Photos don’t capture life

For the past 10 days or so, I have been enjoying a dear friend’s visit…and then savoring the lingering memories. Below are some of the photos from our time together. But remember that photos don’t capture life. Not really.

We spend a few wonderful days in rainy Córdoba. We wore plastic bags on our feet to keep out the puddles and streams and broke into delighted gasps whenever the valiant sun peeked through the gray clouds. “It hasn’t rain all this time, and then you came and it rained,” laughed my Cordoban friend when we met for coffee and then an Indian dinner.

arches of mosque-cathedral in Cordoba — Photo credit: M.B.

Back in Almería, we went up the mountain with teammates to watch the sun set, sifted through produce at the market, ate churros and pastries, enjoyed a British breakfast and crashing waves on one the windiest days of the year… and a gorgeous, sunny beach just 24 hours later. We also climbed Almería’s alcazaba and spent an afternoon admiring pottery in the town of Níjar. On her last evening, three of us celebrated Valentine’s Day with cheese fondue.

colorful fruit and vegetable market stall — Photo credit: M.B.

blue sea with blue sky and sailboat — Photo credit: M.B.

Arab fortress wall with city beyond — Photo credit: M.B.

elderly woman painting pottery — Photo credit: M.B.

But we don’t have pictures of those long heart-to-hearts or the laughter that erupted from just being together. Those are the real memories.

My favorite kind of day

It was a balmy day at the beginning of winter that was worthy of short-sleeves. My laundry was hanging in the sunshine on the roof. My spinach and lettuce had dared to show their green little faces on my patio and I was beyond delighted, barely resisting the temptation to make a salad with the tiny sprouts.

My phone rang. “Do you have zucchini? Peppers? Lower the bag and I’ll give you some!”

I held the end of the sturdy string and tossed the bag over the edge of my patio to my neighbor’s kitchen window. She loaded the bag with produce from the abundance in her fridge, and I pulled it up carefully.

And then I was dashing out the door to visit the neighbor around the corner.

My phone rang. “Do you have a roof key?” My downstairs neighbor again. “Can you stay with my boys for five minutes while I take the stroller I’m cleaning up to the roof? It needs to be dry by tomorrow.”

After a bit of scheduling chaos, I continued on my way. I rang my neighbor’s buzzer and waited. Last week, I hadn’t waited long enough, she said, because she had been back in the kitchen with her hands in oily pastry dough and by the time she had washed her hands and put on a headscarf, I was gone.

Today I promised to wait.

A shriek greeted me as the elevator door opened to the third floor. Her three-year-old son, L, was so delighted by my presence that he couldn’t contain himself. “He is flying with happiness,” my friend said. “He isn’t even thinking with his head, just happy.” Yes, that could explain why his feet were in the air more often than his head.

My friend insisted on tea or coffee or something, although I had just stopped by to drop off the container she had sent home with cake the other week. So I stayed for tea, which, as usual, turned into more than just tea.

While she was busy in the kitchen, I hung out with L in the salon. We traveled to other countries. We took naps with boisterous snoring to indicate that we were asleep. I put my head against the couch pillow; he curled up on the floor and pulled the rug over him. SNORE, SNORE. Then he tried to trim my fingernails with a clippers he found on the table. Then: “I have to poop!” And he was gone like a flash and back like a flash. He slipped into my sneakers and clomped around the room in them, giggling. So I grabbed his shoes and balanced them on the tips of my toes.

Just then, his big sister strode into the room. “Shame on you, L!” she said when she saw him in my shoes. But when she saw me in his shoes, she doubled over with giggles.

The tea arrived then, my friend and her husband walking in with laden trays to the sound of our laughter.

Big Sister scooted over beside me when L put his feet near my face and was unceremoniously relocated. But, in the end, L decided he wasn’t hungry after all and hid under the table. We practiced English vocabulary for Big Sister’s Tuesday exam. “Granfodder. Granmudder. Unt. Brudder.”

“I have to go now, but let’s practice tomorrow evening,” I suggested before dashing back to my own building where my downstairs neighbor was waiting for me to bring the roof key so she could air her dripping stroller. I helped haul the boys and stroller to the roof. Little S ran his hand along the bottoms of the clothes dangling on the line as I unpinned them and tossed them into my basket. Baby A crawled across the sunbaked tiles.

I went downstairs to make lunch. The evening would be pleasantly full, but I had a few hours to catch my breath and to realize that this kind of day was really my favorite kind of day.

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!

It’s not easy being Murcia (Day 2)

I meant to start out earlier than I did. But I didn’t. I meant to take a morning tour of the bell tower of Murcia’s cathedral. But I didn’t. Instead, I read a sign that said tours were offered October through June and said nothing about tours during tourist season.

I gave up that plan for the time being and wandered over to the bus stop in time to climb on a bus to Rueda de la Ñora, a water wheel located in an otherwise unremarkable village outside of Murcia.

Still sleepy, I yawned the whole way out of the city. It would have been easier had I worn a mask that allowed yawns and didn’t grab both my nose and my chin in a vice grip. It was unfortunately one of those city buses that didn’t bother to say where it was or where it was going at any given time. Enter Google maps.

The water wheel was worth the visit. However, there was no shade and it made my visit shorter than I would have liked. I was the only tourist there. The wheel was commissioned in the 1400s although it’s been replaced various times.

On my walk back to the bus, a dog gave me a series of ferocious barks from a terraza overhead. The sun tilted just right so I could see the gray shadows of his snapping jaws on the street beside me.

I stumbled across a bakery on my way back to the bus. “Why not?” I thought and stepped inside. It was a real bakery, one where the cashier came to the counter with her hands covered in flour. She was brisk but kind as I carefully selected a chocolate-filled pastry.

The bus deposited me at Circular Square, which is more or less a giant fountain in the middle of a roundabout. It was unoccupied, making me wonder if anybody in Murcia appreciates their own landmarks. (And do I appreciate the landmarks of Mytown?)

The Archeological Museum of Murcia was free so it was worth a look, I decided. I’m not much for museums and the history here in Spain is so ancient it becomes unremarkable after a while. I skipped the evolution of man section which put me ahead of the only others in the museum. So I basically walked through the museum alone except the security guard who greeted me every time he circled past. I should have tried to make off with a Roman pillar to give him something to do.

remnants of ancient pillars — An exhibit at the Museo Arqueológico de Murcia

On the way back to the cathedral tower (by this time, I had bought a tour ticket online), I passed through Plaza Santo Domingo and found a startling human rights monument in the middle of the plaza, like a silent scream.

I arrived early for the tour, which didn’t bother me. I plopped down in the shade in front of the tower and people watched. We were a large group, not my favorite way to tour, but I had already decided that the pros would outweigh the cons. The tower’s history was fascinating, from how the construction paused for 200 years when the tower began to lean or how the resident rats nibbled the edges of the old manuscripts to avoid the poisonous ink.

The group was frantically taking selfies at every turn as I cruised past, photo bombing everyone. (Okay, that’s probably just what it felt like.) Tucked inside the walls, there was the impression of coolness, but it also felt muggy. But however hot and sweaty, we all made it up the 17 ramps. The quarter hour chime at the top was exhilarating. The bells thundered inside of my head.

After lunch in the air conditioning at my Airbnb, and some time to unwind, I tried to go to a coffee shop which was closed. “August,” I grumbled as I meandered through downtown and eventually ended up at CaféLab again where they recognized me and spoke to me in English.

I picked up snacks at Día and then spent the evening on the couch with guacamole, fresh mozzarella, and a show on the fancy-schmancy TV that the Airbnb host had painstakingly explained to his clueless guest.

100% Murcia (Day 1)

Although August in Spain is not the best time to be a tourist, Murcia is a city I could easily fall in love with, even in August. You could argue that three days is hardly enough time to fall in love. And spending those three days almost exclusively downtown–only glimpsing the outlying barrios from the bus window–you could argue that I don’t even know her. So we’ll call it an infatuation.

I arrived in downtown Murcia close to three p.m., perfect time to check into my airbnb, eat lunch, and rest on the couch in front of the air conditioning. (Aaaah, what luxury to control the temperature!)

My apartment was within a few minutes of the cathedral and well, pretty much all of downtown. Downtown was full of churches. As the hour changed, bells sounded from every corner, clapping through the narrow streets. I stood, enchanted.

I parked in CaféLab, an utterly charming coffee shop. The aromatic ambiance made it hard to choose what I wanted–one of each? I finally opted for the mango smoothie.

As a non-Catholic, I am fascinated by cathedrals, but I also find them a little creepy. Like, I didn’t come to church to see a mural of Saint Bartholomew being skinned alive. I toured the cathedral, reading the signs, staring at the statues and paintings of saints, and wondering what the cathedral builders would think if they saw all of us walking around in sneakers, snapping pictures.

fountain and flowers — Glorieta de España

statue of sardine half-submerged in water — Monumento al entierro de la sardina

boat under arched bridge, bus over arched bridge — Puente de los peligros

I walked along the river, enjoying the view and the parks I stumbled upon. Eventually, I rested on a bench to listen to the gentle clacking of loose bricks as feet passed over them.

Pasarela Manterola, a pedestrian suspension bridge, moved as we walked across it, just enough to make me wonder if my mango smoothie had made me tipsy–Am I imagining this mild motion sickness? A young man serenaded us with “Stand By Me” while ducks below fought over the bread crusts someone had tossed to them. When I peered over the railing, they eyed me expectantly.

“So darling! Darling! Staaaaand by me. Oh, stand by me…”

I strolled through the Paseo de Malecón and tried to snap a photo of red red roses that decided not to be photogenic in the blazing sunlight. And there was a catalpa tree with long beans dripping from it. I would have studied it more had a man not been lounging in its shade.

From there, I circle back to find the Arab walls. The smells began to overwhelm me in the way that they often do when I allow myself time to smell them. I smelled chwarmas before I passed the chwarma shop and then a spice that transported me the North African old medina. Shadows grew. Men with fat, unlit cigars dangling from their lips crossed my path.

Somehow, with a malfunctioning sense of direction, delayed maps app, and winding downtown streets, I ended up in Plaza Mayor instead of in front of the monumental Arab walls. There in the plaza, the silence was astonishing. Someone with squeaky shoes left squeaky echoes after she had disappeared around the corner. I just stood there and listened for long moments.

I made another attempt at the Arab walls. And another. At my third pass-by, I realized street work hid the walls from view and made them inaccessible. Apparently, the “open 24 hours” listing on my maps app doesn’t apply to August… or maybe I still didn’t find the right spot.

On my way back to the apartment, I crossed through Plaza de las Flores where everyone was in slow motion, eating an early dinner or meandering through the warm plaza. And me? Enough exploring for day one. I had an evening date with the air conditioning.

downtown street lined with brick buildings

“The svelte brunette vs. her pimply cousin” or “Coffee vs. tea”

Last time I was Stateside, I confessed to two dear friends that I really liked tea. They smiled but disagreed. “Watery” was one of the agreed-upon adjectives. We sipped our coffee together, because at least we agreed on that.

Long ago, back when we all still had Facebook, a friend’s sister posted that coffee was a svelte, rich brunette and tea was her pimply cousin, or something to that effect. “What a perfect description!” I thought and stashed it away in a mental file (not a verbatim mental file, apparently). I 100% agreed.

Until now.

I still love coffee but my intolerance to large doses of caffeine has curbed my zeal. That and the less-than-desirable church potluck coffee of my past which carried the distinct flavor of what a friend called “burnt Folgers.” In the meantime, I’ve grown fonder of tea. In fact, I like tea even more than I did when my friends called it “watery.”

Nearly every week, I visit a tea vendor at the local market. I ask for a bit of this and a bit of that until I drive her crazy filling tiny baggies. Then I go home with my loot and put the kettle on.

I’ve never been one to branch out with coffee flavors. Yah, I’m the one who gets a plain latte practically every time she goes to a coffee shop. Now decaf, oh, and no sugar, please. But tea is different. With my little samples, I’m working my way through the tea vendor’s options.

Rooibos is an acquired taste, I’ve decided, and I’m still working on acquiring it. I thought it was okay until my student said the vanilla blend tasted like a medicine from her childhood. The infusions also leave something to be desired. Flavor, to be exact. After my first cup of some sort of pomegranate blend I had to side with my friends on the whole “watery” thing. Apparently, infusions require a surprising quantity to achieve flavor. Blah. I picked out the now-soggy pieces of fruit and ate them to console myself. The piña colada infusion had to go too. Too coconuty, even for someone who loves coconut.

Some of the teas that are planning to stay on my shelf are: Japanese cherry (green), black tea with rose, caramelized almond (black), green with pomegranate, and one called 1,001 nights, a green blend that is exotic, romantic, and not at all watery.

What about you? Are you a tea drinker? If so, which flavors do you like? Any suggestions for non-caffeinated, non-watery-infusion, non-rooibos varieties?

Mr. Rochester

I don’t know his name
But just suppose it’s Mr. Rochester
Who
Doesn’t hide his melancholy from the world.

I meet his appraising gaze
Over the cash register.
“Aren’t you going to seat me?”
Grunt.
Thump.
His cane hits the counter.

I smile unnecessarily
For the brightness of my countenance is lost
On its wretched observer.
“Right away, sir.”
Normal seat at booth five
Where he has the restaurant under surveillance.

“Coffee!”
I help remove his sweater and tuck away his cane.
“Coffee!”
As if I have forgotten.
I flee his scathing presence but return
To serve the coffee.
“Where’s my cream and sugar?”
“In front of you, sir.” Then, “As always.”
I add the last
Not to spite him,
But to pacify my own irritation.

(I wrote this narrative free verse years ago while working at a restaurant. I stumbled across it the other day and started to laugh. I think there was more than one Mr. Rochester during my years in the restaurant industry!)

Photo by Colin Maynard on Unsplash

Lose your life for my sake: Remembering Grandpa

What does it mean to lose my life for Christ’s sake?

I was sitting on a park bench, feeling the warm sun just under the gentle breeze of a perfect day.

Florence, Italy. My sister, my friend, and I had been planning this trip for months. Flights, buses, trains, shuttles, airbnbs, tourist sites.

But there in the park, I was thinking about losing life. Because while we were still in Madrid, Grandpa had passed from this world to the next.

“Dad, should we cancel our trip?” I would not have been able to travel back for the funeral anyway, but being on a belated 30th birthday trip while my family mourned…

“Absolutely do not cancel your trip!”

So here I sat in Florence, pondering Matthew 10 on the day of Grandpa’s visitation. Have I found life by losing it? This familiar passage wasn’t making sense anymore.

The late cappuccino (we had defied the culture by sipping our cappuccino after 11 a.m.) was still taking effect. Just over the mesh-lined fence, tennis players swung rackets at a yellow ball. I could barely see them, but I heard them. Grunt. Thwack. Grunt. Thwack. “Out!”

Am I worthy of Christ? Do I love Him more than family? Have I taken up my cross?

In Italy—in a world so different from the one I grew up in—it was hard to understand that Grandpa was gone. But I let my mind drift through memories.

Hours and hours of reading “Burn-stin Bear” books and “Dead-Eye Dick.” Patiently teaching us grandchildren (his “coochtie boochties”) to play 42. “Honda” rides. Issuing drivers’ licenses for the golf cart. Constantly wanting to tape record his little grandchildren singing songs. Sketching maps that directed us past where this or that “used to be” as if we had been born in his generation. Chanting “Cumbine coorn and cumbine be-eans,” as we pulled ourselves up to sit with him in the combine. Giving us “bubble gums” from the door pocket of his F-150, the one that had the automatic window buttons in little blue and red bubbles that I would run my fingers over while I waited for my gum.

Letting Grandpa serve you something from the shop was always exciting because it was fascinating to watch him prepare something from his stash of snacks. (Did you know you can make hot chocolate from microwaving chocolate milk? Or a “roastin’ ear” by microwaving an ear of sweet corn wrapped in a wet paper towel?) Sunday night at Grandpa and Grandma’s typically included helping Grandpa get the ice cream out of the “shed” and hiding a pickle or an olive under the heaping scoops in Dad’s ice cream bowl.

And then Grandpa began to get older and frail. Some of his stories came out confused. His tall body began to shrink. His blue eyes got watery. But those watery eyes always brightened when he talked about his grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

When I told him goodbye last summer, I wondered if he would remember that I was going back to Spain.

Grandpa had dozed off while Grandma and I were chatting. “Touch his shoulder,” Grandma said.

I touched his shoulder and his blue eyes opened. Instead of watery, his eyes were clear as they stared up at me wordlessly.

“I’m going to go Grandpa. And I wanted to tell you goodbye.”

The clear, blue eyes continued to stare for several long moments. Had he heard me?

And then, “Kiss on the cheek!” So he remembered that my goodbye was longer than a “see you later.” I leaned over to hug him, kiss his cheek, and let him kiss mine.

My voice was still cheerful as I said, “If I don’t see you here again, I’ll see you in a much better place!”

He smiled. I cried. He was silent as I hugged him again.

That goodbye felt like a closed chapter in my life. It was one that I mourned, not only that day but also when Grandma passed away in November. And now again while sitting on that park bench, trying to register the reality of Grandpa’s death.

Death is real. It’s ugly. It hurts.

But what does it mean to lose my life for Christ’s sake? My mingling thoughts that late Florence morning brought me here: It isn’t until you die that the greatest potential for life is set before you.

The pepper coffee experience

I’m not an expert on pepper coffee. But I might be a little more experienced than I was a week ago. My roommate and I both love coffee, so we were excited to try this Senegalese twist on our favorite drink.

I found the package one day as I was browsing through the African shop down the street. Fascinated, I took the package to the cashier. “Fatima, what is this?”

Fatima explained that many Senegalese drink coffee with pepper in it.

No way.

Step #1: Buying the coffee

A couple of weeks later, my roommate and I traipsed into the shop, looking like vagabonds. We were on our way home from a long day, carrying an armload of empty jars and a container of leftover dessert.

When we set the coffee on the counter, a concerned customer interrupted the sale. “Do you know this coffee?” he asked.

“Yes, yes,” we assured him. “We want to try it!”

The man and the store owners tried to explain how to prepare their special drink. But they were still skeptical as we, our empty jars, our leftover dessert, and our pepper coffee pranced out the door.

Step #2: Research

I wasn’t sure how to prepare it, so I pulled up trusty Google.

I found some interesting websites, one even claiming that a nickname for pepper coffee is “kerosene.” Yikes.

It turns out that one can prepare the coffee pretty much any way they want to. That was a relief since we don’t own many fancy coffee-making devices.

Step #3: Making the coffee

We opened the pepper coffee package together and took long sniffs.

Roommate: “It smells like a gift store.”
Me: “It smells like dirt.”
Roommate: “I think I’m having a better experience than you.”

We dumped it in the coffee maker and my roommate dug around in her room until she unearthed a darling little cup and saucer set.

Step #4: Tasting the coffee

coffee pot pouring into small cup and saucer

Traditionally the coffee is hot and sweet. I opted to add sugar right away to get the full experience. My roommate decided to taste it solo.

Roommate: (WITHOUT sugar and wincing)
Me: (WITH sugar and wincing) I think it’s probably better with sugar.
Roommate: It is. I’m positive!

So what is it like? The flavor is not quite like anything I’ve ever experienced. A marriage of spiced tea and coffee. A gift shop. It’s hard to explain.

The next time I try it, I will remove all notions of coffee and try to enjoy it for the unique blend of flavors that it is. But it’s going to take more than one cup.

20 more things I’m thankful for

A night full of sleep and an unresented morning
Early morning messages that change the day’s agenda
Together giggles to lighten a disturbing situation
Handwashed clothes dripping into floor puddles
Picnic lunches that are fun to pack and fun to eat
A little boy casting shadows on an unceasing stream
Giddy laughter and story-telling from children having fun
A clock with a slow heartbeat
Maps covering the wall
The trickle of filtering water
Creamy iced coffee
Honesty that comes genuinely but not harshly
The far away booms of fireworks
Black mountain silhouettes
A thousand nooks and crannies of foothills
The delight of gift-giving
Old city streets baked in the sun
Cool tile floors
Days that don’t end in the woes I had imagined
Plan B when Plan A vanishes