One of the most amusing aspects of living here continues to be discovering the differences in how Spaniards and Americans eat. We humans hold our eating habits very near and dear to our hearts, both individually and culturally, so it almost always produces strong reactions when we are confronted with something we consider strange in the food world.
While trying not to place positive or negative value on these differences, I do nonetheless get quite a kick out of them.
In honor of tomorrow's holiday dedicated to stuffing our faces, here are a few of my food-related observations:
1. Cookies are an acceptable breakfast food...
2. However yogurt is a dessert.
3. And I've only seen people eat eggs for lunch or dinner.
4. Oldest thought it was gross I had a glass of milk in the afternoon with my bizcocho (essentially like coffeecake)...
5. But doesn't think orange juice is primarily a morning drink.
6. Neither does Oldest believe in the wonder of leftover pizza... My American college student sensibilities are deeply troubled by this.
7. Cups of coffee (which you would assume rarely spill) get their own plate...
8. But bread (which leaves a pile of crumbs without exception) is placed directly on the table.
9. Nobody seems to eat or drink on the go. I don't even see to-go mugs for drinks in anyone's hands. (No Starbucks holiday cup crisis in Spain, at least...)
10. Coffee- apparently always in the form of espresso- can acceptably be taken with or without milk, however people are universally shocked that I like mine without sugar.
11. Breakfast is whenever you wake up, lunchtime is around 2:30, and dinner is never earlier than 8:30.
12. Still trying to figure out what exactly is "dried fruits" (frutas secas) vs "nuts" (nueces). Unlike in English where fruit is fruit and nuts are nuts, some of what we Anglophones call nuts are in the category of frutas secas. Lots of confusion over this one.
Happy Turkey Day to my fellow estadounidenses!
Wednesday, November 25, 2015
Monday, November 23, 2015
Getting Off the Map
Sunday morning found me walking through the pouring rain while it was still dark to catch a bus to the mountains with Auseva, the hiking group my Tuesday morning tandem recommended to me. Definitely a morning that seemed better suited for staying in bed with a book, but it ended up being well worth the separation from my pillow.
I feel like, for me at least, far too many of my excursions into nature are only fully appreciated after the fact. Don't get me wrong - I love camping and hiking and playing in the woods. But you inevitably end up spending a lot of time hungry, cold, wet, tired, etc. and it seems like I can only get to the point of "That was awesome!!" once I'm back to my creature comforts and the edge has worn off that part of the experience. So I promised myself I'd make a conscious effort to enjoy this excursion in the moment. I wasn't going to spend the whole day wishing my feet weren't so tired only to turn around and realize I'd had a great time the moment I got home.
My good attitude kicked in on the right trip apparently, because the line between adventure and disaster sure did get awfully blurry at times....
Up the Mountain
I'm a little hazy on where exactly we went, but I am fairly certain it was somewhere in the Picos de Europa National Park. We had to ditch our planned route last minute on account of the weather. As the bus wound its way up into the mountains, the snow progressed from a picturesque dusting over the clay tile rooftops of the completely still little villages we passed, to a 3-inch blanket camouflaging the last of the fall colors in the woods.
Our group consisted of about 20 adults with a median age somewhere in the 40's. There were certainly some in their 30's, but I was clearly the baby. As soon as you put them in the woods, however, age disappeared. As we progressed upwards, the snow deepened to mid-calf, to knee-deep, and finally to mid-thigh. Everyone's sense of mischief apparently increased proportionally, because people were constantly shaking branches to create mini avalanches, throwing snowballs or shoving people into snowdrifts as our path meandered between sweeping vistas and wooded stretches.
It never stopped snowing once the entire day. Big, fat, lazy, storybook snowflakes the whole time. Everyone fell silent as we climbed and there was that complete, soothing stillness you can only find in the wilderness, broken only by the muffled squeak of our footsteps. By the time we reached our highest point, the whole world was a whitescape. The separation between the silhouettes of the surrounding peaks and the flat, white sky was indiscernible.
We Arrive in Narnia
We dropped down from the peak into an unbelievably beautiful stretch of forest. The bare branches of all the trees were perfectly iced with a thick layer of snow, that occasionally came down in a sparkling shower when a breeze moved through. The snowflakes continued to fall unceasingly around us. We alternated between awed silence and childlike joy. As our route continued steeply downwards, we frequently gave in to the temptation to run downhill in flying leaps. The drifts were thick enough to cushion any misstep, and occasionally someone's miscalculation would leave a colorful streak of upturned fall leaves.
Things Go Downhill (Literally and Figuratively)
I never thought this would happen, but I seem to have gained a reputation for being exceptionally cold tolerant. Maybe it was inevitable after living in the U.P. for 4 years (in a drafty, old house we were too cheap to heat properly, no less...), but I had certainly never noticed it. The temperature hovered around freezing. I was NOT prepared for an all-day snowstorm in the mountains - both through my own fault and an unfortunate lack of available gear. On the way up, I was able to compensate for my lack of boot gaiters (polainas, en español. Adding that to my list of weird words I never expected to learn.) by following closely in the others' footsteps. But on the way down I had to compensate for my lack of trekking poles by not following the packed path, so I was less likely to slip. By the time we were coming out of the enchanted woods into open ground, I was soaked through to the skin, including my boots. Fortunately I wasn't cold in the least thanks to the lack of wind and our steady pace.
The trouble started when we got lost. Between changing our route last minute and landmarks disappearing under the drifts, there was a lot of room for error. While the leaders debated, the rest of us milled around in the snow and my imagination started to run wild the second I started shivering. I might impress the Spaniards with the fact that I don't feel the need to wear a down coat when it's 45 degrees outside, but I'm a gecko under a heat lamp in my soul. I know all too well that wet clothing is one of the biggest dangers of winter hiking. I immediately started picturing what would happen when it got dark and we were still lost in the mountains and... that's where the better part of my brain went, "WHOA. Shut up, eat your cookie, and wiggle your damn toes."
Finally we bushwhacked our way down a steep bank and quickly found the little clump of cabins that were our landmark to stop and eat. I would have much rather kept moving, but even shivering through our rest period, it was a huge relief knowing we had found a clearly marked path again.
Final Stretch
The last hour or two took us through a winding country road, past mossy stone fences and placid cows wearing old-school cowbells. I warmed up again as soon as we started moving, and just did my best to ignore the extremely unpleasant sensation of sopping wet socks and boots. We met the bus in an adorable little village where we stopped for drinks and snacks at a little bar where the power had gone out. I had a cup of instant coffee with milk that came directly from Heaven itself. Predictably, my chill set in for good once we weren't moving, but I tried to socialize and avoid thinking about the long bus ride in wet boots ahead of me. But you know - just when you think you can't wait another second for a hot shower and a warm pair of socks - leave it to the Spanish to break out the orange liqueur on the bus...
I feel like, for me at least, far too many of my excursions into nature are only fully appreciated after the fact. Don't get me wrong - I love camping and hiking and playing in the woods. But you inevitably end up spending a lot of time hungry, cold, wet, tired, etc. and it seems like I can only get to the point of "That was awesome!!" once I'm back to my creature comforts and the edge has worn off that part of the experience. So I promised myself I'd make a conscious effort to enjoy this excursion in the moment. I wasn't going to spend the whole day wishing my feet weren't so tired only to turn around and realize I'd had a great time the moment I got home.
My good attitude kicked in on the right trip apparently, because the line between adventure and disaster sure did get awfully blurry at times....
Up the Mountain
I'm a little hazy on where exactly we went, but I am fairly certain it was somewhere in the Picos de Europa National Park. We had to ditch our planned route last minute on account of the weather. As the bus wound its way up into the mountains, the snow progressed from a picturesque dusting over the clay tile rooftops of the completely still little villages we passed, to a 3-inch blanket camouflaging the last of the fall colors in the woods.
It never stopped snowing once the entire day. Big, fat, lazy, storybook snowflakes the whole time. Everyone fell silent as we climbed and there was that complete, soothing stillness you can only find in the wilderness, broken only by the muffled squeak of our footsteps. By the time we reached our highest point, the whole world was a whitescape. The separation between the silhouettes of the surrounding peaks and the flat, white sky was indiscernible.
We Arrive in Narnia
We dropped down from the peak into an unbelievably beautiful stretch of forest. The bare branches of all the trees were perfectly iced with a thick layer of snow, that occasionally came down in a sparkling shower when a breeze moved through. The snowflakes continued to fall unceasingly around us. We alternated between awed silence and childlike joy. As our route continued steeply downwards, we frequently gave in to the temptation to run downhill in flying leaps. The drifts were thick enough to cushion any misstep, and occasionally someone's miscalculation would leave a colorful streak of upturned fall leaves.
Things Go Downhill (Literally and Figuratively)
I never thought this would happen, but I seem to have gained a reputation for being exceptionally cold tolerant. Maybe it was inevitable after living in the U.P. for 4 years (in a drafty, old house we were too cheap to heat properly, no less...), but I had certainly never noticed it. The temperature hovered around freezing. I was NOT prepared for an all-day snowstorm in the mountains - both through my own fault and an unfortunate lack of available gear. On the way up, I was able to compensate for my lack of boot gaiters (polainas, en español. Adding that to my list of weird words I never expected to learn.) by following closely in the others' footsteps. But on the way down I had to compensate for my lack of trekking poles by not following the packed path, so I was less likely to slip. By the time we were coming out of the enchanted woods into open ground, I was soaked through to the skin, including my boots. Fortunately I wasn't cold in the least thanks to the lack of wind and our steady pace.
Finally we bushwhacked our way down a steep bank and quickly found the little clump of cabins that were our landmark to stop and eat. I would have much rather kept moving, but even shivering through our rest period, it was a huge relief knowing we had found a clearly marked path again.
Final Stretch
The last hour or two took us through a winding country road, past mossy stone fences and placid cows wearing old-school cowbells. I warmed up again as soon as we started moving, and just did my best to ignore the extremely unpleasant sensation of sopping wet socks and boots. We met the bus in an adorable little village where we stopped for drinks and snacks at a little bar where the power had gone out. I had a cup of instant coffee with milk that came directly from Heaven itself. Predictably, my chill set in for good once we weren't moving, but I tried to socialize and avoid thinking about the long bus ride in wet boots ahead of me. But you know - just when you think you can't wait another second for a hot shower and a warm pair of socks - leave it to the Spanish to break out the orange liqueur on the bus...
Friday, November 20, 2015
Walk the Talk
My wildly popular ability to speak English as a first language is filling my social calendar and my wallet, and putting a surprising amount of miles on my shoes.
My lovely chain of connections around Oviedo continues to grow one link at a time. B introduced me to a friend of hers who wanted an English reading partner for her 12-year-old daughter, filling my Thursday evenings. That friend in turn introduced me to another friend who wanted a reading buddy for her 5- and 7-year-old kids, a job for Tuesday evenings. I also met her 18-year-old niece who wanted an English conversation partner, so now we have a standing Friday morning date for our tandem (We take turns speaking in Spanish and English so we both get to practice). This past week B introduced me to a friend of hers from her English course who also wanted to do a tandem, which we've agreed to do Tuesday and/or Thursday mornings.
Thanks to these tandems, I spend a LOT of time walking around Oviedo. We wander around downtown, stroll through Parque San Francisco, follow the running path in Parque de Invierno. Hours upon hours of walking through Oviedo in all its hilly glory.
Now, to top if off, my newest link found out I love to hike and connected me to a friend of hers who is part of a local hiking club. They go into the mountains every other Sunday for 6-8 hours treks. I'm going to try it out for the first time this coming Sunday. I strongly suspect it's going to kick my butt, but I suppose that's the price I pay for the wine... the baguettes... the chorizo... the bizcocho... the Friday cookies...
My lovely chain of connections around Oviedo continues to grow one link at a time. B introduced me to a friend of hers who wanted an English reading partner for her 12-year-old daughter, filling my Thursday evenings. That friend in turn introduced me to another friend who wanted a reading buddy for her 5- and 7-year-old kids, a job for Tuesday evenings. I also met her 18-year-old niece who wanted an English conversation partner, so now we have a standing Friday morning date for our tandem (We take turns speaking in Spanish and English so we both get to practice). This past week B introduced me to a friend of hers from her English course who also wanted to do a tandem, which we've agreed to do Tuesday and/or Thursday mornings.
Thanks to these tandems, I spend a LOT of time walking around Oviedo. We wander around downtown, stroll through Parque San Francisco, follow the running path in Parque de Invierno. Hours upon hours of walking through Oviedo in all its hilly glory.
Now, to top if off, my newest link found out I love to hike and connected me to a friend of hers who is part of a local hiking club. They go into the mountains every other Sunday for 6-8 hours treks. I'm going to try it out for the first time this coming Sunday. I strongly suspect it's going to kick my butt, but I suppose that's the price I pay for the wine... the baguettes... the chorizo... the bizcocho... the Friday cookies...
Thursday, November 12, 2015
Well Said, Johann
I got to thinking today about what I might want to blog about since it's been a few days, and came up empty. It's been a pretty run-of-the-mill week, aside from a stomach flu apparently going around. I've finished my two grad school applications. Continuing to fight fires in SSF, our non-profit, that are really more of just an eternal flame. I pick Little up from school with Toro every day, do a LOT of homework with her - third grade in Spain is absolutely brutal. (On the upside, I never expected to know how to say esternocleidomastoideo in Spanish, but it's a relevant speech muscle so... thanks, elementary school science...) I do my English lessons with all my girls as often as their crazy schedules permit. Honestly, unless you're interested in hearing about Little's escapades with long vs. short vowels or Middle's ongoing battle of the adverbs, my daily life is not much to write home about.
That sorta bugged me at first. I mean, I moved to Europe for adventures and new experiences, but the reality is 95% of the time I lead a very normal life, discounting the whole bilingual element.
Then the quote I used at the top of this blog started bouncing around in my head. "Although I am still the same I believe to have changed to the bones."
It struck me that this - this lull, this daily grind, this comfortable routine I've formed - is exactly the other half of the reason I came here. My passion for experiencing new places comes from two seemingly opposing roots:
One, my love for the discovery of the new and strange and exciting.
Two, my love for the discovery of the normal and comfortable that is always hiding underneath.
I LOVE knowing that anywhere in the world can be home. Everyone's ordinary is someone else's extraordinary. The backdrop may change, and of course you're going to have your preferences, but you can carve out a niche for yourself wherever life may take you. How incredibly liberating is that?? My favorite part of traveling - a close second only to the moment you encounter something new - is the moment that same thing becomes normal. It's the moment your comfort zone has inched outward just that much further.
It seems like a paradox, to be the same and yet to fundamentally change.
But I think I understand what he's talking about. It's a growth process, like adding rings to a tree. What was there hasn't changed, but neither is it the same.
This in turn made me think of my group of college roommates-turned-family. We're a college senior in a climbing co-op, a farmer in northern Michigan, a tour guide in Washington D.C., a restoration ecologist in Chicago, a sailor in the Caribbean, and an au pair in Spain.
But whether we are taking in the view from the top of the Washington Monument or drifting past the volcanoes of Saint Eustatius, the day-to-day of our lives still revolves around that sacred first cup of coffee in the morning (You know who you are, black sheep. Go back to your skittles and popcorn.) and the new shows we've discovered on Netflix.
There's no where you can go and no one you can be without simultaneously finding you're still simply you inside the personal orbit of your everyday existence. And it doesn't mean you're not growing.
That sorta bugged me at first. I mean, I moved to Europe for adventures and new experiences, but the reality is 95% of the time I lead a very normal life, discounting the whole bilingual element.
Then the quote I used at the top of this blog started bouncing around in my head. "Although I am still the same I believe to have changed to the bones."
It struck me that this - this lull, this daily grind, this comfortable routine I've formed - is exactly the other half of the reason I came here. My passion for experiencing new places comes from two seemingly opposing roots:
One, my love for the discovery of the new and strange and exciting.
Two, my love for the discovery of the normal and comfortable that is always hiding underneath.
I LOVE knowing that anywhere in the world can be home. Everyone's ordinary is someone else's extraordinary. The backdrop may change, and of course you're going to have your preferences, but you can carve out a niche for yourself wherever life may take you. How incredibly liberating is that?? My favorite part of traveling - a close second only to the moment you encounter something new - is the moment that same thing becomes normal. It's the moment your comfort zone has inched outward just that much further.
It seems like a paradox, to be the same and yet to fundamentally change.
But I think I understand what he's talking about. It's a growth process, like adding rings to a tree. What was there hasn't changed, but neither is it the same.
This in turn made me think of my group of college roommates-turned-family. We're a college senior in a climbing co-op, a farmer in northern Michigan, a tour guide in Washington D.C., a restoration ecologist in Chicago, a sailor in the Caribbean, and an au pair in Spain.
But whether we are taking in the view from the top of the Washington Monument or drifting past the volcanoes of Saint Eustatius, the day-to-day of our lives still revolves around that sacred first cup of coffee in the morning (You know who you are, black sheep. Go back to your skittles and popcorn.) and the new shows we've discovered on Netflix.
There's no where you can go and no one you can be without simultaneously finding you're still simply you inside the personal orbit of your everyday existence. And it doesn't mean you're not growing.
Sunday, November 8, 2015
Meet Cutes
I've been thinking a lot about all the unobtrusive ways important people enter our lives. It just really tickles me to think about how you hardly ever know in the moment that a significant event has occurred.
Case in point, I met a Dane in front of a bank one afternoon in Ghana. We got to chatting because yevus always like to know what other yevus are doing in Africa. Little did I know that this chance encounter brought me one of my closest friends and the person who was to become my NGO co-founder three years later.
Less than a year after that, I heard someone talking about Ann Arbor while I struggled to lock my dorm during orientation weekend at NMU. I went to investigate and met Rachel, who graduated from the same high school a year after me. I never talked to Rachel again after that weekend - but her orientation roommate Hillary and I got along so well we decided to try rooming together. We lived no more than 20 feet apart until the day we walked to commencement together, and met our best friends and roommates in similarly mundane circumstances.
I forced myself to go out one Friday night, feeling lonely and discouraged after my first full week in Spain. It honestly took a lot just to force myself to walk into a place. Even more to walk up to the bar. The moment I did, however, a kind man offered to buy me a drink. As soon as he discovered that I was new to the city/country/continent, he started doing his best to help me meet people. To my horror, this involved grabbing some poor girl, pushing her in front of me, and saying, "Hey, give her your number; she needs friends" while I apologized profusely.
Not exactly mundane, I suppose, but neither was it an incident I expected to have lasting importance.
A month later, Mica and I have seen each other at least once every week. She has introduced me to her friends, invites me whenever she goes out on weekends, and asks me to meet up for coffee or cider. We took the 30-ish minute bus ride to Gijón yesterday, a larger city on the coast, just to explore and spend some down time walking by the ocean.
It's obviously too soon to know if this friendship will have the same long-lasting impact that my introductions to Karina and Hillary have. What I do know is that Mica has given me the one thing that guarantees my survival in a place that doesn't yet feel like home: a real friend.
I really believe the only reason I can cope with living in new places - new countries - is my eternal hope that every time I walk out the door I might meet a new important person.
All it takes is a lack of ATM in Dzodze... or the inability to lock a door...
or a random guy in a random bar to grab a random girl and demand that you be friends.
You just never know.
Case in point, I met a Dane in front of a bank one afternoon in Ghana. We got to chatting because yevus always like to know what other yevus are doing in Africa. Little did I know that this chance encounter brought me one of my closest friends and the person who was to become my NGO co-founder three years later.
Less than a year after that, I heard someone talking about Ann Arbor while I struggled to lock my dorm during orientation weekend at NMU. I went to investigate and met Rachel, who graduated from the same high school a year after me. I never talked to Rachel again after that weekend - but her orientation roommate Hillary and I got along so well we decided to try rooming together. We lived no more than 20 feet apart until the day we walked to commencement together, and met our best friends and roommates in similarly mundane circumstances.
I forced myself to go out one Friday night, feeling lonely and discouraged after my first full week in Spain. It honestly took a lot just to force myself to walk into a place. Even more to walk up to the bar. The moment I did, however, a kind man offered to buy me a drink. As soon as he discovered that I was new to the city/country/continent, he started doing his best to help me meet people. To my horror, this involved grabbing some poor girl, pushing her in front of me, and saying, "Hey, give her your number; she needs friends" while I apologized profusely.
Not exactly mundane, I suppose, but neither was it an incident I expected to have lasting importance.
A month later, Mica and I have seen each other at least once every week. She has introduced me to her friends, invites me whenever she goes out on weekends, and asks me to meet up for coffee or cider. We took the 30-ish minute bus ride to Gijón yesterday, a larger city on the coast, just to explore and spend some down time walking by the ocean.
It's obviously too soon to know if this friendship will have the same long-lasting impact that my introductions to Karina and Hillary have. What I do know is that Mica has given me the one thing that guarantees my survival in a place that doesn't yet feel like home: a real friend.
I really believe the only reason I can cope with living in new places - new countries - is my eternal hope that every time I walk out the door I might meet a new important person.
All it takes is a lack of ATM in Dzodze... or the inability to lock a door...
or a random guy in a random bar to grab a random girl and demand that you be friends.
You just never know.
Friday, November 6, 2015
Friday Night Cookies
After a week full of writing a gazillion versions of story problems for Little about cookies on trays, it's finally Friday evening - aka time to make actual cookies in the au pair world. Here's a little insider advice if you ever find crazed 8-year-olds, sneaky German Shepherds, and two entirely different systems of measurement between you and warm, gooey cookies.
Heat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit.
Oven is in Celsius. Do quick conversion on phone. Set as close as possible.
Melt 16 tablespoons butter.
No actual measuring spoons in this house. Butter label is marked in grams.
"Like this much?" "Errmm...Keep scooping, Little."
Cream butter with 1 cup white sugar and 1/2 cup brown sugar.
There are no measuring tools marked in cups. Grab a kiddie cup. Eyeball it.
Beat in 2 eggs.
Thank God for an objective measurement finally.
Add 2 teaspoons vanilla extract.
Okee dokee, 2 capfuls it is.
Add 1/2 teaspoon salt, 1 teaspoon baking powder, and 3 cups of flour.
Now we're just throwing ingredients in willy-nilly. This is entirely an intuitive process at this point.
Little: "Our cookies need more cauliflower!!!"
Instruct Little for the thousandth time to stop licking her fingers and sticking them back into the dough.
Immediately lick fingers clean while turning to grab something.
Decide that a little hypocrisy is one of the rights of adulthood when it gets you more cookie dough.
Add 3 cups chocolate chips.
Here's a measurement the whole world ignores anyway!
Finally some cultural carryover!
Remind Little again she really really cannot bite into a piece of chocolate and dip the other half into the dough, even though you're making a mental note to do exactly that in the future.
Start scooping cookies onto trays.
Try to contain the mess without leaving the dough balls unsupervised. Little seems to constantly have something in her mouth. Apparently now you're playing Red Light, Green Light with the dog because every time you turn back around he is noticeably closer to the table without ever having seemed to move.
Bake 9-11 minutes.
Pull out phone for a conversion before remembering minutes are still minutes.
Put first batch of cookies into oven.
Dog has reached table. He pretends not to speak English when you try to kick him out of the kitchen.
30 minutes later - dishes scrubbed, counters wiped, Little happily watching cartoons - decide you have thoroughly earned a pre-dinner cookie.
And just like magic, with cookie in hand, the dog is suddenly bilingual again.
Heat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit.
Oven is in Celsius. Do quick conversion on phone. Set as close as possible.
Melt 16 tablespoons butter.
No actual measuring spoons in this house. Butter label is marked in grams.
"Like this much?" "Errmm...Keep scooping, Little."
Cream butter with 1 cup white sugar and 1/2 cup brown sugar.
There are no measuring tools marked in cups. Grab a kiddie cup. Eyeball it.
Beat in 2 eggs.
Thank God for an objective measurement finally.
Add 2 teaspoons vanilla extract.
Okee dokee, 2 capfuls it is.
Add 1/2 teaspoon salt, 1 teaspoon baking powder, and 3 cups of flour.
Now we're just throwing ingredients in willy-nilly. This is entirely an intuitive process at this point.
Little: "Our cookies need more cauliflower!!!"
Instruct Little for the thousandth time to stop licking her fingers and sticking them back into the dough.
Immediately lick fingers clean while turning to grab something.
Decide that a little hypocrisy is one of the rights of adulthood when it gets you more cookie dough.
Add 3 cups chocolate chips.
Here's a measurement the whole world ignores anyway!
Finally some cultural carryover!
Remind Little again she really really cannot bite into a piece of chocolate and dip the other half into the dough, even though you're making a mental note to do exactly that in the future.
Start scooping cookies onto trays.
Try to contain the mess without leaving the dough balls unsupervised. Little seems to constantly have something in her mouth. Apparently now you're playing Red Light, Green Light with the dog because every time you turn back around he is noticeably closer to the table without ever having seemed to move.
Bake 9-11 minutes.
Pull out phone for a conversion before remembering minutes are still minutes.
Put first batch of cookies into oven.
Dog has reached table. He pretends not to speak English when you try to kick him out of the kitchen.
30 minutes later - dishes scrubbed, counters wiped, Little happily watching cartoons - decide you have thoroughly earned a pre-dinner cookie.
And just like magic, with cookie in hand, the dog is suddenly bilingual again.
Monday, November 2, 2015
El Sonido de la Lluvia
I'm having a case of insomnia, and subsequently experiencing a unique witching hour when most of both Spain and Michigan are asleep. With a six hour time difference, this doesn't happen often. I suppose it could be lonely, knowing I'm just about the only one awake. Instead, laying here in the dark, listening to the rain pattering on the windows, I am enjoying the thought that from Chicago to Oviedo the people I care about are all safely tucked in bed.
It's the magic of the rain.
We have this saying in Michigan: "Don't like the weather? Wait five minutes."
With the exception of the occasional summer storm, it's pretty rare for it to rain for more than a few hours at a time. Actually it's rare for Michigan's weather to do anything consistent for more than a few hours at a time.
Oviedo, in contrast, is famously (or infamously) rainy. There are times when it's forecasted to rain for more than 24 hours straight - and to my surprise, it really does. I've woken up before at 5 a.m. to the sound of rain, and it will still be raining when I go to bed at midnight. Asturianos carry umbrellas the way most of the world wears sunglasses.
Maybe I'm crazy, but I love it.
Rain makes me want to wear sweaters and drink coffee and read something written before 1900. I got my first kiss in the rain. One of my favorite memories with my roommate of four years is of us standing in a street running 6 inches deep with water during a storm, laughing like lunatics with all the other people who felt inexplicably compelled to do the same.
But my true love for the rain started when I was living in Ghana.
I moved there during the rainy season, during which it typically pours for a couple hours in the morning and a couple hours at night. The sound of the rain on our metal roof could drown out everything else. Even when I wondered how our house could possibly stay standing, the incredible force of it was like putting pressure on a wound. I convinced myself that I wasn't allowed to be homesick when it was raining - and it worked. That roar could fill my head and silence everything else.
I'm not particularly homesick here, but even so the sound of the rain has the same soothing effect. There are a million and one ways to feel at home somewhere. For me, it's as simple as rain hitting the windows.
Happy one month anniversary, Spain.
It's the magic of the rain.
We have this saying in Michigan: "Don't like the weather? Wait five minutes."
With the exception of the occasional summer storm, it's pretty rare for it to rain for more than a few hours at a time. Actually it's rare for Michigan's weather to do anything consistent for more than a few hours at a time.
Oviedo, in contrast, is famously (or infamously) rainy. There are times when it's forecasted to rain for more than 24 hours straight - and to my surprise, it really does. I've woken up before at 5 a.m. to the sound of rain, and it will still be raining when I go to bed at midnight. Asturianos carry umbrellas the way most of the world wears sunglasses.
Maybe I'm crazy, but I love it.
Rain makes me want to wear sweaters and drink coffee and read something written before 1900. I got my first kiss in the rain. One of my favorite memories with my roommate of four years is of us standing in a street running 6 inches deep with water during a storm, laughing like lunatics with all the other people who felt inexplicably compelled to do the same.
But my true love for the rain started when I was living in Ghana.
I moved there during the rainy season, during which it typically pours for a couple hours in the morning and a couple hours at night. The sound of the rain on our metal roof could drown out everything else. Even when I wondered how our house could possibly stay standing, the incredible force of it was like putting pressure on a wound. I convinced myself that I wasn't allowed to be homesick when it was raining - and it worked. That roar could fill my head and silence everything else.
I'm not particularly homesick here, but even so the sound of the rain has the same soothing effect. There are a million and one ways to feel at home somewhere. For me, it's as simple as rain hitting the windows.
Happy one month anniversary, Spain.
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