a freshly painted curb. It wasn’t until my neighbor boy exposed my shoes neatly lined on the rack that I realized how slim my pickings have become. So I promptly ordered a pair of sandals.

But the truth is that I like limiting my choices. When my days are filled to the brim with choices, it’s nice to have an area I don’t have to consider at length. Sneakers or flats?

Then again, I also run the risk of looking like a tramp.

I make myself a weekly menu too. Beans on Mondays and Tuesdays. Fish on Wednesdays, etc. Of course, I am forever changing my recipes and portions–the fun part for me. And there are those days when I could happily devour everything in my refrigerator because I can’t stop being hungry. But always sticking to a plan isn’t much fun anyway.

Do you limit your choices in certain areas of your life? If so, which areas? Do you find it repressive or helpful?

I think I should sign off now. I’m realizing that the only reason I wrote this much is because I’m dragging my feet about the next items on my to-do list. So until the next time, when I can hopefully provide writing with a bit more substance (but don’t hold your breath).

Note: I have a new pair of sneakers waiting for me in the States. They *cough* may be exactly the same shoe that I already have two pairs of, but at least they’re a different color this time!

Also note: The purple striped wallpaper was not even close to being my idea. If you want to discuss limited choices further, we can talk about moving into a furnished apartment with a very involved landlady. 🙂

Getting ready for summer heat

Maybe you live in a climate-controlled house. But just in case you don’t, here are a few tips to beat the summer heat. These are ideas I picked up from summers in Mexico, Phoenix, North Africa, and Spain. Thank you to anyone who has contributed to this list over the years.

Keep the sun out of the house; shut the blinds.
Chill your water before drinking it (a no-brainer for North Americans).
Stay hydrated. Infuse that cold water with exciting things to keep you drinking. I learned about cucumbers in Phoenix.
Eat cold salads, smoothies, hummus, and fresh veggies.
Make popsicles or freeze yogurt for afternoon snacks.
Stay indoors as much as possible during the hottest parts of the day. Plan your adventures before the sun comes up or after it goes down.
Slip a flexible ice pack into a pillow case or towel and curl it around your neck or set your wrists on it. (I currently have three of these waiting in my freezer.)
Put your feet in a bucket of cold water. This was often my last resort when I lived in North Africa, those sizzling summer days when even thinking was impossible.
If you have a good water supply, shower multiple times a day–cold! If you’re too chicken to willingly shower cold, unplug your water heater. 🙂
Wash your hair often, or at least rinse it. In Phoenix, I came home dripping with sweat every day after class. Cold water over my head cooled me down to a liveable internal temperature.
Keep a spray bottle handy to spray yourself while you sit in front of a fan.
Wet your pajamas in the shower and wring them out before crawling into bed in front of a fan. (This worked for a decent night of sleep on those stuffy Mexican nights.)
Drape a wet towel over yourself at night.
Use a fan in the window overnight to bring in as much cool, night air in as you can. Cool air + fan white noise = decent night of summer sleep.

Have you tried some of these ideas? Do you have more ideas to add to the list? If so, leave them in the comments below!

The rain in Spain stays mainly in the tiles and a few other things about Spain

#1

The rain in Spain stays mainly in the tiles. If you live in a town with tiled sidewalks, you probably know what I mean. Tiled sidewalks are great as long as none of the tiles are loose. And even loose tiles are okay as long as it doesn’t rain.

It rains. Then the sun begins to shine and a smiling you decides to go for a walk to enjoy the fresh air. You’re in high gear when it gets you: that warm splash up your ankle and along your hem. Sigh. That tippy tile was hiding a puddle of rainwater. Rainwater that had been flowing along a filthy street.

There are some streets that I avoid after a rain because to walk along them is to feel the ground moving beneath you and hungry waves of brown water lapping your ankles. Most rainy days (and even 1-2 days afterwards) I long for drab concrete sidewalks with obvious puddles rather than the noble but surprising tile ones.

#2

Most Spanish balconies have water spouts and people use them as they wash down their balconies. Beware, pedestrians below! Those of you who live in the city probably know what I mean, but balcony water spouts were a new concept to this country girl.

After the Saharan dust storms in March, everyone was splashing water on everything. At times, the streets flowed with orange water. My neighbor tossed a bucket at his balcony wall and seconds later heard a shout from below. Oops, he had nailed a passerby.

I think the proper etiquette is to check for any passersby before starting the flow. After that, they’ve been warned by the growing puddle on the sidewalk below the spout and if they’re unaware enough to walk within reach of your balcony spout, then that’s their problem, not yours.

And, for the record, yes, I still get dripped on every now and then. And I just hope… hope that it was a harmless drip from someone’s squeaky clean mop bucket.

#3

Some Spaniards set plastic water jugs on the sidewalks outside of their homes, often fastened to something with string or rope. The bottles are filled with liquid, sometimes clear, sometimes amber.

I have noticed this for years and finally asked my landlady about it. She acted like she’d never even noticed this strange habit. So I did a little research and found that the water bottles are supposed to scare away pets and stray animals from peeing in doorways or sidewalks in front of homes. Whether or not it works is up for debate, but it’s still widely practiced here.

#4

I’m not sure what northern or central Spanish flies are like, but the ones on the coast have the ability to drive sane people mad (at least temporarily).

The lesser flies aren’t so bad, the ones that zip in jerky patterns in the center of the room and never seem to land. But the ones that I pick up by walking down the street can get my blood to a rolling boil in no time at all.

They don’t leave me alone. I might only pick up one or two on my walk, but they follow me no matter how fast I walk. It’s like they believe they’ve found a friend and want to stick by my side–or on my nose–for the duration of my trip. I swat one away and walk a few meters, imagining that I have left him in the dust and suddenly he’s on my ear this time. The next time it’s my nose again. And then my chin. And I want to sprint down the street screaming bloody murder.

Would it hurt Spain to invest in some good ol’ American flies? Not that I ever liked American flies either, but they seem to respect boundaries a little better than coastal Spanish flies.

#5

Pepper spray is apparently only available on the black market.

One day, I went to the police station to ask, “What can a woman in Spain do to protect herself?”

The officer’s eyebrows raised. He tried to explain how citizens were not allowed to bear arms. (Maybe I’m imagining things, but he seemed to emphasize this point when he realized I was American.)

“What about pepper spray?” I asked.

“It’s only available on the black market.” He shrugged. Then he gave me a lecture about matching the defense with the assault.

Right. “So how can a woman protect herself?” I repeated.

“We are your protection.”

“But you weren’t there when I needed help,” I pointed out.

He sighed in assent and was quiet for a little. “Then what you need to do is report the incident.”

Right. But no pepper spray.

Well, those are a few things about life here. If you come for a visit, watch out for those loose tiles, dripping balcony spouts, plastic water bottles, pesky flies and, oh, BYOPS (bring your own pepper spray).

Have a wonderful weekend!

Aging alone

Back when I was teaching, we took a field trip to The Museum of Science and Industry in Chicago. There were these cool machines with cameras that would age a photo depending on life choices. Are you a smoker? Do you spend a lot of time in the sun? And so on went the questions.

One of my junior highers got me to pose for the camera. My mistake was not taking over the controls afterwards. Having already gone through the process once, he knew all of the answers to age my photo as much as possible. He ignored my protests as the screen spun out an image of a worn out old lady who eerily resembled me.

Thanks, kid.

I remember that photo sometimes when I find a new gray hair or a neck wrinkle or an age spot I never noticed before. The realization that one is aging is hard for many people; however, as a single, I wonder if aging alone is different. Not harder, but different.

As a single, there is no togetherness in disintegration. It’s just a party of one who watches the body in the mirror stoop and droop a little more each year. A party of one who gets pitied as she grays because there go her chances to snag a husband and, if she doesn’t have children, she can’t even attribute the grays to the honorable occupation of child-rearing.

His eyelids sag and he gets an extra roll of fat at his waistline.

There is no together giggling at age creeping over two bodies become one. It is just her facing irreversible doom as she watches those creeping spider veins.

There is no one to notice that mole on his back slowly changing colors. No one to miss that tooth except him.

Those freckles that once were becoming are overcome by age spots and they’ve scattered farther than she ever imagined. Her body is no longer what it used to be. And sometimes she’s glad she doesn’t have to share it.

I read through 1 Peter recently, about beauty being internal rather than external. Because remember, these bodies were not made to last forever. Whether one is aging together or aging alone, that truth is comforting.

Now it’s your turn. I’d love to hear other perspectives. What has it been like for you to age alone, man or woman, single or widowed? Or what has it been like for you to age beside someone else? Maybe you’ve had both experiences. What are some things you’ve learned over the years?