Sonos Familiares

Here I was in Madrid, on the first days of my long-anticipated European travel adventure with John. In the preceding weeks, we had spent hours together online scouring agoda.com and TripAdvisor picking out hotels and reading Rick Steves’ recommendations on what to do if you only had 2 days to spend in Seville.

We managed to get to our hotel from the Madrid airport using the Metro (which would have been a snap if we weren’t lugging over-packed suitcases through their multi-level, elevator challenged stations). John already had a few friendly conversations with a couple bartenders (en Espanol) as we educated ourselves on tapas, and I felt like sighing, “Eh Toto. I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.”

My first observations were about the little ways the locals (dare I call them Madridniks?) did things differently. They didn’t seem to eat dinner before 9:00. (They also, I soon learned, might not come home from a night of drinking until 6:00 in the morning.) When we got to our hotel room, we couldn’t figure out how to turn on the lights in the room. (It turned out that you had to put the key in the wall. Very energy conscious, they designed hotel rooms so that guests could not leave lights on when they were out.) And, we couldn’t help but notice how crowded the streets got at night. Couples or girlfriends linked arm in arm Euro-style or families with young children in tow filled Plaza Mayor or the Gran Via eating, drinking, and shopping (how the Spaniards love to shop!) late into the evening.

Wow, what an introduction to Spain! Our hotel was only a few hundred feet up a little alley from the Gran Via (their 5th Avenue). Tiny bodegas, where we could buy juice or coffee, were tucked away in alleys close to trendy night clubs or upscale stores and eateries. Everything was very foreign, but also very Yankee friendly. We drank water straight from our bathroom tap.

I was loving our walks -- and walking, eating and drinking was basically what we did during our first stop in our eighteen day plan. We looked at the architecture and monuments (every square seemed to have a very, very old church and a statue with some guy on a horse). We oogled at typical street scenes like the six block long line we saw near the Musea de Jamon (Ham Museum), a local deli that featured the country’s best Serrano and Iberico hams. Hundreds of people were queued up to buy Christmas lottery tickets. We took frequent rests from our walks, sitting at local tabernas, drinking tinto or rioja and trying to estimate how much the same glass of wine and small appetizer plate would cost in the US. (We seemed able to leave our short, and frequent, wine and tapas stops, happily fed and quenched for ten or fifteen Euros.)

I loved the new sights and smells that surrounded me. I loved having a partner (an excellent map-reader) to share the adventure with, but I realized in some ways I felt isolated. I thrive on words. I revel in small talk with strangers. I like hearing people’s everyday stories, and I don’t speak Spanish. Not beyond the rudimentary phrases, “Hola,” or “Buenos noches,” “Gracias,” and “cerveza fria por favour.” So often, I would overhear conversations on the street and would tug at John’s jacket. “What did they say?” I’d ask him.

Fortunately, we were never far from music. The sounds of gypsy accordion melodies, or crowd pleasing Spanish guitar classics filled the squares. Street musicians could be found almost everywhere people would gather. They’d position coffee cans or their instrument cases nearby to encourage donations. Being able to recognize a song allowed me to feel at home in a place where I did not speak the native tongue.

Monday night, we made our way towards Pura Cepa, a wonderful restaurant a friend recommended. With Metro map in hand, we transferred from the 5 line to the 6 line, took the escalator up a few flights then walked up the very long ramp of the O’Donnell stop up to street level. The pedestrian tunnel was washed in a bluish light. I could see the thin silhouette of a single guitarist, case open at his feet, twenty yards ahead; the only other person in the tunnel. The notes that came out of his guitar were simple and clear.

“Isn’t this an old Beatle song?” I asked John as we reached the steps to the street. He squeezed my hand and sang along with the street musician, a tune I learned later was one of his Fab Four favorites. “..This boy would be good for you…..” Here I was in Madrid, welcoming new experiences and feeling very much at home.

Being touched by a familiar song is no small thing

Between the Lines

Americans are notorious for wanting more. More meat in their sandwiches, more legroom around their airplane seats, more interest on their investments. This holiday season, as it seems I have gone to wage daily battles on striped fields of asphalt all around town, I feel compelled to champion the cause for a new “more.” I want to see more space in parking lots. I want to see a few more inches between the yellow or white, diagonal or precisely perpendicular, painted lines.

When I was young, it seemed that parking spaces, like the lots they inhabited, were in a never-ending state of expansion. Suburban malls were huge, and the parking lots that surrounded them, like protective moats around castles, were spacious beyond belief. They lacked topographical landmarks and the key challenge they posed was remembering where you parked your car. As a city-dweller, the stores I visit more frequently these days are attached to very small parking lots, and the spaces between the lines at these lots have gotten smaller and smaller.

To some extent, I can understand the perspective of the merchants. They want to get as many customers in their lots as possible. On the other hand, the lanes for navigating these strip mall lots are so narrow they have become a fertile ground for minor accidents and major anxiety. It is very hard to swing a car door open to store something you’d rather not put in your trunk when your car is only 8 inches from that sleek new Infinity (by its I SUE U vanity plates, probably owned by a lawyer) and not fret your brains out.

As an owner of a new car, now dealing with frenetic and dazed Christmas shoppers, my parking lot anxiety has been running at elevated levels. But, I had a little unexpected relief the other day.

I cruised into a mini-mall where they have an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet, a frequently visited Dollar Tree, an express post office (and I use the term “express” paradoxically) and Foremost, one of my favorite places to pick up an everyday wine (see blog post from November 21, 2011).

As the holidays approach, I seem to be visiting my neighborhood liquor store often. The sheer chaos at the “express” post office alone could understandably drive me to drink. Even though I try planning my trips at less congested times, the lot always seems to be crowded, and I dread doing the parking lot squeeze dance, the routine where I will only open the car door just enough to squeeze my body out.

Anyway, I parked easily enough just outside of Foremost. The bigger crowds at the mall were relaying their shipping emergency stories to uninterested clerks at the post office and parked at the other side of the lot. I slowly paced the aisles looking for Day-glo orange “reduced” stickers on some favorite varietals, made my purchase then watched them box my bottles for me.

“Would you like help out to your car?” the owner or manager asked. I nodded and he instructed one of his stock boys to follow me.

A few steps from my car, I engaged my keyless entry device. Without having a chance to call out a warning to be careful not to hit the red SUV parked alongside, Pedro just swung the back door of my silver Jetta open and placed my box on the floor.

Is this a Christmas miracle or something? There was plenty of room in this lot to open a door and actually load my car with goodies.

Sometimes, an extra few inches is no small thing.

The Kitchen Sink

I moved the other week.

Moving is so challenging, so chaotic. So BIG. There’s the physical aspect; all the things, the objects – the stuff that has to be packed or tossed. There are organizational demands like ordering new phone service and changing address records with the post office and one hundred and one creditors. And then there’s the emotional aspect; the exhilaration of starting over and possible regrets over what is being left behind or unfinished.

Once I came to the decision to move, I had to work within a short, one-month, timeframe. Part of my motivation for moving was that I wanted to have a garage for my new car, and I needed to settle in to a new place before Chicago’s brutal winter set in. I found a place I liked within a week of my decision to move, or at least I think I liked it. It was an odd, but unmistakable anxiety that kept filtering through my mind as I packed my dishes and office supplies, as I boxed shelves of CDs and books. Where would everything go? I kept trying to remember what my new home looked like.

In retrospect, it seems funny how such a big decision could be made in a nanosecond. I filled out an application the first time I saw the apartment and coughed up my first month’s rent and security deposit nearly as quickly. I had only seen the place once, for a total of fifteen minutes, before committing. A week before the move, as I was refining my checklists and thinking about how I would make my home at this new address, I realized I couldn’t remember the dimensions and configuration of the bedroom. I couldn’t recall how big any of the closets were.

Only after three movers descended on my School Street address and strapped black Sharpie labeled and neatly stacked boxes to their backs, Sherpa-like, for treks down one second floor walk-up to deposit them on the second floor of a similar building two miles away, did the situation fully sink in. They left me alone at my new place with mountains of corrugated cardboard and a commensurate amount of overwhelm. Only then did I really look at my new home. Only then did I recognize some of the quirks of my new flat on Mozart Street.

I had to discover where the light switches were. Once they were located, I learned most of them were wired backwards. A power on position meant the rocker switch was pointed downwards instead of up. How about the locks? I wondered if I would have to push my hip against the back door to get the dead bolt aligned well enough to lock. The refrigerator, I just now noticed, had a left-handed handle.

One of the oddest things I totally forgot about after my fifteen minute walk-through, was that the kitchen sink was situated in the tightest corner of the room. The kitchen had limited counter space to begin with. And now, I could see that some of that counter space had limited utility because it took the form of a little triangle behind the faucet.

I started ruminating on this situation as a problem that needed to be solved as I peeled sheets of old newspaper off my glassware and vases. After each piece was unwrapped, I unconsciously placed it behind the sink – just to get it out of the way.

Oh my God (or should I say OMG?), I thought, this is perfect! I love the look of the different shaped vases behind the very large stainless basin. With a bloom or two by the window, this will be a wonderful place to wash dishes or prepare meals. What initially appeared to be a problem became a focal point of charm in my new home. And to think, I discovered this by accident, by simply being aware of what the area looked like when I was unpacking.

Letting what is suggest what can be is no small thing.

Stands Alone

Last Friday, I received the news I had been dreading. My friend Chris passed away at 1:30 in the morning. The message, sent as an email by his eldest son, summed up, I think, the feelings of many.

Chris was earnest in enjoying and appreciating life until his last breath. His self-awareness and conscious efforts to focus on the positive allowed him to survive the cancer that was eating up his bones far longer than the medical experts predicted. Like many other times in his life, in response to any challenge he faced, he led with unexpected, often unobservable, strength and tenacity. He had a rare talent for forming deep and meaningful connections with a surprising range of people. Some of his friendships thrived over decades while others ran their course in short order. He made friends with many Thai nationals he met during his military days and sparked relationships of genuine caring with diner waitresses, all between his first cup of coffee and the arrival of his check. His special way with people, built on a deep-rooted respect for their basic humanity, made him stand alone.

His son Chad’s note referred to this gift. He commented on how Chris’s nurse, Eileen, who was only scheduled to work until 10 PM Thursday night, stayed with Chris and his inner circle until 4:00 Friday morning; after Chris’s breath had changed, after his spirit left his body, after stories were shared and tears rolled down cheeks.

Upon getting the news, thoughts flooded my mind. I need to return to my editing project, working on the memoirs Chris wanted to give his two sons. I know the project will be more difficult without my collaborator, but I want to do my best. I thought about how Chris hired me for a sales job twenty or so years ago despite having more experienced candidates to choose from. I thought about how he tracked me down through the Internet after we had lost touch and how we could talk for hours about hoops or baseball. He would recount tales of his many motorcycle adventures, and I would talk about writing ideas I had. I marveled at the way we could express ourselves fully to each other, shining our experience-earned wisdom along with our dreams and vulnerabilities.

I felt so grateful that I got to see him twice this past fall and that he got to meet my new boyfriend (and yes, fueled by a mutual passion for baseball and photography, they seemed to have embarked on their own relationship). I am grateful that I told him I loved him, a simple declaration that should never go unsaid.

All these thoughts of gratitude washed over me, yet in re-reading Chad’s email, some of my gratitude was re-directed. His eldest son and long-time friends Ron and Frank, along with his nurse Eileen, were with him when he died. I felt so grateful to them knowing that Chris was surrounded by love at this time of transition. I knew that Chris couldn’t help but feel their love.

Even the most independent of people need the support of others to make their lives complete. Being with someone even when you can’t exchange words or affect outcomes is no small thing.