Notes from Spain

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 07 May 2011 15:21:00 +0000

I'm not here anymore!!!!!

So, sorry, I had not actually meant to be hiding. I could not get my old posts onto this blog site, so I had to make another. Here is the new address and little preview of the posts:

http://www.drawingimpressions.blogspot.com/

Getting our furniture:

Street Art:

A trip to Barcelona:

And to Southern France:

Graffiti Lover's Corner, I

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 16 Feb 2011 21:10:00 +0000

Graffiti Lover's Corner

Madrid turns out to be a hot spot for graffiti artists. My plan is to post some images of their work each week.

Here we have a series of security doors. The Spaniards are big on fences, gates and such things, and the security doors offer many canvases to the graffiti artists. My apologies to anyone who really knows how to read Spanish. I don't know if there are obscenities on this or not.

The one above I am reasonably sure was not an authorized piece. But what about this one. It is not always easy to tell:

The one below, I am pretty sure was commissioned for a night club.

And this one is definately a bit of advertising:

That is all for now. Hasta Luego!

margotkimball@gmail.com

Hello, Again, Madrid

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 16 Feb 2011 21:09:00 +0000

Well, it all started Saturday morning at 11:00 in the Avis parking lot where we took our 4 cartloads of suitcases. While we were loading the car a couple of men walked by and gave us a yell, telling us to be more careful as our doors were scraping the car next to us. What they should have yelled was '"Hey, be more carful, cuz we are stealing the lady's handbag!" But I guess that would not have worked so well in their favor.

We did not notice the loss till we were almost ready to go. Too late to do more than file a police report. The police that I have seen here seem surprisingly informal and sociable. Like a friendly group of high school kids monitoring the playground. I rather enjoy them, but Adele, who is more safety conscious than me, does not find them reassuring. Matt points out, in their defense, that over here the police are not in such danger of being shot at as they are in the States, so, perhaps they can afford to be relaxed. Here is my rendition, as fish, of the three we dealt with at the airport. Those are tooth picks in their mouths. I guess they were feeling the effects of Spain's new antismoking laws.

If you are surprised to see me rendering them as fish (hmmm... kinda hard to tell in this drawing that they are fish and not just green people without noses or necks) you might want to take a look at my last post - Margot B. Fish's autobiography.

After filling out a police report for the lost passports (three in my bag), and putting freezes on our bank accounts, we packed up the car. With all the bags there was barely room for both girls, and having lost my purse with its contents of books and art supplies, I was feeling a little poorer and opted to go home by the metro rather than a cab. Actually, I was very happy to get back to the Madrid metro.

Spring comes very early in Spain. When we left in November it was much colder. People were not even passing the time at the tables outside of cafes - a rare state of affairs here. But here was the scene outside our apartment when I arrived:

I really had been enjoying that New England winter with tons of snow and the beautiful icicles.

The house we rented in Concord

But, I cannot lie. This is nice. Here is my alter ego, Margot B. Fish, admiring the view from our apartment:

However, my object is not to evoke envy in my family and friends left in the cold. So, lest you cast the evil eye on me, consider that I am still unpacking. Now for the 6th time since August.

This drawing is from my "Life Drawings" collection (see last post) and was for our packing of our house in August, but it works just as well for the other many packs and unpacks.

Comments? Questions? Elaborations? Write to me at margotkimball@gmail.com

See you later, Concord!

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 09 Feb 2011 20:37:00 +0000

Finally! Last Friday we had all our documents assembled and took them to the Spanish Consulate. Yesterday they called to say that they have approved our work and residency permits. We have booked a flight back to Madrid for Friday. The amount of red tape and the number of hoops to be jumped through has been incredible. Matched only, I am told, by the bureaucratic nightmare that those trying to move to the States must go through.

I did not think to take a photo of all the documents that we (Matt really) had to procure and submit, but here is a rendering of the four folders with contents of one:

Each of the four folders (one for each member of the family going to Spain) contained the following:

FBI clearances
Marriage Certificate
Application forms, double sided
Supplementary application forms
Medical Certificates
All of the above had to be officially translated and apostilled by at approved notary public

A money order
passports
extra passport photos
Aproval of work and residency permits
Printouts of the email confirming the appointment at the Consulate
Photocopies of Drivers' liscense, if applicable

Each one of these documents in each file had to have a photocopy accompanying it.

SO, how do I FEEL about this next move?

Excited to be returning to Spain. To the apartment with the wonderful view, to exploring the still new city, to my new friends, to learning a new language.

Sad, to be leaving family and old friends, and a house that has become quite comfortable and a country where I speak and comprehend just fine.

The above two states superimposed look like this. Hmmm. Don't really know what I feel. Do I feel anything?

However, my feelings about needing to PACK and get out of this house by Friday afternoon are completely unequivocal.

I am terrified.

But is does not seem right to leave without posting just one blog on what a delightful snowy New England winter this has been. As bothersome as all the moves are, I am very glad to have been able to be here.

We were not so sure about this house when we first got here. But we have become quite comfortable and have especially enjoyed the fireplace and the wood stove.

Here is Iris, helping to get firewood in.

We managed to visit my brother and family in Vermont over the holidays. They are staying in an apartment in this big old barn.

Here we all are inside:

It was too small for us all to sleep there, so we also stayed in the barn of this old farm house in the nearby town of Chelsea:

The apartment had a wonderful collection of old books and lovely, soft light in the morning. Here Iris is still sleeping:

I can't possibly include or acknowledge all the wonderful friends and family who have made our stay back here so delightful. My nieces Franny and Caroline here with Iris and Adele with gingerbread houses must represent them all.

But with 24 hours to go, I have got to stop procrastinating by working on this blog!

Back to the ever lurking army of roller bags:

Good by, Concord! Hola, Madrid!

Open House

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 16 Jan 2011 14:53:00 +0000

^{Purpose of}^{: To bid us Bon Voyage (Again!)}

^{and to make an appearance in “Margot’s Memory of 50” video.}

^{and to see my collection of 50 images of "My life as a Fish". Here is a preview:}

If you have not received an invitation:

If you are following this blog and you are a friend of ours, or a friend of a friend, or you could be a friend and you are not a creepy stalker, AND you would like to come – send me an email: margotkimball@gmail.com ,and I will send you the time and place.

What is this “Margot’s Memory” video?

I have a terrible memory, which is probably why I feel compelled to document the events of my life. Please be prepared to appear in front of the camera to at least say who you are. You can also take a couple of minutes to tell a story, make a statement, demonstrate a skill, whatever. If you would like a topic, suggestions are:

How I know Margot

Something Margot may have forgotten (maybe wanted to forget)

Advice for turning 50– best given by someone over 50.

Are kids invited?

Yes. But if possible, please come towards 1:00 rather than the end. We will be able to absorb more energy then. I would love have kids on the video.

What should I bring?

No need to bring anything, except maybe what you plan to do in front of the camera . There will be food.

Are you really going back to

Spain

Our return to Concord MAY be fast drawing to a close. IF the paperwork is all accepted by the Spanish Consulate, AND they grant us an audience with alacrity, we will return to Madrid by the 7^th of February. It could all take a few weeks longer than that.

Questions?
Send me an email: margotkimball@gmail.com

Happy Holidays, from Somewhere Above the Atlantic Ocean

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 20 Dec 2010 12:52:00 +0000

* If you have not been following our story for the last 4 months and are wondering how we came to be suspended over the Atlantic Ocean, please look at the first post: Off to Spain, especially the Prologue, and two November posts: Visa Fiasco and Visa Debacle Update.

The details both gory and glorious:

A year ago we were as rooted as any family with three girls, three cats, two cars, a house and a yard. Here is the Christmas card that I designed but did not end up using last year:

Happy Holidays, 2009

Shortly after Christmas we decided to shake things up a bit by enrolling Claire in AFS, a student exchange program, to live abroad the following school year. It was nearly summer when a full scale eruption took place in the form of Matt’s company transferring him to Europe for 2 years.

BTY, those are roller bags following us to Europe.

When the dust settled the house was up for rent; our cars were sold; the cats were in new homes; most of our possessions were in storage; Claire was in Italy, and the rest of us were in an apartment in Madrid.

Claire and friends from AFS

Claire in Italy with other exchange students

We had gone with 3 month tourist visas and found that procuring residency permits in Spain is actually quite difficult. When the tourist visas expired, Matt, Adele, Iris and I had to return to Concord. Do you know Ludwig Bemelman’s Spanish Ambassador from Madaline and the Bad Hat and Madaline in London?

I imagine it was him who sent us back to the States. Here are the Spanish Ambassador and his wife waving good bye to us with the roller bags that have followed us throughout our saga:

From Madeline in London, with some alteration

We will return to Madrid when we get our residency permits, probably in mid February.

Personal Updates

Claire is living with a very nice Italian family just outside of Rome and is doing her 10^th grade year at an Italian high school.

Claire with her Italian sister, Susanna, and friends

Thanks to Skype, she joins us every week or so in virtual form.

Skyping with Claire at my mother's birthday party

Our virtual daughter.

Adele and Iris

Iris and Adele have enjoyed their new friends in Spain (my apologies to their friends; I must take more photos when we return)

And exploring Spain:

On the northern coast, by the Bay of Biscay

But they have also been surprised to find how rooted they are in Concord and the United States.

Back in Concord with cousins, Emma and Maie

They have acquired a profound appreciation of many things they might otherwise be taking for granted around this time of their lives: old friends and family, the New England landscape, our old house and its many familiar objects, an excess of dampness, a plethora of American style pizza, and the freedom to dress in sloppy clothes, just to name a random few items.

Matt’s new position that took our family to Spain has him traveling to many places in Europe as well as South Africa, Russia, the Mid East and California. His laptop is set to European time, his watch is on East Coast time, but with many other time zones involved (some of his co-workers are in India and Singapore) he has to think carefully before making a conference call.. Matt estimates that he has done 43,150 miles in the past 2 months, which works out to 720 miles a day, or keeping a continuous speed of 30 miles an hour.

Margot: Moving to Spain has been a big mix of exciting, stressful, wonderful, fascinating, and difficult.
The best of it has been experiencing new places and making new friends who are from all over the world.

These are some of the wonderful women I have met through a cooking class. Ana Laura, from Mexico, on the far left is our teacher. Thank you, Sandra for the picture, wish you were in it!

Unexpectedly, our European saga has entailed a great deal of moving, and just the process of packing and relocating has dominated the experience.

In my more despondent moments I feel very like Moomin Mama in one of my all time favorite cartoon strips "Moomin", by the Norwegian novelist Tove Jansson in the 1950's. In this one Moomin Papa has decided to become a lighthouse keeper:

But actually, though I did miss friends and family from home, I was very much enjoying living in Madrid, and now long for my modest studio with the fabulous view.

As always, I welcome comments and responses. Leave a comment here, or send me an email. Let me know if you would like our temporary Concord address and phone number, and or address and number in Madrid. mailto:amargotkimball@gmail.com

And Happy New Year!!!!!!!!!!!!

Confessions of a Former Anti-Materialist, or Possession Purgatory: Part I

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 30 Nov 2010 11:12:00 +0000

Beware of possessions, for they soon will possess you. Better for yourself and the Earth to live lightly, taking with you only what is of necessity.

--My memory of a wise saying. If no one said it, someone should have.

As a child and young adult I imagined myself living as an artist, and exploring the world, seeking truth and beauty, unencumbered by material possessions. Well, other than art supplies. This is a drawing I made of myself in a letter to my sister when I was 18 and drove cross country with my Aunt Anna and Aunt Claire:

I sensed that having children would challenge my philosophy. Fortunately, I had no inclination to have any, so it was easy for me to tell people that children, and a house and a yard, were for others who lacked imagination.

Jumping forward about 10 years, before I moved to Concord in 1990, I was living in Olympia Washington, sometimes in a room in a friend’s house, sometimes pretty much out of my VW van:

Doing portraits at the Saturday Market

I did have large stashes of art supplies, boxes of old drawings, paintings and journals, in the attics of several family members and friends. But all in all, I felt I was doing well by the planet and myself.

About a year before I moved back east, I moved into a garage that my landlord and I made into a studio apartment. It was more room than I had previously had, yet I rapidly filled it to bursting.

About 2 years after I moved to Massachusetts, Matt and I had gotten married and moved into a TINY house on the boarder of Lexington and Arlington. This house was so small that I could vacuum the whole thing without unplugging the vacuum cleaner.

Humble as it was, I went through much soul searching and agonized over buying furniture for our little bungalow. I could sense that I was moving away from my ideals of basically only owning art supplies.

Well, I guess something about getting married and moving into a house affected my imagination because soon enough I could think of little else but wanting a baby. Which seemed to inevitably lead to more possessions:

Claire!

And the house was getting really, really small.

So....

On to half of a much bigger house. But really, the most important thing to get for the first baby, was a second baby:

Adele!
At the time, Claire was quite satisfied with her cousins.

With children, it is nice to have cousins coming over to play, and friends and family for dinners and holidays, and the kids need to run around, and……

On to the next bigger house, with an actual yard.

I have my suspicions that there is someone above the clouds who has a lot of babies behind him jostling for position to come back to Earth. I think he noticed that we had moved into a house with a yard that was easily adequate for another being.

And thank goodness, or we might not have gotten Iris.

Adele was delighted with the new addition. So was Claire, eventually.

So here we are in this big house with a yard, and a garage that is full, and three kids and three cats and two cars, and there are garden tools and endless sports equipment, and I never did stop accumulating art supplies (and sewing supplies and wood working, and picture framing equipment, and……).

And we are thinking that we will be in this house at least until Iris graduates from high school in 2018. So, years of possessions move in, they accumulate and sink, one layer over the other, into every corner and crevice. And the memory of the unencumbered life, living lightly on the planet, well, it is just too hard in the midst of this heavily laden house to see my way back to that.

I have become the person Wendall Barry was thinking of when he said, “Don’t own so much clutter that you will be relieved to see your house set on fire.”

Stay tuned to find out how our move to Spain propelled a further descent into

Possession Purgatory.

Please feel free to leave a comment, or send me one at margotkimball@gmail.com

How not to Pack, When Sent Packing

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 23 Nov 2010 02:02:00 +0000

Epilogue:

We did finally get that army of roller bags packed. We have gotten to Concord and I managed to get this posted on my sister's computer. If you want to get in contact with us, send me an email at margotkimball@gmail.com. Hopefully I will get on the internet at our apartment have a working cellphone!

Stay tuned for Blog Posts in Exile.

Visa Debacle Update, and a Trip to Southern Spain

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 15 Nov 2010 00:55:00 +0000

The Continuing Saga of the Kimball-Johnson Family

So, when we last saw our family of mixed fortunes, they (ever keeping in mind that one of us, Claire, is residing with a lovely Italian family near Rome) were, due to the vagaries of visas, suspended somewhere above

Spain

, directed across the water towards Massachusetts, maybe Chelmsford, with Matt possibly going off to London….

While the plot continues to unfold, it is not so draconian as it might have been. We will all four of us return to Concord on the 21^st. We have a few possibilities of places to stay, and the girls will go to their old schools while we are there.

We still don’t know how long it will take before we obtain our work visas and can return to Madrid. We hope it will be at the beginning of January, but, well… I prefer not to consider how much longer it could take. We will just stick with early January.

Meanwhile, most of our possessions are still in a Warehouse in Franklin MA.

Me, in August, going through our stuff at the warehouse for documents that we had packed by mistake.

They will be shipped when we get our work visas. It takes 6 weeks to arrive in

Spain

, and then they have to go through customs, which can be days or weeks. Probably not long before we are leaving Madrid for the summer.

We are hoping that the moving company will let us look through some boxes and get some clothes (and art supplies, and some books, and my sewing machine, and that cheese grater that really works, and and and….)

Southern Spain

Caution! This is a long post and I know that blog readers do not have fabulous attention spans. So, I have divided it into parts:
The Country House
The Coast
The Mountains
The Alhambra

As mentioned in my post on our trip to the northern coast of Spain just a few short weeks ago, Spain has an amazing number of holidays during the fall and early winter. And Madrid adds another of its own: November 8th and 9th were the feast days of Madrid's patron Saint, the Virgin of Almudena

The Country House

Friday, November 5th

So, in our continuing efforts to absorb as much as possible of this complex and mysterious country as we can in our allotted time, we took off to the south.

Hmmmm. The writing is kinda hard to make out. But you will find Madrid in the middle, a train going north, where we went before, and a line going south towards Grenada and to the coast where we went to the town of Nerja. Those little upside down v's to the right of the highway is the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

Passing south from Madrid towards the Mediterranean coast, you travel through vast regions of olive groves. It was easy to draw this picture as the landscape did not change alot for many miles at a time:

According to the following web site: http://www.iberianfoods.co.uk/ , olive trees have been cultivated in southern Spain for over 2,000 years and presently there are about 215,000 trees. I think I saw most of them on this car ride.

Also, Spain produces more olive oil than any other country, 27% of the world's olive oil. If you are reading this in the U.S., you may not realize just how much olive oil is getting consumed out here. It is actually difficult to locate any thing but olive oil in Spain. And they don't bother much with butter either. Apparently the Greeks consume more olive oil per capita than the Spanish. I can't imagine how that is possible, unless they are actually using it as bath water.

Our destination was a Casa Rural, or country house, in the little town of Niguelles. It is not a long distance from the highway, but you feel as if you have gone back in time and far away. Over 1,000 years ago the Moors built sophisticated systems for irrigation and drinking water and much of it is still in use today. The directions to the casa were simply to go left at the lion fountain and around the church.

Front door of the case rural, Huertadel Cura

View from the Street looking up at the garden wall

Inside the enclosure, looking toward a walnut and a pomegranate tree

The pomegranate tree. This is for sister-in-law Margaret who wanted a photo of it

Margaret, this is for you too! It is a pomegranate tree from the gardens at Grenada, much easier to make out than the one at the casa.

And, of course, an Olive tree!

Pool in back of the Casa. Too cold now.

The girls and I have been pet deprived since coming to Spain and we were thrilled to have a nice dog at the Casa

These were some of the happiest chickens and ducks I have seen. Kata, our host is very fond and proud of her animals, though she is also proud of how good they taste!

Some baby rabbits had been born the day before we arrived.

Out in the village, we find that cars are awkward beasts on these streets that were built for nothing larger than horses.

It seemed impossible, but people, Matt included, do actually drive their cars around this corner.

My rendition of a street in the village. There were many cats and dogs.

Saturday, November 6th

We needed supplies to make breakfast, so Matt went off to the local grocery store. The store was not much more than the front room of the family that runs it. There is not enough room to display everything, but then, the residents probably know exactly what is in stock anyway.

Saturday morning, the average Spanish market is an absolute frenzy of buying as all the stores will be closing at 1:00 or 2:00 to not reopen until Monday morning. Matt was the only man (other than the owner/butcher), the only non town resident in the store, and easily a foot taller than anyone else there. I wish I had gotten a picture of that!

The Coast
Saturday

After breakfast, we set off for the Mediteranean coast. We had thought we might be able to swim. It was not quite warm enough, but it was lovely to be there. We started off in a tourist mecca, "The Balconey of Europe" in the little city of Nerja.

The promonade and enclosed restaurant have been built on top of what was a fortress during the Napoleanic wars, which had been built on top of a fortress built by the Moors in 800 AD, which was on top of a Roman structure built about 400 years before that.

Where ever we went, there seemed to be a cat watching us.

With apologies to the people of Spain who have a fine cuisine, we have completely failed to pursuade our daughters to eat any of it other than their divine melons:

Piel de Sapo

And so, it is with some sense of failure, that we find ourselves looking for restaurants that cater to tourists, in order to enjoy a meal with our children.

Italian style ice cream never fails. It definately would have been easier to feed these girls in Italy!

Ever present in Spain, so long as the weather holds, are people eating outdoors.
Having had our fill of pizza and gelato, we were in the mood to get away from the tourist traps. Our hope was to find a place to walk on the beach. We came across this spot on an old road where there seemed to be a path leading through a gully towards the shore. With no idea what we would find, we headed over to it.

On the hillside was someone's home, in a cave. The hilly area around Grenada and the coast is pocketed with caves. Though not so common now, people have inhabited these caves since prehistory. There was guitar music and laughter drifting out of this one. Less rent, more time to play.

Down in the gully, or canyon, we walked past this was a very hand built house, with every crevice filled with carefully tended plants.

A little further along was this dwelling with a garden surrounded by a bamboo fence, no doubt made from the bamboo forest we were about to enter.

Someone had set up camp by a spring in the forest.

Eventually, the forest opened up to this view of the ocean.

The shore was rocky but quite beautiful. The girls and I started climbing about,

until Matt noticed that there were others on the beach and they were quite naked. Not being a nudist family, we beat a hasty retreat back into the bamboo forest.

That night, our hostess at the Casa Rual, Kata, cooked us a wonderful meal. Just about everything except the girls Fanta's was from her garden or animals (she promised, just chickens!) or from a neighbor. Even the wine was made by a friend.

The Mountains

Sunday, November 7th

The next day we headed to the mountains. Spain's Sierra Nevada Mountains are the country's highest with peaks over 9,000 feet. We decided to go to a little village that is the second highest in the country. (You may notice that our tour guide (Matt) is fond of statictics. Well, it seems to work, cause it was a great trip.)

Spain has been know for windmills at least since Cervantes published Don Quixote in 1605. But now they are mostly of the modern sort.

It did not seem windy apart from this hill top where the wind was quite fierce. When you get up close to these windmills, the size is awe inspiring.

A cave dwelling on the road to the mountains.

Here is the town of Capileira that we were headed to. From a distance it looks like a bit of mountain snow.

Can you see the snowball that Iris threw?

We hiked up to this spot where you can look out over a distance of 200 kilometers (about 150 miles) and see mountains in Africa.

Same spot, without that family of tourists in the way. The African mountains are to the left. They look a lot like low lying clouds.

Now looking towards the Sierra Nevada.

We headed back to Capileira for a late Spanish style lunch.

Everywhere in this area that benefited from the engineering of the Moors and the Romans is water running in fountains and culverts.

We stopped in a local shop where we got Iris a woven rug. The studio was just upstairs.

Now, for the usual search for a restaruant with some food Adele and Iris will eat. This fairly typical tavern had little to offer that did not include ham or fish, the two mainstays of Spanish cooking. In the very back, you can make out two hams hanging from the ceiling. These are commonly and proudly displayed in Spanish restaurant. No doubt they reassure the patrons that true Iberian jamon is being served. Unfortunately our near vegetarians don't find this so reassuring.

Here the girls are, stearing us out.

Nice exit to the tavern. I like this tradition of putting hangings in front of doors.

Iris and Adele standing resolutely opposed to the quaint restaurant behind them.

We did finally manage to choose a place. It had a nice atmosphere with several large Spanish families enjoying their Sunday dinner.

The dish on the right here is the traditional Spanish Jamon.

Matt got the traditional Spanish sausage.

Grenada and The Alhambra
Monday, November 7th

And finally, the highlight of our trip, visiting Grenada and the Alhambra. With two million visitors a year, you have to have reservations to get in.

For my first piece of advice on this post: Girls, if you are going off to visit a medival city, don't wear stylin boots like these:

Because, after a couple of hours, all those decorative stones on all those many streets and alleys, are going to feel like they are bruising the balls of your lovely feet!

Okay, so, anyway, despite my painful feet, I found this to be an incredibly enchanting place.

Our reservations were not until 2:00, so we walked outside the palace walls, down to the old part of the city, the Albaicin, originally built by the Moors.

As always, and more so in Grenada and the Alhambra, despite the surrounding desert, water is flowing decoratively and with great presicion.

From here you can look back up at the palace and fortress

There is nothing like a good arch for making an ordinary passage look irrisistably appealing.

From the entrance of the grounds, it is a longish walk to the Palace.

So many arches!

As you get close to the Alhambra itself, you come to the palace, built in 1527, of Charles the 5th, Holy Roman Emporer. His Palace is a monstrous block of a building, as thick and heavy as the Alhambra is light and airy. I am supposing he built it next to the Moorish palace to show the superior power of the Christian conquerors.

In all fairness, the interior is very nice.
But overall, to the millions of visitors, it is not much more than an obstacle to the real treasure.

The Alhambra was built in the mid 1300's by some of the last of the Muslim Emirs in Spain. The Catholics had been advancing down the penisula, and the south was the last strong hold. I find it intriguing that they built such a delicate jewel of a place at a time that they were under siege and waging battles.

I tried to capture here the moment when a large group of tourists rounded the corner and set eyes on this incredibly beautiful couryard. There was a sudden flurry of activity as everyone reached for cameras, cell phones and their electronic tour guides.

This is the staircase of water. A steady stream flows down either side.

Everywhere, the water flows, and the cats watch.

May you all have the good fortune of seeing the Alhambra!

If you actually got through this entire post, CONGRADULATIONS! I owe you a can of olive oil!

Stay tuned for the next posting, from Concord Massachusetts: A Family in Exile, no, The Triumphant Return, no no, hmmm.......

Till the! Hasta Luego!

Visa Fiasco: Moving to Chelmsford?

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 10 Nov 2010 06:23:00 +0000

When we came to Spain at the end of August, we were in a hurry to get Adele and Iris to the first day of their new school. So we rapidly moved our belongings into storage, got the house ready to rent (which it is) and came over on tourist visas, confident that, long before they expired at the end of November, Matt’s company would procure residency visas.

We first planned to return to the States for the new visas mid October. This date kept getting extended, finally to November 21^st. It seems that the Spanish consulate kept sending the company’s request for a work visa back as insufficient. They wanted more and better signatures, a different notary public, and so forth. I might have found it amusing that a multinational corporation with over a 100,000 employees around the world, and headquarters that look like the city of an advanced, but heartless, civilization

could not get this one visa from Spain. But, actually, it is not that funny. Perhaps Ludwig Bemelman’s depiction of the Spanish Ambassador in “Madeline and the Bad Hat” can give us some insight into this dilemma. The Ambassador’s son had a very strange sense of humor:

Really, where the problem lies is not clear, but the fact is that when we return to the States on the 21^st of November, the residency visas will not be available, and we will therefore not be able to reside in what is called the “Schengen” countries until, at the earliest, January, and, at the latest, early March. The Schengen region includes all of the European Union except the UK and Ireland.

Matt will have to work out of London. Personally, the prospect of living near the Tate Modern, The British Museum, the Victoria Albert, and others is mouth watering. Also, I am not eager to leave Matt working on his own across the Atlantic. Unfortunately, Adele and Iris are not so tempted by the wonders of London, and home schooling two unhappy children in another new city does not seem especially enticing. In fact, it would be a lot easier to set up camp and home school where we have a lot of family and friends.

So, the current plan (always subject to corporate and national whimsey) is that Adele, Iris and I will, until we get those work visas, live in or near Concord. We are looking for a furnished house or apartment in Concord or Acton from November 21^st to somewhere between the second week of January and the first week of March. A house sitting situation would be fine. In fact, we would love to have pets to look after. And we need to identify this place pronto as Matt's company is ready to have us take an apartment in Chelmsford (about 20 minutes west of Concord). If you know of a possible rental, send me a note. Help us avoid moving to Chelmsford! With all due respect to residents of Chelmsford, this would not be my first choice.

To those in Concord and its environs: See you soon!

Visiting Blogger: A Weekend in Cape Town

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 07 Nov 2010 21:42:00 +0000

View of Table Mountain from my hotel room in Cape Town

As I checked into the luxury boutique “15 on Orange” hotel, the desk clerk handed me a lengthy legal statement to sign. It pointed out that the hotel bore no responsibility for anything that might happen to me, whether perpetrated by their staff or anyone else. I joked that they were making me feel right at home; but it really disturbed me to think that the hotel would need to go to such lengths. I had just arrived from Johannesburg, where everyone warned me I could not go out jogging, and I spent all my time in secured business or tourist areas. Would Cape Town be just as confining?

Thankfully, no. The next morning I was able to walk without concern a few blocks to a bakery to eat breakfast. It was run by this older Afrikaner who spoke English like Colonel Klink of Hogan’s Heroes. He was just as comical as the Colonel, because even though he ordered his staff around, most of the time they couldn’t understand what he was saying.

In fact, everyone was having a hard time understanding one another. When I asked for a latte, at first the counter staff thought I was asking for a lighter. Meanwhile, another customer had to ask the short order cook three times before he could get across that he wanted four croissants with eggs and cheese. But the strangest conversation was between a third customer and the owner. They both spoke English and Afrikaans, but they still couldn’t agree on what type of chocolate pastry he was looking for.

The situation was the most poignant example of a phenomenon that I’ve witnessed as I’ve traveled to places like Dubai and Brussels, where there are people from everywhere and multiple official languages. Everyone – even the locals – ultimately becomes a foreigner. The experience made me feel more at ease here. I really wasn’t struggling any more than anyone else.

Wine with a View

After breakfast, I took off towards the Winelands, the source for most of South Africa’s wines. I had read that some of the tasting centers closed at 12:30 on Saturdays, and weren’t open on Sundays, so I had to get moving. I had really liked one Syrah that I had been served at a restaurant in Johannesburg a few nights earlier, so I decided to visit that vineyard first.

Shantytown

On the way out I pass miles of shantytowns, which seem like huge scrap piles that have been wired with electricity. Occasionally someone has painted their galvanized panels some bright color, or strung up colorful washing, but mostly it’s a collision of rusty metal forms and plastic tarps.

Further on, near Stellenbosch (where, ironically, Apartheid was invented), the scenery turns bucolic. The long driveway up to Rustenberg winery is lined with mature trees, with pastures and vineyards on either side, The tasting room is in a compound that has a large garden and a sloping lawn that provides a view to the green valley below. The server tells me that the winery bottled its first vintage in 1711, 299 years ago.

Rustenberg no longer made the Syrah I had had at the restaurant. But they were happy to let me try some other wines. Since it was still morning, I made use of the spittoons that they had at the ready. Tragic, but essential! In the end, I bought a half bottle of white and a bottle of red.

South African Winelands near Franschhoek

I then headed further up the valley towards Franschhoek, a place originally settled by French people. At the ridgeline, I spotted a sign for the Delicatessen at Tokara, and decided to get lunch there. This was like no other delicatessen I’ve seen; perched on the ridge top, it had commanding views over the valley’s vineyards and olive groves. To make the most of it, the dining area was enclosed by floor to ceiling glass panels.

I was expecting sandwiches, but it turns out that this deli served a buffet lunch; there wasn’t a sandwich in sight. The food was fine, but it couldn’t compete with the view. Soon I was on my way again.

Soon I spotted a modest-looking dirt driveway to Thelema Mountain Vineyards. I thought I might find a less touristy experience at this place, but it, too had a flashy tasting room with a nice view. Here I found an astonishing Merlot (yes, Merlot) with an unheard-of 15% alcohol. When I told the vintner that in France, this would not be considered possible, he just shrugged and said “the grapes get riper here.” I bought a bottle and headed south.

Whales and Waves

Southern Coast

Eventually I made it to the coast. I headed for Hermanus, known as a place where you can stand on the shore and watch the whales. And sure enough, I saw some: a few black forms peaking above the swells a couple hundred yards away, occasional spouting, and once or twice, a tail fin. Apparently, a month earlier, there are up to 150 whales in this place, with some just below the promontory.

I took the scenic route back to Cape Town, along the southern coast of Africa. Big crashing waves, white sand beaches littered with boulders, steep, barren mountains rising straight out of the water, with clouds clinging to their tops. Every once in a while a rainbow appeared to top the whole view off.

I ended the day at the Victoria and Alfred waterfront, which turned out to be a touristy mall with big outdoor areas full of street performers. After a day of natural beauty, I wasn’t in the mood for it, and I soon turned in.

Cape of Good Hope

On Sunday, I headed south along the Western coast of the Cape of Good Hope. I was determined to hike in the National Park after a week with no exercise. Hoards of people were heading to the beach on this warm day, so I was soon inching along in bumper-to-bumper traffic.

I worked my way up to the famous Chapman’s Peak Drive, an ancient road that winds its way along the steep hills that surround Hout’s Bay. The scenery was spectacular, and the wind was howling. I had to check my footing as I stood on the overlook and aimed my camera over the bay.

Hout Bay from Chapman's Peak Drive

The tip of the Cape of Good Hope is a protected area. Nothing grows higher than about 8 feet tall; some areas look like tundra, with small wildflowers peaking through the low greenery. The Cape has dramatic cliffs and views back up the coast; no wonder people think of it being the tip of Africa. The real southernmost point is 300 kilometers east, but it couldn’t possibly feel more like the end of the earth.

The Cape of Good Hope

Table Mountain

Aerial Tramway up Table Mountain

My final visit was to the top of Table Mountain. I was lucky enough to pick a clear, calm afternoon, and missed the crowds on the gondola ride by going during the week. From 3500 feet above the city, I could see all of the places I had visited in the previous two days. It’s easy to love this city, which has the skyscrapers of San Francisco, the shipyards of Oakland, and the funky, slightly run-down-looking clubs and shops of Seattle set in more stunning scenery than any of them. However, like a shadow on the scene, Robben Island stands in the middle of the bay, where Nelson Mandela was imprisoned for 27 years. South Africa has done remarkably well, but it is still recovering from the scars of that time.

View of Cape Town from Table Mountain - Robben Island in the Distance

A Sense of Optimism
On my flight back to Johannesburg, I happened to sit next to South Africa’s policy head for relations with other African countries. We spent two hours talking about the progress and promise of Africa. He was encouraged by the development of a middle class in Angola, and the example of Brazil lifting 40 million people out of poverty.

I admired the sense of optimism I’d felt in South Africa. Everyone I met seemed to be looking forward to future developments. I noted how I had seen the shantytowns electrified. “You seem to be working forward from the basics: clean water, power, education and health,” I said. “Yes,” he replied, “We have the right programs, and plenty of money for them, but sadly, not the right people to deliver them.” “Every year we have to roll over funds because we can’t find qualified staff for our initiatives.”

I also wondered aloud about the ongoing inequality; probably 85% of the people at the conference I attended were white. "Some people must be resentful and impatient." I suggested. "Yes," he agreed, "But our path is working. We do know, of course, that things could change at any time."

I did not catch the name of my seatmate, but many people on the plane seemed to know him. I can't capture all of the nuances of our conversation here, but it was one of the highlights of my visit. I ended my trip with a sense of "good hope" for South Africa and Africa more generally.

Update on Claire, and Exporing the Spanish Coast.

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 06 Nov 2010 09:00:00 +0000

Update on Claire

Here is a photo of Claire from a few weeks ago. She was on a trip with other American Field Service students in Italy. She says that she has really enjoyed meeting other teenagers from around the world who, like her, are crazy enough to land themselves in a foreign home with a language they don't know. They all speak English as well as their own language, and while some knew more Italian than Claire (it would have been hard not to) most had little knowledge of Italian.

Claire said that, as far as she can make out, she is, at 15, easily the youngest AFS student in Italy. Most people assume that she is 17 or 18. I suspect that she just smiles that enigmatic smile of hers and lets them think what they like.

Claire also says that her Italian is improving. She is starting to have real conversations. So now her teachers are actually expecting her to produce work. Two months into learning Italian she is now writing essays.

Greetings from the north coast of Spain.

Holidays make short work of school days in Spain in November and December. Between the two months, there is just one week without a holiday.

All Saints Day is a national holiday in Spain, and it happened to coincided with a holiday of our cousins, Michelle, Remy and their boys, Gael and Dima, from France. So, our well experienced travel agent, which would be Matt, looked at places on the internet and arranged for us all to meet at a posado, that is an inn, near Santander.

Then, about 10 days before the trip, Oracle (not Delphic, not all knowing, but definitely all powerful) asked (kind of the way I “ask” the girls to do their chores) him to go on a business trip to South Africa. This trip followed closely on the heels of a trip to Dubai and London. Which was not long after a trip to Germany, and not long before a trip to Russia. So, Matt is pretty much Mr. Traveling Businessman.

Perhaps wanting to make up for not being with us, he got us first class tickets on the train

The girls painted pictures as I read Harry Potter, and the landscape zipped by at 150 to 200 miles an hour

When Remy asked me what kind of train we had been on, I was wishing Matt was there. He would have known that it was the high speed AVE, imported from France.

Adele, Iris and I agreed that this was quite likely the most comfortable and pleasant 4.5 hour journey we have taken. And thank goodness I didn’t drive, because I thought that Santander was on the Mediterranean coast, just south of the French boarder! We would have been a few hundred east of the Posado.

You will find Santander on the coast, exactly due north of Madrid.

At first, when we saw the city:

And an abandoned developement by the posada (these are endemic in Spain),

and we realized that this part of Spain, called Cantabria, has the least sun and the most rain

we were thinking that we should have researched this a bit more. However, the coast is beautiful, it was great to be on beaches, and we had a wonderful time with our cousins.

Iris with Dima, Adele, and Gael holding up a "rock"

Me with my cousin, Michelle

Michelle's husband, Remy

On the coast east of Santander

Concord, Massachusetts and New England are never far from Iris and Adele's minds.

Our favorite beach was the stormiest.

Iris and Remy

The tide was coming in fast.

We could see a hermitage built into the cliff and, despite an approaching storm, Remy, the girls and I, decided to make our way out to it.

View from the Hermitage.

On Saturday, when it was particularly rainy, we retreated to a cave: the ancient caves with paintings in Altimira.

They are amazing. The caves we went into are reproductions, but quite good, and thank goodness for them, because some of the originals could only be approached by crawling through long narrow tunnels. And the people who made the paintings did so with torches.

We also went to a lovely medival village called Santillana del Mar.

We stopped and had a not very authentically medieval snack:

Remy and Gael watched a football match on the television.

And here is my very decorative, my girls would say horrifying, dinner at a Spanish reastaurant:

It was delicious. The Spanish LOVE to eat fish.

Now on our way home. The girls discovered the Club Car.

That is it for my account of Santander. If you have any questions or comments, as always, leave a comment here or send me an email: margotkimball@gmail.com .

NEXT: Stay tuned for our visiting blogger. Matt will give an account of his time in South Africa:

View of Capetown from the top of a Gondola ride.

Dinner Party Entertainment and Halloween: North American Exports

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 04 Nov 2010 22:05:00 +0000

We threw our first dinner party in Spain a couple of weeks ago.

Here I am with Victoria and Javier who we met at the Aparthotel during our first month here. They are from Madrid, but only moved back recently after 8 years living in New Cannan Conneticut and San Paolo. Not being used to city life, Matt and I did not realize that the other guests were circling the block for 20 minutes looking for places to park.

Sandra showing off her flan. The national dessert of Spain.

This is Sandra. (Not at our house now, I did not get a pic of her there) She and Stefano and their two daughters were the first people here to befriend us. Sandra is from Mexico. Stefano is from Switzerland and they met in London where they had both gone to learn English. Their children have grown up in the States as well as Belgium and now Spain, and they speak English, Spanish and German. Their history is not unusual at the American School.

Here are Adele and Iris at their house in September, with their daughters and a couple of other girls.

Also at our party were Yoshiko and her husband Hiro. I met Yoshiko in the cooking class that Sandra has organized. Hiro works for the Japanese government to facilitate cultural exchange with Spain.

The kids ate first so that we could wash our modest supply of glasses, utensils and so forth.

Coming from the suburban culture of Concord, where finished basements, large yards, and vast quantities of games and toys seem ubiquitous, I had worried about what the kids would find to do in our small and sparsely attired apartment. Turns out that 3 varieties of ice cream is sufficient to entertain 6 girls in a kitchen. And “Apples to Apples”

Followed by a Disney Game that you play on the TV set was enough for everyone for after dinner entertainment.

We played the adults vs the children.

Each team had to be the first to identify the Disney Character or spot the Mickey Mouse Ears.

The adults were as into this as the children,

Kids and adults of all nationalities played this game with enthusiasm and expertise. Matt and I were probably the least well versed. We also seemed to be the only ones who felt a sense of resentment and distrust toward the Disney Corporation for their game that seems so well designed to reinforce people’s knowledge and attachment to Disney characters.

Strange to consider that Mickey, who Walt Disney based on his pet mouse, Mortimer (his wife pursuaded him to change the name for the cartoon), nearly 85 years later has become one of the world's most familiar icons.

I commented on this to Yoshiko who said that in Japan, Disney movies and characters are so well established, so familiar, that people don’t think of them as being from the United States or anywhere in particular. People think of them as a part of their own culture. We wondered if perhaps Hello Kitty

and Manga novels and films

have become absorbed into other cultures in the same way. Are people aware that they are Japanese exports?

And speaking of exports:

Halloween at the American School of Madrid.

What do Americans abroad miss most? Hamburgers, peanut butter and Halloween would all be strong contenders. Peanut butter is not often embraced by those who did not grow up with it, but hamburgers and North American style Halloween inspire many. At ASM, which is just 1/3 Americans, the Halloween Carnival is celebrated with great enthusiasm and this year about 1,400 hamburgers were sold.

Here is Matt, doing his community service at the grill. Most of his hour long shift he was obscured by smoke.

I do believe I had the better job, or jobs.

My first contribution was a life size witch that I painted in my “studio”, that is the space between the red couch and the wall in the living room,

My second contribution was to do face painting:

I have to give the headmaster, Bill O'hale, credit for coming as a witch, and having me paint his face.

Iris’s teacher, Ms. Law, opted for the day's favorite, a demure jack-0-lantern.

This activity brought me back to many years of face painting at the Thoreau School Cake Walk, as well as assisting Mr. Lemaire with make-up for his annual production of “Monster Madness”.

Adele helped out

Iris with her friend, Caroline.

Adele with friends

In the gym

I don’t think I have realy managed to capture this event in my photos. If I had seen this carnival depicted in a Hollywood movie I would have thought it was unrealistic, overdone but definitely entertaining.

Languages of Word and Hand, or, How to Avoid (or not) Embarrassing Yourself

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 27 Oct 2010 11:55:00 +0000

Hola!

Wow, over a week since my last blog. As we get settled in here, I begin to hand out my hours like so many cards in a deck: two for a painting class, two for Pilates, one hour a day plus two evening classes for studying Spanish, one morning to work in a soup kitchen, and so forth. If only I had 52 hours instead of 24! And then small things take more time when the environment and language are new. I needed to make an appointment to get orthodics for Iris and me. I tried to make it over the phone, but the receptionist and I could not make sense out of each other, so I made my way over to the office by metro, just to make the appointment.

Phone conversations are a challenge, but my Spanish is coming along, and I feel that I must publicly respond to those well meaning individuals who have read my blog and offered their condolences for my TOTAL failure to learn Spanish. This is NOT the case. True I did bomb that one test to pass beyond my Spanish School’s Book One. Clearly, I cannot keep up with a class of students who all ready know Portuguese or Italian, or who are from Holland (it is common knowledge that the Dutch have electronic translators implanted in their children's brains at birth). But NO, I have not given up.

Indeed, I have been delighted to make the acquaintance of other parents from the American School, who have been here for 1 to 3 years and don’t even speak as well as I do. Or, perhaps they are just less willing to go ahead and speak badly. But it is certainly possible to live in the suburbs and almost entirely avoid the need to speak Spanish indefinitely if necessary. And, while that is not my plan, I quite understand how it can come about. In the very international community of the American School, it is not uncommon for someone to have already learned their native language and English, and then have married someone from another country, so they learn that language. Then they have all ready moved several times and learned at least a working knowledge of one or two more languages. If now you move to Spain and Spanish is not part of your repertoire… Well, I personally would be throwing Book One in the fireplace.

But no, I am living in the city and I have but my own mother tongue and some very rusty French that I am trying hard to forget. Being willing to speak badly in order to get better is definitely key. Last week I went to an area of the city called the “Rastro” which is famous for its second hand stores and bargains in general.

Here is the store I went to where I found a dining room table that I thought we could use when our rented one turns into a pumpkin and rolls away. I wanted to ask the proprietress if she could deliver it to my apartment, but judging by her shock and then merriment, I suspect that my not so trusty dictionary led me intoasking her if she would kindly give birth to the table in my apartment.

However, I had a small success today. The security at The American School is much more rigorous than we are used to. The designation of American does not endear a school to absolutely everyone, and the presence of children from embassies further increases its value as a target. Hence, there is a security gate and a guard house, and you are supposed to make an appointment before going to the school. The guard, who only speaks Spanish, will then check your passport and make sure you have an appointment before allowing you to go in. So, today I talked my way past the guard, without an appointment! And using full sentences! Wrong verb tenses I am sure, but it worked.

On the more awkward side, I have this drawing that I made early in September as a cathartic exercise after an especially embarrassing meal. I was walking through this chic mall and I had become very hungry. It was still early by Spanish standards for lunch and no one was sitting in the dining room but several people were at the tapas bar having espressos. The dining room looked too elaborate with its linen and many glasses and the waiters standing about in their uniforms. At the bar I figured I could ask for some of the food that was displayed right there in these glass cases on the counter, as is traditional at a tapas bar.

So, I perched myself on one of the seats that turned out to be very slippery and uncomfortable, and I found that I couldn’t think of how to even ask for one of the small sandwiches in front of me. I motioned to one and made noises that seemed indicative of – I am starving could I please have that—but the bar maid just said something unintelligible and made no move to towards the food. I thought that with a menu I could read something out loud and ask for it that way, and –fabulous- I actually knew that the word for menu is carta—so I managed to say that. The barmaid looked surprised at this but dutifully handed me a menu. The only thing I was certain about was the Ensalada Cesar, so I asked for that.

Now she looked really surprised. She went over and spoke to one of the waiters. He took up all the many pieces of a table setting and carried them over and laid them on the bit of counter space between me and the tapas case. It did not fit and I was mortified to think that I had ordered a real meal that was meant to be eaten in the dining room.

I wanted to get up and offer to sit at a table, but not knowing how to explain myself I was afraid they would think that I meant to leave. So I stayed put, trying to balance on the slippery seat while consuming the salad and not knocking any of the place setting onto the floor which seemed about a mile below me. How is it that when you are embarrassed, you can feel so small and yet feel that absolutely everyone is noticing you. But that, mercifully was relatively long ago and many meals in restaurants have been consumed since.

Hand Signs (warning, some words and gestures are not approved for all audiences)

On the lighter side of learning a language, here are some important pointers, picked up from ex-pats at a dinner party, for anyone who would like to avoid, when in a forgeign country, making a fool of his/herself with what might seem like a harmless hand gesture.

Here we are at the party:

Though all the guests had children at the American School, Matt and I were the only US citizens. Others were from Spain, Mexico, Japan, Holland, Switzerland, and I have probably forgotten a few places. And everyone had lived in many different countries, so I guess they were qualified to counsel us on avoiding gaffs internationally.

This gesture seems to have a lot of meanings. It is the symbol for the U of Texas Football team. Hence, George Bush got himself in trouble with it a few times. Rap stars have used it with some vague suggestions of Satan, but more definite suggestions of – Hey, its cool, I’m cool, the Music is cool, and kids from the States seem to like to make that sign in Facebook pics to denote that they are having a super cool time, or some such thing.

But careful using it in Greece or Spain or a few other countries as it means “cuckhold”, or your wife is cheating on you. Apparently it is a popular gesture by fans who disagree with the refs.

For layers of meaning, my favorite is this one:

Winston Churchill first popularized the victory sign during the 2^nd World War. But he had it wrong at first:

And was chastised by his staff --- Something like, “Er, Sir. You just told the entire population of London to F*ck Off.” He quickly turned the hand around and the gesture continues as the Peace Sign.

But it remains dangerously close to the two fingered salute, also sometimes referred to as the Longbowman’s Salute as (and this is according to several sources) it dates back to the Battle of Agincourt in 1415. Apparently the French had said that when they won the battle, they would cut from every bowman the two fingers they used to fire their arrows. When the English, against all odds won the battle, the bowman mocked their enemy with their two, very intact fingers.

Our modern day warriors, the sports stars, still use the sign to mock their enemies.

Mark Cavendish as he winning a stage for the Tour of Romandie. For the benefit of his critics who had doubted him. He was disqualified and had to apologize to the children.

Ashley Cole got in trouble for this one, as he leaves the field after Chelsea's defeat.

So, go safely off on your world tour, knowing that you will both avoid faux pas, and have the necessary insult at the ready.

I welcome your comments, here or in an email: margotkimball@gmail.com . Let me know if you think I got something wrong, or left something out. Or, just send me a note for the heck of it, cause I would (probably) love to hear from you.

Margot

A stroll in Madrid, plus update on Claire

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 13 Oct 2010 08:36:00 +0000

First, an up date on Claire:

Last seen, by us, at Logan Airport on October 31st.

For us in Madrid, Claire now exists as a disembodied head on Skype. Here are her sisters, just last night, taking her for a tour of our apartment:

For this school year, Claire now resides with an Italian family in a suburb of Rome. She reports that the house is a lovely villa, but the bedrooms are very small. Hers is tiny, and she now laughs to think that she ever thought her bedroom in Concord was small!

The language barrier is a major obstacle. Sitting in an Italian high school class and not having the first idea what the teacher is saying -- well, you just have to imagine. And classes are held on Saturday morning. Back in the States when Claire was catching up on her beauty sleep, she is now taking 2 hours of Latin. (hee hee hee, say her mother). But, most importantly, she really likes her Italian family, and the Italians in general are super nice.

Here she is holding the 5 of hearts. She is with her Italian sister and friends, at a conference for people who play games on line and then get together to enact them. She said it was totally silly and a lot of fun.

She is loving Italy, but misses Concord and her friends and family. She, and Adele and Iris have been really surprised at how much they have missed their home town, and all the things they have found themselves appreciating in hindsight: the trees, the stores, the houses, the smells, the people, the sense of belonging.

Claire is being a very good exchange student and not spending time on Facebook and on emails in order to immerse herself in her surroundings, and in the language. But she would love to hear from friends, and get things in the mail. If you would like to have her address, just send me an email and I will send it to you. A a matter of fact, if you would like our address and telephone number, you can get that too (if I actually know who you are!):

margotkimball@gmail.com

A Walk from Home

This particular posting is aimed at those friends and family who might be on the fence about visiting us -- If only Matt and Margot were in a spot with some decent site-seeing...

First we walk a few block down our street, Paseo Pintor Rosales.

Till we get to a terrace that overlooks the garden of the Royal Palace.

It is Sunday afternoon, and the Madriolenos are out in large numbers to stroll about. Here are a few friends going about on segways.

As you walk into the garden you come across this statue of Madrid's beloved Charles III, 1716 – 1788, who oversaw enormous construction projects and the building of roads to lead to the city from all quarters of the country.

Charles III was so unattractive that the artists did not even try to disguise the fact. I just love this painting by Anton Raphael Mengs. The king's homely and friendly countenance just does not match the regal and war-like attire, and yet he is looking so pleased with himself.

Adele wants me to add that, on the way to the palace Matt and I were shaken down by three gypsy girls. At firt they appeared to be perfectly nice teenage girls who approached us to sign a petition and make donations to a charity for deaf and dumb children. We gave them about 8 euros and signed the petition that asked for our names and addresses. The girls asked to see identification as well. They were not satisfied with our driver's liscences and were quite peristant. Matt and I both suddenly felt very distrusting of them and found it difficult to get away as they sort of glommed onto us. We were pleased to have escaped with our wallets and without having allowed them to see the numbers on our credit cards.

We have made it to the Palace:

The King and family do not live in this palace anymore, all though state functions do still take place here. Such as a grand reception and celebrationfor the soccar team after winning the world cup.

Many people were out enjoying the grounds of the palace. The Spanish definately know how to relax and enjoy their days off. Very telling of the difference of style between the Spanish and British -- here are the palace guards in London:

At the Palace in Madrid, the gaurds and soldiers seemed as relaxed as anyone:

I include the following photo of a statue outside the palace as it is one of the few examples I have found of one that is well executed and dynamic:

Most statues are more like this one. They look like rather stiff and awkward pieces by students who are studying Roman sculpture.

Next to the Palace, for the convenience of the King, is a little church, Almudena's Cathedral. Having seen many (Adele will tell you many too many) cathedrals during our trip to Europe last summer, we were not inclined to be overly impressed. The interior is based on the Gothic style but is fairly modest and plain. The building replaced a previous church (which replaced a mosque) and was only begun in the late 1800's and completed in 1993.

But the cieling is marvelous and well worth the visit.

Also, I am very curious about this nun. Easily the most lively painting in the cathedral is of her ascending. Her name is Pilar Izquierdo Albero. I haven't found anything written on her that is in English or I would happily tell you why she was canonized.

Do you see me and Adele in the lower right here? Perhap you can tell I am having to hold her up as her boredom of and antipathy towards Cathedrals has become so powerful that she is collapsing into the fetal position. Poor girl.

Okay, better get going. A few blocks away we come across the Mercado de San Miguel. Adele is about to feel much better. San Miguel is very reminiscent of Quincy Market in Boston. It was built in 1916 as a covered market and was recently renovated and closed in by glass.

The Spanish love to display their meat.

Garlic is usually sold 8 or more heads together. My kind of cooking.

This is an oyster and champagne bar. The liquor flows freely at Mercado de San Miguel.

Can you see the jack-o lantern face on the pumpkin? The Spanish do not celebrate Holloween, but there are the occaisional references.

Choclate cake for Adele

And a Napolean for Iris

And here is the wine bar, with a very impressive offering of about a 100 wines. Guess who is gravitating in that direction...............

Spanish wines are quite good and surprisingly inexpensive. I think this was a Rioja.

This is what I brought home. There is so much great cheese here.

On from the market, we made our way towards Plaza Mayor. We were charmed by this corner building.

The entrance to Plaza Mayor

The present day Plaza was mainly constructed in 1790, after a spate of fires, but the site has been a gathering place for commerce and ritual at least since the middle ages. It has held markets, soccer games, bull fights, and, during the late 15th and 16th centuries, the Spanish Inquisition held Auto de fes, elaborate public readings of sentences, generally followed by executions.

Now, you can reliably find tourists gathered in the Plaza at all times.

By the time we left the Plaza Mayor, it was getting late and we had wandered about one and a half kilometers from home. So, here is Adele, looking out the window of our cab on the way back.

So, that is all for now!

Hasta Luego!

Learning Spanish

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 10 Oct 2010 18:03:00 +0000

Well, hello out there. It has been a longer gap than usual between blog posts. Two reasons for that, 1) I lost my camera last Friday or Saturday. (#@&*!!!!). and 2) I have been studying for the Spanish test that my class took yesterday.

Big deal test, to determine whether you can move up to the next level. Those who fail must return to GO! So, here I am studying (thanks, Adele):

Alas, my efforts were of no avail. I was sent back to GO.

I never was the world’s quickest learner of foreign languages. Back in Madame Brouder's class 5th through 9th grade, I was only saved from being at the very bottom the class by Charles de St. Phalle, who despite his name, never seemed to pick up any French, but spent his time chatting with me (and was distractingly good looking). Well, anyway, I did finally learn French by actually living for one school year with a french family.

I thought I had forgotten most of my French. Happily I find, as I study Spanish, that I actually remember A LOT of it. Sadly, the Spanish do not accept French as a substitute for their language. My teacher definitely did not on the Spanish test.

Oh well, pass or no pass, it has been a good class, and I have enjoyed getting to know the other students.Here is a sampling. I don’t think we have had any two people of the same nationality – except for the two weeks that Matt was with us.

Except for a Korean woman, English has been the shared language that (much to the frustration of the Spanish teachers) the students always revert to out of the classroom. And much of the shared culture is media entertainment from the States.

To make conversation one day, the teacher asked each of us who the most famous contemporary person from their country is. Most of the students had some difficulty coming up with someone everyone knew.

The woman from Scotland, who like many Scots does not fully recognize Scotland to be a part of the UK, rejected people’s suggestions of John Cleese from Monty Python fame, or JK Rowling (wrote some to the first Harry Potter books in Edinburgh, but is English).

So she settled on Sean Connery, but wanted it known that Alexander Graham Bell is also from Scotland.

The woman from Korea mentioned two people none of us knew and then tried Yu-na Kim, who I and another woman remembered winning the gold in figure skating last year. She was wonderful, so fluid and relaxed.

Roos, from Holland, suggested Cruyff and Bergkamp, two of their most famous soccer player.

The Dutch football team is sort of the Red Sox of Euro Football having come in second more often than any other team without without having ever won the World Cup. Only Robin new of the soccer players, so Roos tried again with DJ Tiesto,

Again, only Robin knew him. So she setteled on Van Gough. Not exactly contemporary.

Teresa, from Brazil, then also put forward a soccer player as the most famous person from her country, Pele.

Even I (thank you, Matt!) knew about Pele, who played during the 60’s and 70’s, and led Brazil to three World Cups, and was a great spokesperson for the poor of Brazil. But he is not so contemporary, so Teresa also suggested a model, Adrianna Lima,

But we did not know her, So she tried another model, who a couple of people knew. Giselle Bundchen who married some guy by the name of Tom Brady. (Okay, I do actually know who he is)

Robin, from Switzerland, nominated DJ Bobo,

but only Roos knew of him. Guess it is a generational thing. He could not come up with anyone else, so I suggested a couple of people from history, but only Robin knew of Le Courbusier (Charles-Edouard Jeanneret-Gris), a famous architect:

Building by Le Courbusier

and even he did not know of a favorite artist of mine, Jean Tinguely

For Spain, our Spanish teacher, Olga nominated Javier Bardem

Close behind seeing Picasso's Guernica and anything by El Greco and Goya, seeing Spanish men who look like Javier is a perfectly good reason to come to Spain. (Adele disagrees, says he looks like a gorilla)
Even if you have been living in Madrid for just a few days, and you have to have seen the movie, staring Julia Roberts, "Eat, Pray, Love" you will know who he, as posters of the movie are plastered everywhere:

Behind the Statue of King Carlos III of Spain, are Julia Roberts and Javier Bardem in "Eat, Pray, Love"

Olga saved me for last, I suppose because, having done this exercise before, she knew what would happen. I suggested Obama as the most famous American. No one disagreed, but Olga wanted to nominate Michelle, because they love her here for her visit last summer:

Michele and Sasha, being greeted by Spain's King Juan Carlos I

In fact, Everyone wanted to nominate their own favorite American Celebs. This went on for quite a while, but I think the most strongly promoted were (enough with the photos) Jennifer Anniston, Brad Pitt, Bill Gates, Michael Jackson, Tiger Wood and MC Hammer.

So, there we are. That is it for my language class, at least until I can become more fluent and return to book 2. I just can not return to Go. Meanwhile, I plan to work at a Soup Kitchen where I hope there will not be anyone with better English than my Spanish. It will be a cheaper, and more useful, way to learn the language. But that will be anther blog.

I do hate to offer a story without images! But here, for your amusement, read it if you would like, is one about me and the doorman:

The language barrier makes for much awkwardness, many difficulties, but also some amusing situations. In the lobby is a very kind and solicitous doorman. He always seems a little sad and a little anxious. I believe he lives behind the door next to the elevator that reads “Servicio” and I have seen a young girl come out of the door occasionally who looks quite like him, of slight build with dark hair and dark, gentle eyes. I think he has told me his name but I have not understood it. It seems awkward after all this time to have to ask his name. He calls me Seniorita, or maybe it is Senora, and I don’t think he wants to call me anything else. So, we mainly smile at each other awkwardly.

One day last week, when I stepped into the lobby, he had a look of delighted anticipation and bowed me over to his small desk where he had a laptop set up. He had typed out a message, I assumed from the landlady. He proudly presented me with the message side by side on the screen with its electronic translation. The original I could not entirely make out, but the translation went something like this:

“Please to inform the Johnsons that I will talk to them over the oven. I hope to have them disposed of forth with.

The key of which they want is to be given for the compartment. But please first I must dispense with my son who is inside of it.”

I laughed till the tears were streaming from my eyes, but the poor doorman only looked perplexed and perhaps a bit wounded by my reaction. Just then a young couple with a baby strapped to the father, came out of the elevator. The doorman looked much relieved as he must have known they spoke English. He ushered them over to the computer and they read the original and the translation. They also broke out laughing, and were able to tell the doorman what the translation was. He then laughed as hard as any of us. It was a lovely moment as I don’t think either of us had seen the other do more than smile anxiously.

(BYW, the orginal letter was something like: Please inform the Johnsons that I will talk to them about the oven. I hope to have it replaced and disposed of soon.

The key to the storage compartment, I will give to them soon. But first we must dispose of what the things that are inside now. )

And that is all I have to say for now.

Hasta Luega! Margot

Done with Moving! (for now), revised

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 02 Oct 2010 06:00:00 +0000

Seems like my blog posts are mainly about the minutia of everyday life, as we try to settle into living here. I would love to do some posts on current events in Spain (My post on the General Strike that occurred this past Wednesday, was suspended by move.)

The General Strike did not amount to a great deal in Madrid

Or a post on fabulous-sites-worth-visiting. But, alas, the process of settling in continues to dominate our lives for now.

But perhaps not for long. We managed, just yesterday, to move into our final Spanish destination, a process that began early this past July when we began to sort through and pack the ENORMOUS amounts of Stuff in our house:

Extracting ourselves from the house, selling cars and placing cats went on right through August and our first move to the lovely Best Western. We did manage to find nice homes for the cats and we sold the cars. But the house is still for rent.

If you know of anyone who might be interested, send us a note (margotkimball@gmail.com)

From the Best Western we made our way, briefly to the AC hotel,

My only photo from the AC. Sorry girls.

And then for a month at the Aparthotel:

Our last morning. Adios!

With a little help from me and the girls, Matt carried nearly everything out of the hotel to the car, and out of the car in the garage up to the apartment. Here he is with the first load on moving day, going into our building.

I have not been doing much of the carrying as my back has been giving me some trouble. Which gives me the opportunity to insert a drawing here. See if you can guess what is going on:

This is a drawing of me drawing, as I lie on the floor with my feet on a chair. I am taking a break from Spanish class to rest my back and I am looking up at the underside of a chair with a little desk. Speaking of minutia, I am able to report definitively that, just like people in the U.S., people in Spain stick their chewed gum under their desks.

But, back to the move. Though not carrying much, I did diligently unpack. To say that I am tired of packing, unpacking, repacking, and reunpacking our possessions would certainly be an understatement.

At about 12:30, Matt was seriously feeling the effects of not having a cup of coffee that morning. You would think that in restaurant-café heaven as our apartment is, it would be nothing to run downstairs and get a take out coffee. No, decidedly no. “Take out” is an American phenomenon that, while not unheard of, is not common in these parts. To illustrate, our Honda minivan back home had something like 10 cup holders. Our Eurostyle minivan that we are renting has exactly zero. So, good, we are forced to be civilized Spanish types and actually go down to the café and relax for a bit.

I took this photo from the front door of the apartment building. Do you see Matt in his orange shirt?

Though 12:30, it is a little too early for lunch in Spain. The other customers are mainly having beer with chips or olives, the traditional repast pre lunch or pre dinner time here. The waitress is astounded when Matt orders an espresso, as that is had at breakfast or after lunch and dinner. These customs are well ingrained. I decide to try the full Spanish experience and order a beer, something I rarely do before 5 in the afternoon:

Along with the beer she brings salami on bread and some potato chips. With the espresso comes a little basket of miniature chocolates. Note as well the ever present ash tray.

Our little break was interrupted by the arrival of the rental company bringing our furniture. Due to visa complications, our furniture and nearly everything else that we own, continues to languish in a warehouse in Massachusetts. We don’t expect it to receive it for at least two months.

The exquisite elevator is going to be of limited assistance.

These guys were fabulous. They were laughing over the insanity of carrying stuff up 8 flights of a very narrow stair well.

Somehow it all worked out, even the sofa bed made it up the stairs.

Funny thing, but having a beer midday in Spain has the same effect on me that having it midday in the States does. So, I put one of the couches right to work:

And back I go to work. They had delivered kitchen supplies as well:

I was not surprised, but still very sad to see all of the little coffee cups. A large mug is just not a known item in these parts. However, here is something that is considered essential enough to be in the box:

With the salt and pepper set come oil and vinegar dispensers.

Living in the midst of all the rented furniture is a bit odd. Like living in a furniture show room. But it is all quite adequate, and really the most important element by far in this apartment is the view from the living and dining room. All the other windows in the apartment look into air shafts.

Pretty much moved in, here we are having dinner.

One definite drawback to the apartment is the lack of studio space. How I will find a way to do art and retain my mental health, and not take over everyone else’s precious space, remains to be seen. My mother, ever the historian, pointed out that the street we have moved to is named after a painter – Eduardo Rosales 1836-1873. Here is a lovely portrait of him by Frederico de Madrazo.

And here you have one of Rosales’s most famous paintings;

Spain’s beloved Queen Isabella 1, of Christopher Columbus fame, at her death bed in 1504

So, I take it as a good sign that I will find a way to paint while I am here.

Chao for now.

A Home in the City?

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 25 Sep 2010 22:33:00 +0000

Okay, I am going to try to make this a quick update, as Matt and I began an Intensive Spanish class last week, and now what ever time I spend sitting down and not studying feels like procrastination. However, it is exciting to be learning a language that I really do need to know. Trying to explain the nuances of a medication, dosage, side effects ect. with a pharmacist, and we are both using hand gestures and making little diagrams, well, it is good for a laugh, but not for getting the medication. So, the class meets 3 and a half hours, 5 days a week in the city.

I want to make sure that all of you loyal followers who remember my last blog, relaying my rather clumsy adventures on the metro, are aware that I have rapidly transformed into just another blasé commuter.

See here how I am absorbed in my study of Spanish, not nervously checking the metro maps above the doors to figure out where the heck I am. And notice how competently I guard my purse with my arm, another sign of an experienced metro commuter who has been warned countless times about the “gypsies” who are like magicians in their ability to purloin possessions.

There are, however, advantages to stumbling about and actually looking around. On my first day to class I took a wrong turn and found myself in a tunnel with the following, rather good graffiti:

While I am at it, here is more art created in the metro (Ebs, this is for you). I had to get to several far flung places on the metro on Friday and kept myself amused by drawing people's feet. Much as I prefer to draw faces, I have found that people are distincly more comfortable with someone staring at their feet than at their faces.

And here is a photo of our language school that I took from their website:

I guess they do not want it to be too widely known that a quarter to a third of the student population is actually well out of their 20's.

However, it is also true that most of the students are college age. They come from all over the world and their common language is English. While ostensibly they are united in their goal to learn Spanish, like students everywhere the real object is to enjoy each other and have as much fun as possible. As a result, once out of the classrooms little is heard but English and for those who did not grow up speaking English, I am guessing that they learn more English than Spanish in the end.

After Spanish class we return to our little hotel apartment. Here we are in the “office” before Adele and Iris get home:

There are, however, distinct benefits and pleasures to life at NH La Florida as well. Here we are again finishing a Spanish style lunch, (which is to say large and late) in the restaurant downstairs. The food is excellent and surprisingly inexpensive, which is common of Spanish restaurants. Please stay tuned for a blog post dedicated to eating in Spain.

But the real news is……….. last weekend we decided for sure that we would take the house in Pozuelo that you can see pictured in the blog post “Finding a Spanish Home”.We negotiated on the lease and took measurements of rooms. All week we have planned what furniture we can fit in the house from our shipment, and what we need to buy.

But the real REAL news is, on Thursday our realtor informed us that the current tenants have decided to renew for a year. So, we don’t get the house after all.

After a brief sense of shock and disappointment, we decided – hey, fine, maybe there is something better. Maybe we did not want to live in walking distance to the school in a house with a great art studio and nice eat in kitchen anyway. Hmmm.

Matt and I had always been interested in living in the city, and Adele and Iris were actually not as opposed to it as previously. So, with the help of our loyal real estate agent, Chris, we took a look Friday evening at the neighborhood of an apartment in the city, and just this afternoon we looked at the apartment itself. AND, baring any unexpected obstructions, we have decided to take it.

Here is an abbreviated version of the description that Matt sent to our parents:

Hi everyone,

We've made a pretty radical shift in our rental plans. Instead of renting a large but anonymous row house in the suburbs, we've decided to rent a spectacular but small apartment in the city. If you would like to look at it with Google streetview, send us an email and we will send you the address.

Corner of a buildingnear ours, Friday night.

We'll be on the top floor (7th counting the Spanish way, 8th counting the US way). The living/dining area has a 25-30 foot wall of windows on the west side, facing the Parque del Oeste.

Since the park itself slopes down from where it starts across the street, it's as though we're 15 stories up, looking out over the western horizon. Beyond the park is the Casa de Campo, a 4,000 acre forested park with a lake, amusement park and zoo. A gondola two blocks away takes people on a horizonal journey above the trees to the center, about a mile or two away.

On the wide sidewalk just below the apartment is a creperie and a cafe/bar, with several others along both sides of the street going either way.

Two restaurants in front of the apartment building

Matt and girls checking out the menu at the Creperie

The park is full of joggers, people walking their dogs and a few bums as well. The word is it is quite safe, at least during the day.

There's no terrace, but a four-meter-wide section of the windows opens up floor-to-ceiling right in front of the dining area, leaving just a wrought iron railing between you and the open air. It's basically dining al fresco without going outside. There are roll-down awnings all across the front glass wall to protect from the afternoon sun.

The kids' bedrooms present a major challenge, because it'll be hard to make them feel anything but cramped. There's also no dedicated studio space for Margot. Finally, we have to severely cut back on the stuff we were planning to ship, now that we'll be in an apartment half the size of our house in Concord. We've pored through the mover's list of boxes and furniture items, and it's nearly impossible to determine what's what. Picking the right stuff off of the list will be a major gamble.

Here is Iris demonstating the very small but lovely elevator.

What an adventure! This should be a fun place to visit, if we can figure out a place for guests to sleep. We'll probably end up with a sleep sofa in the living room, and have one of the bedrooms available at least until Claire arrives next year. If all else fails, there are hotels in the neighborhood.

Margot here again,

And the neighborhood is great. Ironically, though we will be in the city, there will actually be much more green space available for a walk from home then there would have been in Pozuelo, or from our house in West Concord.

And that has got to be it for the night. It is just 6:20 pm on the east coast of the USA, but it is 12:20 am here. And this was supposed to be a quick update!

As always, please feel free to comment or send me an email: margotkimball@gmail.com

Adios!

A trip to Madrid with a Graffiti Lover

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 18 Sep 2010 20:40:00 +0000

So here I am in our 800 square foot aparthotel with the anonymous furniture. Matt has gone to the office. The kids have gotten on the bus. We have long since unpacked at this point. I don’t have a job or an art project to work on, nor a studio, little in the way of art supplies, and no car. Not even my sewing machine to do a project or fix some clothes. What is a girl to do?

Remember “I Love Lucy”? What did Lucille Ball do in that apartment all day?

And particularly when there was no Ethel?

I was feeling a lot like Lucy here. Though, actually, her apartment looks pretty darn good. Maybe I am feeling more like Alice Kramden from the “Honeymooners”:

What did she do all day, while Art was driving the bus?

Of course, I could go to the Prada, or one of the other museums in Madrid, but this was not feeling compelling. Most of the art that I have seen since coming here has been graffiti. Not that most of it is art by a long shot, but some of it is quite good. What I really want to do is get some spray paint and do some of my own.

Hmmm….This seems a bit risky. It has been a lot of trouble getting here, and being shipped back because I was caught doing graffiti would be pretty bad.

So, I decide to go shoot some graffiti and learn something about the bus/metro system while I am a it.

Taking pictures in public without creeping people out is a bit tricky.

I am quite familiar at this point with bus #162, but always going the other direction to Hipercourt-Court Ingles, the absolutely massive grocery/department store. Happily, I am not headed there. I am heading to Moncloa Station in Madrid, which seems a reasonable direction for finding good graffiti.

The black arrow shows you where I have arrived on the city metro map. It was about a 10 minute bus ride.

The station is enormous, or seems so as it is my first time trying to make sense of it, with several levels of buses and subways. But, for now, it is a simple matter of getting up to the street. Here is the view when I emerge.

Here you see the Arco de la Victoria (Arch of Victory). I disliked this monument from the first, I am proud to report, as I learn, in looking at my guide, that it was built by Franco to honor his Nationalist army for their defeat of the Republicans during the Spanish Civil War. For those who prefer not to be reminded of this event, the monument is more often referred to now as Puerto de Moncloa, or Gate of Moncloa.

Here is a more grandiose view of it:

Looking about I see the people in the following photo. Nothing exciting, but I include their image as they illustrate two common fashions here in Madrid – suits and ties for men at work, and Roman sandals for most women:

Ever mindful of my future visitors I offer this image of the many cabs that may await you should you venture into Moncloa station from our house in the inner suburbs.

but, alas, the graffiti around Moncloa is quite poor.

And so I descend back into the earth to consider the transport system.

I am trying to guess by looking at the maps on display in the metro where I should go to find good graffiti. The names of Metro stops don't seem to correspond with the names on my map of the city. This one shows street names and points of interest as well as the metro stops, but, even with my reading glasses I can not make anything out:

Hoping for a better map, I approach this representative of Madrid’s public transport system.

I have found most Spaniards to be friendly and helpful, but it turns out I have run into a member of that distinct subset who don’t seem to feel that a no calls for any elaboration what so ever.

First I try out the phrase that I am best at saying in Spanish: Habla usted Ingles? (Do you speak English?) (and, btw, I do know about those upside down ?'s, but my computer does not)

“No.”

I check a few words in my Simple Sayings in Spanish book, and say, in perfect Spanish I am sure, “ Do you have a map of the metro?”

“No.”

I stand waiting for some explanation of this curious fact. Finally, a bit irritated at my presence, she babbles rapidly in Spanish and gestures to the other side of the barricade of metro gates. Okay, so I have to get through those gates. I turn my attention to deciphering the ticket machines:

I really do not posses the best system of neurons for this kind of task, even in English.

It must be time to eat. Those neurons could definitely use some glucose, and help was at hand:

The Spanish love “pasteles”. Croissant and the like are never far from reach. And they are unfailingly excellent and usually inexpensive.

Here is my repast from Alpunto: a Napolitanas de jamon y quesa, or a croissant with ham and cheese, and the ubiquitous Fanta.

Back to the ticket machines. I managed to decipher that I could use credit cards, coins, or bills up to 50 euros. I try a few cards and they were spit back. I had used most of my coins and my only bill is a 50 euro, and that was similarly rejected. I am skeptical that the machine would take a 50, but I could see no machine for making change.

So, restored with glucose, and armed with a new phrase gleaned from my electronic dictionary (Thanks, Mom!)

I am ready to return to the unhelpful woman downstairs.

“Tiene cambio?” (Do you have change?)
“No”:

Again, I stood there, thinking -- surely I am going to get more instruction than that. She wasn’t budging and I finally came up with a phrase on my own.

“Nada en absolute?” (Nothing at all?) As I gestured about, thinking she would point me to a change machine.

“No.”

Okay. Back upstairs to find a place to get change. Many small stores look askance at a 50. I have to really buy something. Ah! A Papeleria. I can always find something I want at these small stationary/art stores.

For an office/art supply junky, this was a fabulous find. Very cool Faber-Castell eraser and sharpener that I did not have!

At this point I have decided that, if all I do is successfully get on the metro and back home – that will be success. I am on my way; two new 5 euro bills are quickly eaten by the machine which spits out a pass for 10 trips, plus a euro change. Fabulous, I go through the gates, past my taciturn friend.

Now which of the many trains shall I take? Where do they go? And how am I to find out where some decent graffiti is anyway? Public displays of information are noticeably unhelpful in this regard.

I could make out that there was a train going toward a University. That seemed like as likely a place as any for some good graffiti so I got on

Woman on the train

Please note, once again the Roman sandals. They are as common and varied as jeans in the States. And jeans are less common here.

There is nothing quite like arriving on a University campus for making me feel I have suddenly aged dramatically.

I am arriving at the Universidad Complutense de Madrid which, thanks to Wikipedia, I can tell you is the top public university in Spain and one of the oldest universities in the world, with its foundation dating back to the 13^th century.

In the late 1920's and until he was deposed in 1931, His Majesty King Alfonso XIII

bequeathed vast amounts of land and undertook an enormous building project with the object of making the university one of the best in the world.

During the Spanish Civil War, 1933-1936, the campus became a primary front in the battle between Franco's Nationalists and the Republicans (no, nothing like our Republicans). The students, professors, the many distinguished visiting intellectuals, were all forced to flee, unless they chose to stay and fight.

Here is a passage, also thanks to Wikipedia, from John Sommerfield's "Volunteer in Spain":

When we next came back to University City we were put into the Philosophy Building. We built barricades with volumes of Indian metaphysics and early nineteenth-century German philosophy; they were quite bullet-proof. (...) Life here was quiet, orderly. On clear mornings, about eleven o'clock, we were bombed. A few shells came over late in the afternoons; the rest of the time we sniped, read, talked, studied Spanish, or dug trenches. (...) We explored the library; in the great reading-room anti-tank guns stood on the tables; the valuable books and manuscripts had been taken away, but there was plenty to interest us. (...) On a cold morning I found De Quincey's Lake Poets and rolled myself up in a carpet and read voraciously; the day passed in a stupor, I was with Wordsworth and Coleridge, in another place, another time...

Little of its past glory or suffering was evident at the metro stop where I emerged. Mostly I noted a great quantity of university students and of notices for letting or looking for apartments and selling one thing or another.

I half expected to see the notices on people’s backs. The graffiti that I managed to see on a fairly brief foray into the campus was quite disappointing.

The sort of thing that makes one feel maybe they should all be sent to the lock up.

Well, it was time to get home in time for the kids getting off the bus. Making my way back to dear old bus #162 was smoother.

Thanks to my camera's self timer, here I am having successfully returned to the Moncloa station after my first successfully navigated trip on the Madrid metro.

But I did feel some sense of disappointment not to have gotten a photograph of anything decent . About 2/3rds of the way home, the bus passed over the A6. There along the highway is a wall of reasonably good graffiti. Clearly a place that the artists have designated to show off.

I hopped off at the next stop and estimated that I had just enough time to go back and take the photos and get back in time for the next bus which would be there in 13 to 17 minutes.

Here is the ledge the graffiti artists are going out on to do their work.

This is my favorite. I like how the artist modulated the colors and forms in such a way that they appear to be rising out of the wall.

And then I race back to the bus stop. AND……….

I just missed it.

Me at the bus stop where I will wait another 13 to 17 minutes

But, hey, it was a great trip. I got some decent graffiti photos; I am no longer feeling intimidated by the bus or metro system; I know how to say "Do you have change?", and I got a great eraser and pencil sharpener.

If you got all the way through this post and would like to comment. Please, leave a comment here on the blog, or send me an email: margotkimball@gmail.com

Till next time!

Finding a Spanish Home

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 14 Sep 2010 10:26:00 +0000

Hello out there,
Before I get started on today's post, I would like to thank everyone who has left a comment or sent me an email commenting on the blog (or/and sharing your own stories). It can be quite disconcerting to have an entirely invisible audience, so it is great to get at least a brief check in. In case you do not have it, my email is margotkimball@gmail.com .

Okay, so back to finding our Spanish home. For those with really poor knowledge of geography, now you don’t have to embarrass yourselves asking – where is Spain anyway, or Italy? Follow the little white lines to where Claire went and the rest of us:

And here is where Madrid is. Yes, yes, of course, the capital of Spain. (And Claire is in Grottaferatta, just outside of Rome, the capital of ITALY!)

And, of course we all know that Madrid is derived from the Muslim name, dating back to at least the 9th century AD, al-Majrit, or in Arabic, المجريط, “source of water”. That water is little evident aside from a surprising number of trees, and a yet more surprising number of swimming pools. Even the most modest apartment is almost sure to have a pool associated with it. Though it could be about the size of a dining room table.

So, here we are in Madrid, cuz of that fabulous airport that will fly Matt all about Europe, but how to decide where to live in or around a city that we don’t know?

PLEASE! Do not attempt to drive with this map.

The first simplifying factor was choosing the girls’ school. (If you are curious about why we chose the American School of Madrid, send me an email. I would be happy to elaborate but don’t want to force everyone through my tortured process.)

On the map, the school is the X. The airport is the funny looking triangle with a line going down, and Matt’s office is the crushed circle in the upper left. The sort of yellowy green stuff is parks and reserves. Not my most successful bit of art work.

Matt and I were tempted to live in the city, somewhere near Retiro Park and El Prada. Iris and Adele were decidedly against the city life. We looked at some homes in the outer suburbs, Boadilla and Majadahnda, but they looked too much like American suburbs. We have ended up focusing in on two towns, close to the city and the school, Pozuela de Alarcon and Aravaca.

Chris is the real estate agent who has been helping us. She is an American, but has lived here many years. The head of the American School later said we are very fortunate to have her as she is “muy enchufe”, (literally a plug, or plugged in), and that in Spain it is otherwise hard to get things to happen. In fact, without our plugged in realtor this is as much as we could see of houses and apartments:

In Spain walls and gates across driveways are typical. Houses, yards and gardens are surrounded by 8 or 10 foot high fences and hedges. Gated communities are common, but even within a gated community each house is hidden from the others. We had read that there is much less crime in Spain than in the States, and the security surrounding housing is perplexing to us. This is a mystery that may take some time to unravel.

Just this past Saturday we saw a house in Pozuelo de Alarcon, which we like very much and are considering renting:

Here are Matt and the girls with the owner of the house behind them. He is a lovely Spanish man. When we were introduced to him, he knew that as Americans we expect to shake hands but keep a distance, but as a friendly, warm Spaniard he could not be satisfied to not do the usual kisses on each cheek with the females, and an enthusiastic handshake with a grasping of the shoulder for the man.

The house does not look like much from the outside, but it is quite comfortable and has a good feeling to it.

In the kitchen looking at the eat-in area

View into the kitchen

To understand how happy this kitchen made me, you have to imagine that all the other houses we have seen have had a more traditional Spanish set up, which is to have a small kitchen set apart from the rest of the house, where the woman who is employed to cook and clean would work.

Iris on the back porch

Much as I would like to experience this new culture, I have quickly realized that there are many aspects of my life and our family’s that I am actually not willing to alter for any long period of time, like having a kitchen that is the heart of the house, and eating dinner before 9:00 at night.

And here is the obligatory pool, shared with the other houses on the street. Oddly enough, as warm as it is here, the pools are only open between May and the end of September, as they are uncovered and unheated and the nights get cold.

Here is the view from the end of the street, Calle Urano. You can see it is a bit urban. The red dot, almost in the center is a bus stop that can get you to Madrid pretty easily. So, if you visit, you may not be able to use that pool, but you can get yourself into the city.

Till Later! Hasta Ahora!

A Mother Hen and First Impressions

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 07 Sep 2010 22:13:00 +0000

Monday, the 6th: The first part of this post’s title refers to my true inner self, today. Matt has taken Adele and Iris to the bus stop to go to their first day at the American School of Madrid. I barely know the school; I don’t know anyone else who goes there, and I don’t have a car with which to drive them, so that I can sort of hover about and see what is what. Meanwhile, Claire is back in Concord and will be leaving for Italy in two days. Aaaargh! Outwardly, I appear a normal mother who has not yet gotten out of her pyjamas:

But inwardly, I feel like a mother hen whose chicks have wandered too far in the barnyard, and she is wanting to gather them in. Claire is actually about to fly out of the barnyard all together. And, oh-my-goodness, she is not a chicken!

Ah well, that is actually all I have to say about myself today. So, I am going to take this opportunity to go backwards a bit and post some of my notes on the trip that Matt and I took to Madrid last July to look at housing. (The benefits of moving gratis of a corporation. Thank You, Oracle)

First Impressions

If you would like to be able to stand about in the aisles of an airplane (whether the seat belt sign is on or not) till well into the night, chatting with friends and drinking sodas (as 20 Spanish teenagers next to me did), then Spain’s Iberian Airline is definitely for you.

Well, I did get this off the internet and it is a little fancier than the meal I had, but
the food is quite good, and I really appreciate that they use real metal utensils.
All quite Spanish as I was to discover. Or perhaps just not American.

In addition, if you would like to enter a European country with someone else’s passport, you really must come to Spain. The customs officials barely glanced at us as they stamped our passports and waved us through with a smile and a greeting.

The airport is an immense, modern affair. It has some of the organic quality that I associate with Gaudi’s architecture. But it was remarkably empty.

In fact our flight was the only one arriving at all as far as I could tell. This may be due to the severe recession that Spain is experiencing, or maybe because the sun was absolutely blazing hot and anyone with the means to do so was leaving Madrid for the remainder of the summer, and no one in their right minds was arriving. Please, do not plan to visit us in Madrid in late July or August. We don’t plan to be here!

Our First Day

As good Americans, Matt and I had arrived with an agenda and planned to get right to work. We wanted to buy a map and a dictionary, look at the neighborhoods, on the outskirts of the city, where we were most likely to find a house, and go to some stores to see what price differences there are. Our bodies insisted on brief naps, but soon we were off in our rented car. But how strange: the streets were nearly empty and the stores all closed. Plenty of parked cars but no people. We ended up at a mall that was closed, but oddly with the door open. We walked in and used the restrooms. Had the people been teleported?

At 3:00 in the afternoon we were in the nearly empty town center of Aravaca, a suburb of Madrid. The sun was punishing and we were hungry. Fortunately, 3:00 is just in the middle of lunch time here and we found an open restaurant. One of the odd little contradictions in Spain is that they don’t seem to be in a hurry to serve you at restaurants, but once you order it comes almost instantly, and then you are given all the time you want to enjoy it. In fact, as Americans you are given a good deal more time than you actually want. That will be one of my goals, to enjoy meals at a Spanish pace. Another goal is to learn enough Spanish that I know what I am ordering. All in all I really like Spanish food, very fresh, lots of vegetables and fruit. But this was not the first time I had gotten a type of fish that I was not keen to eat.

Okay, this is from the Google Images too. But you get the idea.
Squid, octopus and others unknown are quite popular here.

At 5:30 we were back in the city center where we found a scattering of tourists at a museum. Afterwards we wandered about. The sun was still blazing and we were drawn to the shade of a park. It turned out to be Retiro Park, Madrid’s equivalent to NYC’s Central Park. Here seemed to be all the people we had been wondering about, picnicking below the cool, green canopy,

watching street performers,

One of the dancers, his sign was much enjoyed by the crowd
"Somos solos" -- "We are single"

on blankets kissing (Spain is definitely for lovers), at the lake rowing rented boats,

What better place for a cell phone conversation?

and generally enjoying a day of rest. That will be another of my goals: when it is time to rest, really actually enjoy the rest. Hmm, I don’t know that I want to publicly declare that to be a goal. It will be a tough one.

Postscript: This has been written over the course of a couple of days. Adele and Iris have had two good first days of school, and are safely back in the roost.

No Carefree Tourists

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 06 Sep 2010 21:18:00 +0000

How different it is to move to a city than to visit as a tourist. Finding a place to live, getting cell phones to work, finding places to buy lunch boxes and power cords, figuring out how to make an appointment in Spanish with a Doctor -- this is what fills our thoughts. The museums and ancient monasteries that intrigue me are not even in my peripheral vision (Thank God, says Adele).

13th century monastery north of Madrid, that we are NOT visiting

Where to Live?

When we were sorting, rather rapidly, through our possessions in Concord, designating items to store or send to Spain, we were imaging moving, almost directly, into an unfurnished house of about the same size where we would reside for 2 years.

One of many Spanish houses that we are definitely NOT living in

Shortly before the moving van arrived we learned that it would all remain in storage until we had our residency visas, which could take until sometime in October. So, we quickly pulled out some more clothes, some documents and, most importantly as far as I was concerned, lots of art supplies for an air shipment.
We thought that, while awaiting our furniture, we would move right into a lovely, furnished apartment near the girls’ schools.

NOT the apartment building that we are staying at

That plan, like so many, evaporated on the trail between Spanish realtors and the many bureaucratic links of Matt’s American company, Oracle. What actually happened is, we stayed at an average sort of hotel the first night. The next day, while the children read and slept off jet lag

Matt and I drove around looking at for a decent “aparthotel” to stay in, we hoped, very temporarily.

Here is Matt coming out of the first aparthotel. It had the look and feel of a state mental institution after severe budget cuts. The one we have ended up in, while nothing close to the lovely, well located apartment of our imaginations, is not too bad.

Margot doing dishes and laundry
in our kitchen

One of my secret fears about getting married was that I would end up looking like a character from a George Booth cartoon. What do you think?

George Booth character

Here are Matt and I in the lobby of the hotel. The girls found the name of the hotel amusing as it seems to be a confusion of several distant locations in the States. I would have more photos of the Adele and Iris, who are obviously a good deal cuter than us, but they are quite squirrelly about photos.

Since arriving in Spain we have learned that the process of getting our visas, and therefore all our furniture etc., is more unpredictable, and probably a good bit lengthier than we thought. As a result, we will either be in this hotel for 2 to 4 months (possibly longer) or get a house and rent a smattering of furniture to get us by till the shipment arrives.

Settling into a new country with a new language can be pretty exhausting. Here is how we have been quite content to spend our evenings in this exotic new land:

Till next time!
Margot

Last Days in Concord, First Days in Madrid

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 04 Sep 2010 10:03:00 +0000

Our last days in Concord seemed to be an unrelenting series of challenges and setbacks—a house still not ready to rent, cats failing placements, customs documents sent by mistake to storage, and so forth.

Margot searching through boxes in the warehouse in Franklin Mass where our belongings
will remain until we obtain our residency visas. We have heard rumors in Madrid
that this is more likely to be closer to 6 months than the 6 weeks we had imagined.

Iris with cousin Alexia, rolling the many coins collected around the house.

Our first days in Madrid have been similarly marked by challenges and conundrums both expected and unexpected, but now they usually get played out in Spanish, and never with the assistance of our family and friends who helped us so much in Concord.

Claire hauling boxes to the garage, and being annoyed
with her mother. Sorry, Claire!

Interesting technique there

Della and Joan helping to get the house ready for renters

Special thanks to my mother, Joan, who did so many
things for us. Here busy at the endless inventory taking.

No surprise that another great inventory taker was another librarian,
here is Stephanie with her daughter, Irene.

One of a gazillion jobs that Matt's father, Ted, did for
us. You would think that he wanted us out of Concord!

An Enormous Thank You to all the many friends and family who I did not get decent pictures of, but who helped us as well in so many ways--- dinners when we were living at the Best Western, lending me a car after we sold ours, taking care of our children, putting up posters for placing our cats, making me sit down and relax for brief periods, and so forth and so on.....

More on Madrid next time.

Off to Spain

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 02 Sep 2010 19:41:00 +0000

Here we are, Adele, me, Claire, Iris and Alexia (Matt's brother's daughter who is returning to London after visiting us) at International Departures at Logan. Matt is off with an airport official fixing the latest in an endless series of minor obstacles to near catastrophes that have characterized our preparations for extricating ourselves from Concord and country. This is our good bye to Claire who will stay in Concord until her departure to Italy on September 8th.

Adele and Iris have been remarkably good natured about our first 24 hours in Madrid given that it has decidedly not been well planned for giving a good first impression of their new (temporary) country. Even a small, hibernating bear would not have slept in the space allotted to a single human on the Swiss Air night flight to Zurich.

My fellow passengers, busy with their thumbs.

The flight from Zurich to Madrid then takes us, not to the new, futuristic building, but to the old part of the airport which is run down and saturated with decades of cigarette smoke. From the airport you can make out the dry, flat desert landscape. Not a fancy desert such as you might see in Arizona, or around Santa Fe. This one is unadorned by palm trees, sequoia cactus, or intriguing rock formations, just shades of brown with scatterings of hearty green desert plants.

All the luggage that 4 people are allowed to take on Swiss Air

Matt won this bet. He got everything into our Euro-style mini-van.

We then spent several hours retrieving our vast quantities of luggage, acquiring a rental car and driving around the less interesting parts of the city looking for the hotel apartment that turned out not to be ready for us. Eventually we ended up for the night in a decent hotel in another uninteresting part of the city.

Prologue: What is this about Spain? And what about Claire?

For those who have heard little or nothing about all this: Last winter we arranged for Claire to spend next school year, her sophomore year, on the American Field Service, AFS, program, in Italy with a family just outside of Rome.

Quite unexpectedly, in May, a colleague at Oracle asked Matt if he might like to move to Europe for two years for a project that he was hoping to have approved. If so, Matt should choose the city he would want to move to so that the company could research the cost.

Why Madrid:

This all seemed like somewhere between a hoax and a long shot, but a fun exercise in picking out a city. My first thought was Paris, as I speak French (or did) and we love the art, and the food and the wine. But, with apologies to the many individuals in France who I adore (especially our cousins!), I could not face the contempt of the French when confronted with someone who is decimating their language.

Our next thought was Barcelona. I would love to gaze upon buildings designed by Gaudi each day. But the airport is not sufficient for the travel Matt will be doing. Our next choice was London where Matt’s brother and his family live. Plenty of art from all over the world there to keep me happy for 2 years, but Matt and I both wanted the girls to have the opportunity of learning a new language. We considered as well Holland. Matt’s family lived there quite happily while his sister and brother spent part of their high school years there, but what were the chances really that the girls would learn or ever use Dutch? There was a brief consideration of Belgium and Geneva, but they are far too neat and tidy for our family.

Of course we also considered Italy. Matt lived there for 2 years and still speaks Italian passably. The possibility of living with daily contact with Italian art, especially of the 14th to 16th centuries, well it is actually, I am not even kidding here, enough to make me cry. But no, Claire was all set to go to Italy, far from her family. It really seemed unjust to follow her over there.

And so we came to Madrid, a city which we have found is highly spoken of by all we have met who have spent time here. Ironically, Claire is the only one among us who speaks any Spanish, and no, she does not speak Italian, yet.

My knowledge of Spain is embarrassingly sketchy. I think of flamenco dancers and bulls, especially Ferdinand, from a favorite children’s story. What has Spain been up to between the time Isabelle and that other Ferdinand sent Columbus off to “discover” the “New World” and team Spain won the World Cup? I do know they had a terrible civil war early in the 20th century and then there was that dictator Franco who just would not die or go away. Off hand, without consulting Google,I can only think of 6 Spanish artists, but of them 3 are some of my favorites, Goya,

Colossus de Goya

Gaudi

Gaudi in Barcelona

and El Greco.

Evangelist, by El Greco

Well, El Greco is not Spanish, he is “The Greek” and he studied in Italy but he did fall in love with Toledo and stayed there. Perhaps I will find out why.

Simple template by Josh Peterson. Powered by Blogger.