Delora in España

A quick trip to Vietnam

2010-06-24T17:19:00.001+01:00

Delora's sister, an award-winning film and television director, recommended that Delora try a new iphone app called Histamatic. She thought it would jazz up Delora's pictures.

Instead Histamatic is making every picture Delora takes look like she's in Vietnam in 1920...

Mallorca, Spain 2010

Sometimes, Delora's pictures look as though she developed old film after stomping on it a few times...

Mallorca, Spain 2010

Sometimes Delora's pictures look "artsy"...

Mallorca, Spain 2010

Thanks Delora's sister.

The Ashram - Day whateva'

2010-06-09T16:03:00.002+01:00

Dinner at the Ashram

Delora ia truly hungry starving from the time she rises, at 5am, until she falls, face first, into bed at 9pm. She tries to embrace the hunger as a Ghandi-ish virtue, but she can't because she's starving. Instead, her survival instincts kick-in and she finds herself plotting to steal food. She eyes a bowl of oranges on the hallway table and justifies the act of lifting a few into her sunhat while she strolls by. Mallorca orange groves are famous for producing some of the juiciest specimens around, so juicy, they need only be half peeled, then bitten like an apple. Delora, the savage, can devour these oranges in seconds while sweet juice gushes onto her face and into her hair before it hits her bathroom sink.

Luckily, Delora's dear friend, Catherine, is her roommate. She's the kind of girl who doesn't mind that Delora has turned into Oliver Twist and has been stealing food and eating it over their shared sinks. Only once does she mention that Delora has left orange peels scattered around the crime scene. She is not tempted by Delora's bars; she knows about the dangers of artificially sweetened food and she's made of superior moral fiber. She doesn't even waiver when Delora finds a blackberry tree on the estate and stoops down to pick a berry off the ground and taste it. That's right, Delora stooped down, picked a berry off the dirty, dirt ground, and put it into her mouth without a moment's hesitation. Has Delora ever mentioned that she has a borderline obsessive-compulsive disorder when it comes to cleanliness? Apparently OCD is not an issue when the choice is between germs and eating.

Here are some of the activities the Ashram plans to keep their guests busy (so they can't hunt for food):

Delora and Catherine being tricked into thinking that they're going on a nice boat ride when they're really being dropped on a beach where they're going to hike straight up a giant mountain to hike through CLOUDS

Other unsuspecting Ashram joy riders

One little mountain...

Clouds...

Delora's mid-day snack

Delora was supposed to choose a total of 5 nuts OR 5 raisins OR a mix of both, still totaling 5. Using a sleight of hand maneuver, Delora manages to palm 8! This is the moral decay -- the quest for food -- that preoccupies Delora as she hikes for hours and hours up the steep mountains. Later Delora will raid the orange bowl before falling into bed and waving goodnight to Catherine across the room. But Delora is making peace with her hunger, as all good supermodels in training must, and she is staying in the moment and detoxing all at the same time -- when she isn't hunting for food.

The Ashram - Day 1

2010-06-05T18:37:00.003+01:00

Delora and friends arrive at the Ashram, a beautiful house rented from Richard Branson's ex-wife, near the port of Soller (in Mallorca) at around 1 pm. Smiling thirty-something hunks greet the guests. They'll be running the program this week.

Luckily, Delora and friends have ingested jamon paninis at the airport, since there is nothing resembling lunch here. Guests are encouraged to hang by the pool until it's time for them to weigh in. Delora meets some of the other guests, then it's her turn to step on the scale. Normally, Delora would strip down to nothing to be weighed, but in front of these two Ashram Gurus, BEFORE the Ashram program has transformed her into a supermodel? Awkward! She'll just keep her clothes on, thank you very much. The cutest guru weighs and measures every possible area capable of holding Delora's fat, recording the details carefully, then tells her to get changed for a short hike.

Delora and her new Ashram comrades take to the hills with poles and backpacks filled with water. Delora has purchased a "camelback" for this week of hiking, and has chosen a zip-front model with a medium sized "bladder" to hold water. Delora's own bladder, the one inside her body, is full before she even hits the hills, but Delora doesn't know these new friends well enough to drop trow yet. The group will hike steep mountains with loose stone pathways and use the poles for balance. Delora has been warned about this first hike by Delora's sister who was almost "man down" on day one when she completed this program a couple of years ago. They call it a short hike, where short equals the hardest hike you've ever taken in your life. Delora feels strong and lets her Alpha dog run out in the front of the pack at first. Soon the Alpha dog is so tired, that Delora is grateful to be walking her beta bitch in the middle of the pack.

Later, the group sits in a circle as each person tells a little something about themselves. Each is asked why they have come to the Ashram. Delora refrains from saying that she's come to look like a supermodel and instead says that she's here to get fit. The Ashram promotes a diet free from caffeine, sugar, artificial sweeteners, meat, seafood, poultry, dairy, flour, fat. Delora wonders what's left, then realizes that the only food groups remaining are fruit, vegetables and soy products (is soy a food group?) Delora focuses on a lecture about detoxing the body from bad substances, but obsesses over how quickly she can get to the Zone bars hidden in her lingerie bag. Apparently, Delora's face gives her away, because the Cute Guru looks straight at Delora and says that anyone who brought bars, or other forbidden foods to the Ashram isn't doing anything to help their detox. Delora keeps a straight face and nods in agreement until she can lock herself into her bathroom and choke down bar #1(chocolate coconut) and bar #2 (yogurt) before her 8:30 PM bed time.

Delora blogs again ... from the Ashram

2010-06-02T19:16:00.004+01:00

Delora decides to overcome 9 months of excessive jamon intake and negate her recently acquired bad Spanish habits by spending one week at the Ashram in Mallorca. Usually located in Calabasas, California, twice a year The Ashram comes to Mallorca, Spain to change the scenery a bit and kick some serious culo. How bad can things be at a place that looks like this?

Mallorca, Spain

This is the same program countless actresses and Sports Illustrated models endure each year to lose those extra pounds the week before an important shoot. It's with this image, in Delora's mind's eye, of a Sports Illustrated Model body with Delora's head soldered on top, that convinces her to pay good money to share a room, rise at 5 am, do an hour of yoga, eat 2 TBS of Museli and a disgusting soy yogurt, hike for FIVE hours, eat a green salad, do another hour of exercise (weights anyone?) followed by a final hour of yoga, inhale some steamed veggies mistakenly called "dinner", and drop like a stone into bed at 8:30 pm.
But with summer approaching and a layer of fat on Delora's backside shaped like this:

Delora realizes that no program is too radical.

The night before Delora leaves for Mallorca she decides to read the not so fine print on her Ashram email. Delora exhales an expletive when she realizes that she was supposed to be detoxing for the past two weeks. Luckily Delora doesn't have too many bad habits, but she does have one very, very serious Earl Grey habit (with Splenda) that she enjoys and plans to keep. Furtively, she stashes the teabags and the banned artificial sweetener in her suitcase and, just in case she's on the verge of death, adds 8 Zone bars.

At the last supper before she ships out, where sake and champagne are consumed along with healthy Japanese delicacies, Delora asks her friend C. about her experience at the Ashram at few years ago:

"I lost alot of weight," she admits, "but I decided that paying money to sleep on a lumpy bunk bed with a stranger beneath me while I was starving, wasn't exactly something I wanted to try again."

Delora is going to the Ashram with two friends from Madrid, so at least she won't have a stranger in the next bed. Delora finishes her glass of champagne and hopes for the best...

Genius or Junk?

2010-03-20T10:18:00.001Z

There were times, during Delora's recent visit to the Marqués de Riscal Winery in the Rioja region of Spain, when she thought that the inn, designed by Frank O. Geary, was pure genius. The way that the undulating metal panels reflected the sun, and the pale purple, gold and silver hues echoed the colors of the wine and the packaging was inspiring.

Then again, there were times, when Delora caught a glimpse of this same genius out of the corner of her eye and thought: Damn if that doesn't look like a treehouse that some red-neck neighbor banged together for his kid.

Delora's Communicative Family

2010-03-15T09:24:00.002Z

coutesy of: This isn't Happiness blog

Delora has a very large and complicated immediate family. First, there was Delora, her sister and her brother. Then Delora's mother pulled a Brady Bunch move and Delora instantly acquired four additional brothers. Then, Delora's father had two more children with his second wife. Then many of the siblings got married to great people who became sibling-ish. Now, Delora can barely swing a cat without hitting one of them. But because Delora's many, many parents and siblings have very busy lives and are spread across the globe, they frequently have trouble keeping up to date with accurate news of one another.

Even when Delora tries to communicate en masse with these siblings and parents via a blog, her life is like a game of TELEPHONE. Below is an actual conversation that Delora had yesterday:

Delora's Mother: How is your hernia?

Delora(patiently): Mom, why do you think I have a hernia?

Delora's Mother: I read it on your blog.

Delora: You must not have read the actual blog.

Delora's Mother: No, really, I did! I read that you had a hernia! How is it?

Delora: Mom, if you'd read the actual blog, you would have known that that was a joke. It was a lead into another issue...

Delora's Mother: -silence-

Delora: I don't have a hernia, Mom.

Delora's Mother: Oh, that's right! Your brother told me that you had a hernia! He says he's going to call you about it...

Here's the story of Delora's hernia, Delora's BLOOD BROTHER and Delora's BLOOD MOTHER...
Delora's Hernia

Delora's Brain Malfunction

2010-03-13T13:00:00.002Z

Multiple Shadow House photo by Olafur Eliasson

Delora discovers a seriously, serious problem with her brain function while driving with friends to a cute little village north of Madrid called Patones.

Delora is having a discussion about travel advisories in foreign countries and how one little incident can trigger a warning from the U.S. State Department. Delora decides to delight her friends with an example of this by telling a story about a guy she knows who ran a travel business in Africa. Delora recounts the story of how one day this friend was traveling with his clients in this African country when they came upon a group of poachers. (All true.) They stopped the bus, and the men with guns fired a warning shot outside the window of the bus and it inadvertently hit a woman inside the bus and killed her.

Like in Babylon, Delora's friend asks?

Delora continues telling her riveting story, while at the same time thinking, Babylon, Africa? She refuses to embarrass her friend regarding her faulty geography, because she is concentrating so hard that she can see the story while she's telling it! She recreates the dusty bus in her mind's eye and sees the woman who's been shot and the man next to her, who looks alot like -- wait a minute -- Brad Pitt! Sitting right next to the woman from Southport, Connecticut?

Sensing Delora's confusion, the friend gently utters the word, Babylon, and Delora's realizes that her brain is now mixing reality with scenes from movies!

Delora and her friends laugh uproariously until the windows fog on the car. But when Delora is awake playing Sudoku in the middle of the night, she wonders about the tiny brain tumor that may be forming and causing her to break from reality. Maybe that Jamon isn't as full of Omega three fatty acids as those farmers claim it to be! What if there's a miniature fat-ball restricting blood flow to the region of the brain that distinguishes between film clips and reality? Delora decides that she must be very careful about which movies she chooses to view from now on. Nothing funky from the science fiction or horror genres. After all, Delora must keep her wits about her. Tomorrow, she has to stand on a balcony in Buenos Aires and sing, "Don't Cry for Me Argentina", while looking good for her husband, Antonio Banderas.

Delora Lapses Into Semi-retirement

2010-03-12T11:53:00.003Z

Delora's scoops another handful of Iberian jamon (de bellota) into her pie-hole, and glances lazily at her computer screen. There it is, the proof she was looking for: only 7 posts in the month of February. (The short, short month of February, she reminds herself.)

Delora finishes chewing and tries to recall the quote from the author who wisely stated that one must balance living life with time spent writing about it. Working hard to source the quote for several minutes without any luck, Delora enjoys a dessert of Sour Cream and Onion chips while contemplating. Whoever that writer was sure knew what he was talking about. Without experiences, the writing suffers. Then again, Delora admits, with too many experiences one can't even make it to the computer. Delora is a bit torn,until her Spanish teacher warns her harshly never to feel guilty about not working hard enough. After all, she says, tomorrow you may be forced to face something really bad. Why not enjoy today?

Thinking back to when she was a New York tri-state-area-type-A personality, Delora realizes that after 6 months in Spain, her personality is now more like a type J (for Jamon). Delora chuckles to herself remembering the self help books stacked on her bedside in Connecticut: Eckhart Tolle's, The Power of Now, and his follow up book, Practicing The Power of Now. Delora was always too busy reliving the past or fretting about the future to read them. Now Delora internalizes the Spanish philosophies of: no pasa nada and manana, tranquila! (Roughly: Don't worry; there's always tomorrow.) And by doing this, Delora has achieved a goal more amazing, more unthinkable for a tri-state-type-A than any marathon or nobel prize: She has enjoyed a 4 hour lunch! She has actually wondered, after 4 hours of eating and drinking: where has the time gone? She has thoroughly enjoyed a lunch with 2 other people that lasted longer than her wedding reception!

Now many tomorrows have passed and Delora takes a vow: she will not, under any circumstances, enjoy Spain as much as she has been. She will limit her visits to the Rioja region of the country, minimize time spent enjoying her new friends, the museums, and the city sites. She will restrict her time spent enjoying the radiant (yet, sometimes rebellious) personalities of her teenaged children and her newly Spanish speaking husband. Instead, she will focus a tiny bit more on productivity! She will strive to post half of what normal bloggers post --a minimum of 10 posts per month!

And with that vow made, Delora decides to bypass the gym today. One vow for greater productivity will count as mental exercise. No pasa nada.

BTW - Delora apologizes for the programmers at Blogger.com for the horrible way that their program is formatting today...

Learning Manners From The Spaniards

2010-03-01T14:55:00.001Z

Unlike those from a bordering country (rhymes with "pants"), the Spanish always make you feel as though you've made their day just by being their country. You go to Pants and, unless you're down on one knee apologizing for the Bush years, your attempts at speaking the language are met with a sniffle and a sneer. You come to Spain and you're greeted with a kiss on both cheeks, a platter of Iberian ham, personal Spanish lessons and a hand-written thank you note for entering the country. There's no comparison.

Turns out, the way Spaniards treat Americans is pretty much the same way Spaniards treat each other. Great emphasis is put on spending lots of time with family and friends and on being nice to strangers. Here are a couple tips on Spanish etiquette for your next visit:

Always greet people on elevators...
When entering or exiting an elevator, always greet the other elevator dwellers by saying Buenas dias! or Hola! (good day or hello). Say Hasta luego! (see you later) when getting off the elevator. Don't make the same mistake Delora has made for months by saying Adios! when exiting. Saying Adios! implies that you don't expect to see your new elevator friends again and that's rude! Who knows when you might enjoy another few seconds with that same person on another elevator ride?

And at neighboring tables at restaurants.
Next time you're at a restaurant, ask yourself this question: am I being rude to the other diners? How many times have you followed the hostess to your table and avoided eye contact with others? Not here! In Spain, you greet the people you pass while walking to your table at a restaurant. Delora has noticed this mannerism mostly in smaller Spanish villages, but she plans to try this in New York City and see how it works there. Try it yourself: enter a restaurant, give your name to the hostess, then nod at every person you pass and say, Hola! and Buenas! all the way to your seat. Kind of makes you feel like the Mayor of the city.

Group singing - a must!
When our three returned from Spanish immersion camp this summer, they told stories of kids singing everywhere they went. Whether riding in buses or walking to the beach, group singing is always encouraged. Camp life is a real-life version of High School Musical. The popular song by Pitbull, I Know You Want Me, made it impossible to mutter the words: one, two, three, four, last summer without every camper hoping onto a picnic table to finish the song: Uno, dos, tres, cuatro! We dismissed this behavior as child's play until we boarded a bus in Tenerife at 11:30PM and listened to 50 grown Spaniards sing for the full bus ride. Or, try a spinning class where you can enjoy group singing while getting exercise at the same time. What better way to make new friends?

When leaving a party, say goodbye to everyone.
Well-mannered Americans thank their hostess when leaving a party, but Spaniards say goodbye to all the guests too. It's not mandatory to kiss everyone goodbye, but if you are too hasty with your exit, people will talk.

Attend the after-party.
It's only steps away from the party or the function you attended...it's right outside the party, in the street. There, you'll have another opportunity to say goodbye to everyone and to chat a little bit more about whatever you just did. Are you starting to see why the Spaniards are famous for staying out all night?

If you come to Madrid and don't follow these suggestions, be forewarned. The Spanish have a way of describing people who leave parties without saying goodbye properly -- Despiderse a la Francesa
(leaving like the French).

Ode to Jamon (Ham)

2010-02-20T18:40:00.001Z

Pata Negra: Translation? Black pig ham legs (and lots of 'em)

When Delora lived in the States, she thought ham was beneath her. She remembers a childhood filled with nightmarish holiday meals at her Aunt's house, featuring molded ham from a can decorated with maraschino cherries. Those days ensured that Delora would never voluntarily eat pink meat again.

Delora at the Ham Museum Store.

Photo courtesy: Tay

Delora first tasted Iberian Pata Negra de Bellota at a friend's house just after arriving in Spain. Eager to avoid appearing fussy and priggish, she took a big bite and was delighted to find that the Pata Negra didn't even taste like meat -- it tasted like nuts! Delora found herself hogging the whole platter of pricey meat as though making up for a lifetime of Pata Negra deprivation. Later, when Delora couldn't stop craving the stuff, she did some research and this is what she found: Iberico pigs roam on grazing lands in Western Spain populated by encina trees (holm oak) and are only allowed to eat acorns.

If you want to know more about Iberico Jamon de Bellota, read this article: Guardian Article

Their meat is high in Omega 3 fatty acids! It's actually healthy to eat the ham here (and good for Delora's recuperation diet!) Some marketers people call Iberico pigs "olives on legs", or something cute like that. Plus, they're are massaged with a special oil every night after being given a pint of beer. Wait, that's Kobe beef. Okay, there's no massaging pigs here, but Delora personally guarantees that if you can ever get your lips on a piece of this stuff, it's worth the ticket to Spain.

Look what my friends have in their Spanish kitchens:

Spanish Status Symbol

(Delora wants one of these badly and imagines that she would cover the hoof with a little American flag bandana.)

And if you're a vegetarian? Lucky for you, there are a variety of vegetarian ham products available for you! The entire snack food industry has capitalized on the country's love of ham and has added a line impossible to find in the states: Fritos con jamon, Doritos con jamon, potato chips con jamon...

Delora's Medical Condition

2010-02-19T10:18:00.007Z

Delora is deciding whether to use the best Spanish surgeon or the best English-speaking Spanish surgeon for her abdominal hernia. She looks in the mirror one more time to confirm her diagnosis and, as she runs her finger over the pink bump, she wonders what in the world she's been lifting to cause such muscle strain. She carries a 14 pound dog up the stairs when she refuses to walk, but that shouldn't bust a gut.

Delora decides to show the hernia to her daughter, who had one repaired when she was 6 months old. She says look, this is what a hernia feels like! This is what you had fixed when you were a baby! Delora's spawn wipes a finger over the lump and offers a different opinion: what you have, she says with a smirk, is a blister from the button on your jeans. Then, like Matlock, she re-zips her mother's partially unzipped jeans and shows how the button matches where the hernia is located. While Delora is relieved at not having to speak to a surgeon in Spanish while undergoing anesthesia, she is a bit chagrined. It's true, Delora's skinny jeans have been tight lately, but Delora believes that jeans fit best after a second wearing when the shrinking effects of the dryer have been reversed. Then Delora detects a bit of faulty logic: Delora doesn't even own a dryer in Spain.

When Delora takes a mental inventory of her last few weeks, she can point to several culprits for the hernia weight gain. Delora has always been a card carrying believer in the old adage, When in Rome, do as the Romans. Adapting this personal motto to her time in Spain has meant that Delora has emulated the Spanish and allowed herself to eat several more meals per day than she does in the United States! Here's a typical day: For breakfast, pastry and coffee (or -- for Spaniards only -- chocolate and churros, before going to sleep -- at 6 AM.) The next meal is served at around 11:30 AM when the Spanish enjoy a light sandwich or tortilla. Lunch is from 2 PM until 4 PM where there is bread (no butter), a first course, and a second course, followed by dessert. At 7 or 8 in the evening one enjoys a merienda, a mini meal, before heading out for a late night dinner at 10 PM. Delora has noticed that the Spanish love potato chips, and while she has denied herself this pleasure for years, she now feels that eating chips is a cultural experience and must be indulged. As Delora's friend, Taylor, will tell you, Delora is now often heard furtively piling sour cream and onion chips into her mouth while speaking on her Vonage phone.

Part of Delora's recuperation from her non-operation involves an adjustment in wardrobe to looser clothing to avoid irritating the stitches from the hernia non-operation blister. Another part of the healing involves figuring out which diet strategy can work with the heavy-on-the-jamon-and-chips, five-meal-per-day plan.

The Final Report

2010-02-15T14:13:00.010Z

Sometimes when Delora listens to people talking fast in Spanish she is like the animal in the Far Side comic picking out a few select words: blah,blah,blah,blah,blah, GOOD BOY!

This is how Delora listens to her Pet Detective and her interpretor at their final meeting. They sit in a cramped office, like William Hurt's in the movie Body Heat, amidst stacks of papers and mementos crowding every surface. He is polite, professional, and deferential when offering a beautifully typed, albeit thin, report on his best paper stock. Delora pretends to follow along as he reads each hand-stamped page.

With the saddest possible face, he reports that Thunder is most probably not dead, blah, blah, since very reliable records are kept in the city of Madrid regarding animals that have been injured or killed. He confirms the area he has searched, blah, blah. He is sorry that he hasn't been able to find Thunder. After all, he too, is the owner of a miniature dachshund, blah,blah. THEN, Delora hears the one Spanish word that peaks her interest: blah, blah, FINCA, blah, blah!

Que? Delora perks up. Por Favor, una finca? Then, blah,blah our PD explains that he believes that Thunder Perkins is probably living happily on a finca somewhere outside of Madrid! Delora's heart skips as she realizes that she has been duped by, quite possibly, the smartest male dauschund on the planet. Here she is, like William Hurt in that second to last scene in Body Heat, realizing that Kathleen Turner didn't actually die in the fire! She had planned to dupe him all along! Delora flashes back to a few clues from Thunder, the canine Kathleen Turner, and now it all makes sense: Thunder's guilty look that final day together on the couch; the chicken left in his bowl signaling his loss of appetite, or a diet designed to enable slipping out of a harness; ears perked with interest at the mention of an invitation to a finca! Now it all makes sense.

Delora recalls friends who had, in the past, smirked a little when Delora reported signs of Thunder's high intelligence. But what dog of average intelligence manages to escape from a harness and get himself furloughed to a finca outside of a city he's never liked? What dog with less than a gargantuan IQ manages to plot an escape from a Chica he dislikes? Other humans have underestimated Thunder for years, but not Delora. She alone realizes that Thunder Perkins has figured out a way to get to a finca, before Delora herself has!

Delora can barely keep it together as she politely thanks the PD and gathers her things. Delora smells a rat.

Thunder's Cost Justification Analysis

2010-02-12T12:29:00.005Z

Delora thinks back to her salad days in New York City selling computers at IBM. She remembers spending months of rigorous training at IBM school in Atlanta. Besides dancing nightly at the Lime Light, she remembers learning everything she could about computer components, accounting and how to cost justify just about ANYTHING! Cost justification at IBM, of course, was all about how to save people money doing things they could do faster (and cheaper) with computers. Overtime, Delora has modified the meaning of cost justification. Now she uses this skill to justify spending more money, when alot has already been spent.

With Thunder missing, there is an unspoken question in Delora's household. The question is: How much dinero will Delora and her husband spend to find their lost dog? Delora ponders the variables. She acknowledges that if she had lost a TIMEX watch, with no emotional value, for example, it would be cheaper and easier to buy a new one for $79 than it would be to place an ad and hire a private detective. Then Delora thinks about how much she would spend if she lost her nice Grandmother. Then, there would be no stone unturned, no expense spared to find her, right?

Thunder's cost justification analysis falls somewhere in the middle...

It starts like this:

Puppy ($900)

Then you add this:

Photograph: Peter Macdiarmid/Getty Images

8 years of medical care from Paul Newman's homeopathic Veteranarian - $$$

And this:

Playmate for Thunder

And this:

8 years of Organic food from Paul Newman's homeopathic Veterinarian - $$$

And this:

Quarterly dental scrapings from the Homeopathic Veterinarian's

dog whisperer from California who can clean teeth and improve dog breath without anesthesia.

And this:

Inevitable Dental work with general anesthesia to remove a few teeth - $$$

And this:

Dog Trainer to teach dogs how to sit after 3 months of weekly lessons - $$$

And this:

Halloween costumes - 2006

And these:

Accessories

And this:

Sportswear to commemorate World Series Win (t-shirts, home and away colors, scarves, etc.) -

And one of these:

Flight to Spain - $

With these sunken costs, Delora believes she can properly cost justify one more ad in the paper!

Boarding School Conference Call

2010-02-09T07:35:00.004Z

SON 1: Why do we have to have another conference call when they've already interviewed us once?

DELORA: They want to see how you're handling your experience in Spain. They might want to know if you've matured at all since they've seen you, or why you think you'd be a good fit at their school...

SON 2: Can I tell them they have the hottest girls in their catalogue?

Delora is not amused.

DELORA: Did you all get your SKYPE numbers? I need to email them to the school right now.

DAUGHTER: Mine is: Dudeit'sLu.

DELORA: Seriously? Seriously. (To Son 1) And yours?

SON 1: It's MotherRucker.

Three teenagers crack themselves up.

Finca Fantasy: Part dos

2010-02-05T10:27:00.005Z

Darn if that Finca inviation didn't evaporate when the margaritas wore off! To read about how Delora and her husband were lured into thinking that they would be invited to a kajillion acre finca to shoot things, then weren't, click here:
http://debinspain.blogspot.com/search/label/Finca%20fantasy

So, fall has come and gone. Heck, winter has almost come and gone. Still, no finca invitation has materialized from the people we met casually at a cocktail party at 3AM who said, "You should come to our finca someday!"

Then some of our best Spanish friends -- we only have two due to our language impairments -- tried their best to let us down easily over lunch the other day. First, they let it slip that their family had, not ONE, but TWO fincas! Then, seeing our excitement, our friends told us as gently as possible, that their finca(s) are only for family! Wouldn't you think that our best Spanish friends in the whole wide world would invite us to ONE of their TWO fincas? I mean really, who has TWO fincas and doesn't need some friends to fill them up and help kill the deer that have overpopulated them?

Still, I can't help but think that we'll get lucky with someone and get a finca invitation before we move back to the States. And it's with this optimistic view of the world that I begin my search for the perfect hostess gift. What to bring to a finca? As I walk through the charming streets of Barrio Salamanca, I keep my eye out for a statement gift, something to make the Spanish hostess feel she was right to invite Americans to her finca. The kids suggest we bring a DVD of Bambi along with an orphaned baby deer, but this is too much of a political statement for me. I'm thinking: what do you bring to a family that has to swallow mounds of deer meat every weekend? Wouldn't something like gooseberry jam (is that a real thing, or something from a children's book I read once?) compliment venison? Maybe dress it up a little? Perhaps I could bring some french crepes (venison crepes, how nice!) So my Google friend and I sit down to do some research on what would compliment venison and up pops a recipe finder with 91 recipes! Then I see this...

We have recipes for all the familiar game meats plus the slightly "wilder" animals like bear, turtle, moose, squirrel, and snake.

And with that, my Finca Fantasy comes to a screeching halt. I'm about to hurl just thinking about eatting a squirrel, so if you want to make alligator fingers, rattlesnake pasta or bear tonight, click here:

http://allrecipes.com/HowTo/Wild-about-Game/Detail.aspx.
And if you can help me out with some ideas for what to bring to a finca, I'd really appreciate it. Now if you'll excuse me...

From Pet Psychic to Pet Detective...

2010-02-04T18:24:00.012Z

If you thought we were crazy to listen to two pet psychics, what will you think of our hiring a pet detective? I justify our decision by paraphrasing Donald Rumsfeld: we need more troops on the ground! Time is of the essence and we're losing this war against the dognapper. The bottom line is this: what if Thunder has developed Stockholm's syndrome with his dognapper? What if he's developed an affinity for the ole grey haired lady and forgotten all about his human birth mother?

Enter the pet detective, a person to follow up on the ambiguous clues left by the pet psychic! Searching the streets of Madrid for a stone framed wood door, etc., is a full time job. AND, (paraphrasing Kim in Bye, Bye Birdie) I've got a lotta livin' to do! Thanks to El Crisis Economique there are a handful of detectives in this city, men who wouldn't have dreamed of looking for a missing canine 2 years ago, who are now willing to switch from tracking errant husbands to tracking missing dogs in exchange for some Euros. And why not? Our wise Detective agrees, someone has rescued our dog and decided to keep the little guy. He hasn't surfaced at any of the city's many dog pounds, nor at the police stations, nor at the Vets' offices, nor at the (ahem) dog morgue. SO... pet detective it is!

In order to cover all the bases we have launched a two-pronged search and rescue mission (paraphasing Rumsfeld or Guiliani...or some other important person in charge of things) to find Thunder. Here's the ad in the local paper...

See Thunder above to the right? He kind of looks like the dog version of the attorney above and to the left of his ad, doesn't he?

We have not yet begun to fight!

(Civil war quote? Shoot, who said this? Too lazy to source this quote and too old to remember...Ok...I felt guilty for being too lazy to google a quote... and it's a way to waste some time so that I can't possibly study my Spanish. It's from John Paul Jones to the British during the Revolutionary War.)

Why Can´t Delora Be Tranquila?

2010-01-31T21:10:00.003Z

As she stands in the lift line in the Sierra Nevadas on the best ski day of the season, Delora can´t help but feel dissatisfied that she hasn´t learned the secret to Spanish tranquility. She sees the baby blue sky and the packed power and knows that she should feel joy at the prospect of skiing this magnificent mountain 11,400 feet above sea level. Instead, Delora wants to know the answer to a secret. She want to know how the Spanish remain so carefree, joyful even, while being jostled in a crowd. She wants to unleash her inner zen so that when someone blows smoke in her face in the "line", she will accept the Buddhist mantra that we are all one. Instead, Delora looks at the inefficiencies of thousands of skiers in a funnel formation pushing each other towards a small entrance to the chair lift. Delora notes that if she managed the world, she would install a system of alleys that would force people to queue into a line. But this is only in Delora´s perfect world. Inspira, expira, she says to herself as she practices breathing exercises and her Spanish all at the same time.

The breathing doesn´t help and Delora feels her inner hostilities being released when the man behind her puts both of his skis on top of hers and pushes her forward. She recalls reading in the book, Spain is Different, that Spaniards have a different sense of personal space than Americans do. She reminds herself to embace this cultural difference! Delora should be a gracious and kind Ambassadoress for Americans everywhere. She should not be an ugly American. But Delora is from New Jersey, where people are killed for lesser offenses than riding on the back of someone's skis. Delora turns to give a warning glare to the offender, but as she turns, she sees her husband and children watching her closely, so she decides to take one for the team. After all, she is testing out rental skis. Who cares if there´s a 200 pound man on-board scratching them up?

Can you see the smoke in this picture???

She puts up with this annoyance for several more ~~minutes~~ seconds and then she snaps. She says the only thing she can think of in Spanish that might be appropriate and that she knows she can pronounce correctly, "Hombre, en serio?" Man, are you serious? Managing to free her skis from under his, she then places both of her skis right on top of his tips. He looks at her with a puzzled look. Delora immediately feels much better, then much worse. Delora's family looks like they are not at all surprised at her outburst.

Later, Delora has an introspective session with herself where she admits that she is unable to let the little things go. She has recently read an article that says that this very quality is the secret to happiness. She wonders whether her failures are due to her birth order, some German DNA, or what. Then Delora admits to herself that she is happy in other ways. She regrets that she is not always a great spirit guide to her children and that she cannot always be a gracious Ambassadoress for America. She is not naturally tranquil -- at all. She hopes that another few months in Spain will help, or at the very least, that she can summon a tranquility super power.

Flamenco Sisters

2010-01-24T21:35:00.001Z

It seems that genuine flamenco attire from España brings out the tiny dancer in all of us! Behold my beautiful nieces:

ANOTHER Pet Psychic weighs in...

2010-01-24T20:13:00.002Z

This pet psychic is Chip's sister's friend. She's based in NY:

Thunder is east/northeast from the last place where he was seen. You have to go twice as far as you think you do. He isn't worried, he just wonders why you are taking so long to come get him. He doesn't think he's lost. There is another animal in the house who has a chip, he may have a new chip, go twice as far in the ENE direction and call vets in that area to find out about chips put in since Christmas. The door he goes in and out of is wood the house is stone; the door frame is stone- not cobble shaped, either flat blocks or large rectangular pieces. There is an arch shaped piece on top . He's fine, just waiting for you.

We'll be looking again tomorrow...wood door... stone door frame... Thun-der!

Exploring My Inner Heroes

2010-01-19T16:35:00.008Z

[Spoiler alert: If you have not watched HEROES Season 1 yet (fool), you may want to wait to read this riveting post...]

When you live in Spain and can't turn on the TV because it's way, way too time consuming to figure out how to use anything from Telfonica, the most poorly run company on the planet (the same company that Thunder Perkins ... moment of silence ... could have run better than the current CEO), you compensate by spending vast sums of money downloading Heroes -- Seasons 1 through 4 -- for about 60 dollars per season, even though you know that it sells at BJs for 39 cents. Thanks itunes.

And when you have the flu and Dr. Juan (or Jose) McDreamy, your Spanish house-call Doctor, has almost cured you, but you're still bedridden, you can watch 500 hours of Heroes in a row. If you're not familiar with the show, here's the premise: sometimes ordinary people have a gene mutation (Darwin, blah, blah) and they develop super powers. One person can fly; one can zap people with electricity from her hands. You get the idea. Some powers are sort of useless. No thank you to the ability to breathe under water, for example. Yet some powers are pretty fantastic. Beware, I've "heard" that when you watch many episodes in a row, this starts to happen:

1. You start to believe that you just might have a super power developing yourself. After all, sometimes they develop in adults, and they're not always obvious -- such as the ability to control people like a puppeteer, for example.

2. If your power hasn't fully developed YET, you spend an inordinate amount of time wondering which power you would use if you were indeed developing powers, as you think you secretly might be.

Here's an example of a little game I play with myself. Let's just say, my chica loses my dog. I ask myself: which superpower would I use to fix this problem? Flying doesn't really help, although it might be useful after the fact. But the answer is obvious, right? It would be Hiro's abilty to time travel. Why? Because then I could travel back to the moment when that sneaky Chica was about to tie Thunder to the post and grab him.

Another example. Kids won't fill out essays the way you think they should be filled out for boarding schools. Which power? YES: Matt Parkman's ability to perform mind control! You wouldn't even have to say out loud that writing an essay about wanting to be in the Peace Corps would be better than an essay about wanting to be a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader, for example. You could just think it. Better yet, you could forget about all those time consuming applications and mind control the admissions committee into admitting your kids (for free!) because they're so smart and creative and hold the secrets to the future in their hands (I'm trying out my mind control powers right now, Admissions people).

Here's my final example for today, but don't blame me if you want to try this game yourself. Ok, let's say you're in a foreign country and you need to learn a language, um, say Spanish. Remember that cute little red-headed waitress with the ability to learn everything she's read, including languages? Bingo! Yes, yes, I know she ends up with a brain tumor from the extra workload, but I'll limit my learning to Spanish. And just to be safe, I'm carrying a pack of tissues in case my power turns out to be mind control. Poor Matt Parkman gets a nose bleed every time he has to control someone who is really stubborn. With these kids, I'm gonna need a bunch of tissues.

Day 25...

2010-01-17T13:16:00.003Z

You all have been so great about checking on Thunder's whereabouts...and I wanted, so badly, to have a happy ending to the story of our lost dog in Madrid. I still hope for a happy ending, but I have mentally turned a corner here. My days of roaming the streets with a fist full of posters are dwindling. I still yell "Thunder" into any recessed, arched alleyway surrounded by vegetation. People still stare, startled, like they do at someone with Tourette's, but I don't care. I've started intensive Spanish lessons again, so I have enough stress in my life.

And I'm waiting... just waiting.

For what, you ask? For that day when I'm walking down the street and I see my Thunder with someone who has never taken him to the vet to check for a chip, nor called the police, nor checked with the dog shelters to see if their new dog was someone else's. When that day comes, I will be ready. I will take that person DOWN like Angelina Jolie in Tomb Raider, kicking butt and taking names! I will execute a kick turn, stunning the dog-knapper, and if I need to, I will twist his or her arms, and karate chop(!)... unless, of course, it's a grey-haired old woman, in which case, I will be careful not to knock her over. Instead, I will use the formal "Usted" conjugation in Spanish and will say, "Perdona" respectfully, but will then, nevertheless, grab Thunder gently and jog away without incident.

Either way, I will yell: POLICIA! I will have my forensic evidence ready (Thunder's hair on my tape lint brush.) I will have my chip scanner in my purse with Thunder's papers and, after many more Spanish lessons, I will know how to explain it all to the authorities in Spanish...

Note to Admissions...

2010-01-13T16:14:00.006Z

Besides having a lost dog and rotten karma, we are living through one of the worst trials ever to test our resilience on the face of this planet: we have 3 children applying to boarding schools. THREE!

It's not like the kids haven't been preparing their essays for some time now (admissions officers). So why does it feel like we've spent days cramming for a test, unshowered, in our pajamas at 5 pm, surrounded by dirty dishes, take-out food, crumpled papers (and a wine glass)? Why have we exhausted the entire supply of Wite Out -- tape, liquid and pen -- on the Iberian Peninsula? Why didn't I pay that consultant in Connecticut the exorbitant amount of money he required to manage this process? And why am I screaming alot? I'll tell you why... because everything has to be hand-written! In case you don't have one of your own, a 14 year-old's handwriting is not a pretty sight. Sometimes the words start out large, then they get very, very small. Sometimes there are large mounds of congealed liquid and tape white-out re-written in another color pen. Some applications look like they've been written while riding in a motor boat or on the back of a scooter.

One application will require a microscope to read. But hey, admissions, you asked for it.

Other notes to admissions:

If you ask a 14 year-old athletic boy what he wants to do when he grows up, he probably won't say that he really wants to figure out how to split the atom (like I told him to). Instead, he'll say that he wants to play Centerfielder for the Red Sox. And his back-up plan won't be to work as an apprentice for Mother Theresa (as I suggested). He'll want to be a Rock Star. If you ask a 14 year-old girl what she likes to read, she's not gonna say, Little Women (like I told her to). If she's halfway honest, she's gonna say Twilight, or some other piece of romantic vampire chick-lit.

Sure, I probably could have persuaded my offspring to follow my suggestions (with threats, itunes gift certificates and cash), but late one night after I had failed to persuade a single teen; after a certain petulant child explained to me that she or he had answered an essay question with one sentence because one sentence was enough; I threw my hands in the air and realized that our applications (did I say "our"?) were not going to turn out as I planned.

And maybe a certain child was right: maybe one sentence was enough...

Look Up Thunder!

2010-01-08T07:51:00.002Z

If you're going for a walk in the evening, you'll notice that there are different Christmas lights strung across many of the streets in Madrid. Do you notice lights on the grey/blond woman's street? What do they look like?

Here are some examples:

These are on Velasquez

These are on Lagasca

Jorge Juan

Ortega y Gasset

Send me a sign boy dog (through the Pet Psychic) and I will continue to look for you...

Karma Cleansers please...

2010-01-07T19:16:00.002Z

Changing your karma from bad to good is much more complicated than I thought. Of course, you can be pure of thought and deed for all of your life, and all of your past lives. Um-hmmm. But what to do if you, or some previous incarnation of you, screwed up along the way? That is surely the case with Delora at this moment in time. First, it was a lost son, then it was lots of little things leading up to a lost dog. Within a day of the lost dog, a certain son was admitted to the hospital after a bad ski accident. I'll spare you all the whiny details, but something is wrong I tell you! Something is way, way wrong.

As I wait to hear more from Thunder and from Pet Psychic #2, I wonder if there isn't something I can do to change my karmic path. Short on time, I do what everyone in need of a quick karmic change does: I google "How to change your karma from bad to good." I need something black and white, cut and dry. I could burn sage leaves, for example, or light a red candle. (WHY, oh why, didn't I pay attention to that Feng Shui lecture I attended a few years ago?) But if you're hoping for a quick google fix, you're in for a rude awakening. Most websites offer a metaphysical analysis that requires several lifetimes just to read and digest. Who knows what else will happen to us by then? Plus I can't change what the spirit currently inhabiting the body of Deb Perkins did in 1820.

Some of you (and you know who you are...) have invested a good amount of time reading about this stuff, so could you please send me the Cliff Notes?

NAMASTE...

Pet Psychic CSI

2010-01-06T10:42:00.008Z

(Thunder and Lucia take a bike ride in happier times)

Walking the streets of Madrid gives me plenty of time to analyze every message from the "spirit in the dog body known to Deb Perkins as Thunder"and I must say, there are some holes in the communication.
First, the "grey haired lady with bright eyes" doesn't seem to exist. OK, maybe one woman, somewhere, a real carrot-eater, has grey hair and bright eyes, but I haven't seen her yet.

But -- bear with me for a minute -- what if the lady's hair isn't really grey? I mean, I've already been warned that my pet may not be able to distinguish beige from white. What if, he can't tell the difference between grey and BLOND? Luckily, there are fewer blonds in Spain, than say, in Sweden, and most of them are highlighted. This could change my whole dog finding strategy. Maybe I go from chasing the grey-hairs curb-side, to making salon visits to places that specialize in blonding. Below, my sister sends evidence to support the blond woman theory...

Dogs are not color blind - they see color, but their chromatic acuity is significantly less than humans'. This is for two reasons: (1) dogs have far fewer cone cells in their retina (cone cells are responsible for seeing color); and (2) dogs are dichromatic (they see only two primary colors - blue and yellow) whereas humans are trichromatic, meaning we see three primary colors - red, blue, and yellow. Humans have 7 times higher proportion of cone cells than dogs, meaning that when dogs do see colors, they are pale or faded.

Another issue with "Thunder's" explanation of his whereabouts on the night of December 23rd: he confirms that he was indeed spotted 4 blocks from my home on the night in question and then he ran for an hour before settling down to rest. Yet, still, he is only 2 blocks northeast of my apartment? I could crawl for an hour and I'd still be a mile or two away, right? Does this make any sense?

Look, spirit of Thunder, if you're smart enough to know that your presence in the Grey-haired (or blond) woman's life has opened her up to allowing more people in her life -- and trust me, you are the smartest, zen dog I know -- then can you please send me a more accurate picture of where the %^& you are?
Here's another idea: This time of year, each street in Madrid has it's own unique set of Christmas lights. I assume you don't read Spanish (neither can I, btw...), and can't read a street sign, so perhaps you could tell me about the Christmas lights on your street.

I will (cha-ching) get back in touch with the pet psychic to refine her vision a bit. So could you give her something a bit more concrete: a park where the grey/blond woman takes you, a restaurant near by, a metro station, a landmark of some sort... I'm getting a reputation in the hood. The gyp-sies (always pronounced as in Borat), beggars and homeless all know me by name and promise that they will find my perrito! Then they wink at each other and chuckle at the crazy American with the fist full of reward posters.

Brother can you spare a dog?

2010-01-03T20:38:00.000Z

I'll admit, I'm a pet psychic's worst nightmare. First, I'm so grateful to hear from the spirit of the animal known to Deb Perkins as Thunder, that I'm psychically kissing the psychic's feet. She provides me with details of where to find my lost dog: a grey-haired woman with bright eyes; a recessed door in an alley way with plants (a plant?); Northeast by 2 blocks; a slight incline. The psychic suggests we meditate, then send Thunder positive messages before we leave to look for him. On the street, we should call to him and listen for his bark! What more could a bereft dog owner ask for? I picture our reunion. I'll be yelling Thun-der, and I'll hear his arf! arf! and I'll go straight to the door with the plant next to it. I'll knock and the Grey-haired lady will become like a Spanish grandmother to us and the dogs forever and ever, amen. I sleep soundly for the first time in a week.

Then the looking begins. Joyfully, we set off in two groups searching the area where our Thunder awaits. We've been told the grey-haired lady is sociable and that we should talk to as many people as possible. I figure the grey-haired lady probably speaks to other grey-haired ladies and they become our focus group.

We start asking every grey-hair we meet if they've seen our dog. Most are not bright eyed, in fact, most members of our focus group are vision-impaired and squint to see the poster we hold in front of them. Many are wearing hearing aids and respond with the Spanish equivalent of eh? But the most common response we get is a frightened look, a widening of the eyes and a backing away from us as though we're about to rob them of their last euro. We're not exactly a frightening looking bunch, yet we instill fear in almost every older person we canvas. We loose a tiny bit of hope when a couple of grey-haired nuns point to the sky and callously suggest that there are more important things than lost dogs. NUNS!

As the day wears on and the city sounds drown out everything and I can barely hear what my children are saying next to me, my pretty picture starts to dissolve in front of me. Imagine standing in the middle of Times Square in NYC and calling Thun-der! Imagine listening for his bark. It's assinine. We reach a spiritual low when Lucia, Sam and I find a building inset from the street and cleverly catch the door as a resident leaves. We figure we'll leave some posters and the grey-haired lady will see them and give us a jingle. Instead, we learn that some Spanish apartment buildings trap you on the inside requiring a key or a code to get out. After 15 minutes of entrapment I mentally channel the spirit of Thunder and say: Thun! Address please!

I apologize pet psychic. My faith lapsed just a little bit today. Here you are giving me direction and here I am wondering if maybe two pet psychics would be better than one. Or maybe three would be better than two. Maybe we could cross check the facts just a tiny bit. But tomorrow is another day. Another chance to be treated like a beggar, another chance to find that magical alley way with the little plant in front of the door where the grey-haired lady is comforting our lost dog.

The Pet Psychic Responds!

2009-12-31T08:58:00.005Z

Here is what she writes (verbatim):

When you go to look for him, I got the sense that to talk to as many people as possible within a 2 block area from where you live, he says he's not far. He's not being kept a captive, but apparently the person has no idea what to do or how to find you. My thoughts and prayers are with you both. Stay as calm as possible and send loving thoughts to Thunder and before you go out to look for him send him a message in your mind - Thunder ok we're coming out to look for you now, and we're going to ________ and _______ and we'll be calling your name etc.

Let me know when he's back with you.

Blessings
Suzi

here is what he wanted to say - what he gave me is in italics - he described it as best he could:

“Yes my soul essence is still within the physical dog body known to Deb Perkins as Thunder. Yes the heart is beating and pumping blood throughout the physical dog body and the lungs are receiving air as you are talking with me now. No I’m not physically injured, the pads of my feet are a bit scraped up but other than that I’m ok. Yes I am with a human, who took me in. Yes I am safe and she is taking good care of me and is trying to find where I belong. Yes both of those sightings were of me and I ran for about another hour or so and then was exhausted. I curled up in a doorway and slept. (this doorway was on the right side of the street and it feels like it’s on an incline, not steep, but can feel the slant of the street) When it got light I started to retrace my steps but it got too busy with people and needed to hide. (I see him going left into a smaller path, not a street, not an alley because I don’t see cars, do they have walkways between buildings that might be like an alley without cars?) I walked for a few minutes and this woman was bending over tending to a plant and I sat and watched her. She turned around and saw me and I could tell that she was kind and gentle. I started towards her and she opened her door for me to come inside. She gave me some food and water and I fell sound asleep again. (this woman’s house is on the right side of this pathway, the door is inset from the street, looks like an archway from what Thunder is showing me)

No I am not far from the house I can feel it. I was too tired and hungry to go on any further and that’s why I went to this woman because I knew she would help me. Yes I’m within 2 blocks North and slightly east of our house.

Yes of course this woman will cooperate and give me back. She doesn’t know anyone is looking for me. Yes I can find my way back if I go outside by myself, however that hasn’t happened yet. It would be easier if you can come and get me. I realize there are many houses that might look alike to you. This woman has grey hair, wears it back in behind her head, is medium height, slightly over weight, but not fat, has a very pleasant face and shining eyes. Yes she lives alone because there is no one else here. Yes if you called out to me and you were close I can bark and you could hear me most likely. I make her think of times when she had someone around and it felt good, now she is considering having someone in her life again. So this has been good for her.

And yes, I do not like the housekeeper, she has a side to her that you have not seen yet. I prefer never to go for a walk with her again, I am fine being with you. Yes I look forward to you coming and getting me. Yes this woman is quite sociable and well known around here so it will be easy for you to talk with people and they will connect you with her. I’m here waiting and I love you.”

AND SO...we will be looking for the grey haired woman who has taken in our beloved boy dog tomorrow when we are back in Madrid. Love and Happy New Year to you all! We'll keep you posted...Delora

The Pet Psychic

2009-12-28T17:48:00.001Z

My sister recommends that we call the renowned pet psychic, Joy Carroll, to enlist her help in finding Thunder. She senses my East Coast reaction and explains...I know, I know, sounds kooky. But she tells a compelling story about some very sane friends of hers who were missing their cat for 4 days when they were persuaded to call Joy. Joy instructed them to think of a place where the cat could meet them and she would transfer the information to the cat psychically. Yup, my sister says, that very afternoon the cat met them at their meeting place.

That`s great, I`m thinking, but what are the limitations of where I can tell Thunder to meet me? The above mentioned cat was around Venice, California and met his owners in a special box they leave outside to trap wild animals. We live in an apartment building in Madrid and a miniature dachshund can`t exactly reach up and ring the buzzer. Besides, we`re in Switzerland now. Can she send instructions to take Iberian Airlines flight 629 to Geneva? Then, just as I`m getting used to the idea of having a pet psychic in my life, I get the bad news from my sister that Joy Carroll, the famous cat finder, is on vacation anyway. Luckily though, Joy has left a back-up psychic`s name.

The back-up psychic won`t site statistics about the percentage of pets she`s found historically, but does state that she specializes in lost dogs, cats, horses(?), gunea pigs and snakes. Her website instructs us to fill out a form about when and where Thunder was lost, and to give her any details we can, so that she can locate the spirit of our dog. She also instructs us on how to use Paypal. She will ask the spirit if the body is working, whether the heart is pumping blood, whether there is any injury. She will ask the spirit nicely if, in fact, it is still inhabiting the body. (Can you think of a more delicate way to phrase that "condition" when the spirit no longer occupies the body???)

If the spirit is, ahem, still occupying the body, she will be happy to ask the animal for details about where it is. She warns that the animal`s perceptions and use of language may not be completely accurate, but she will do her best to describe, as she is told, what the dog`s surroundings look like, whether he is with anyone, what the place looks like, etc. She warns that if the dog says he is in a white room, it may actually be tan or beige. Again, she cannot be responsible if our pet can`t tell white from beige. She also warns that we have to take the dog`s sightline into account. We have to see things from his vantage point. This is unfortunate, since Thunder is about 5 inches off the ground. I imagine one of us pulling the children on their bellies on a little device with wheels through the streets of Madrid looking for a beige or a white door. I wonder if there is an extra cost for translating, through the spirit, any Spanish words.

No matter, we`re filling out the form tonight, and looking forward to conversing with our pet`s spirit (and hopefully, his uninjured body) and will keep you posted when he gets in touch.

Thunder

2009-12-28T10:10:00.003Z

No pet has been better loved than our canine son, Thunder. Of course, we try to love our pets unconditionally, but this 8 year old dog/child of ours has meant more than we could ever have imagined before having pets. He is the most empathetic, wise, old soul of a dog that we have ever encountered. No offense humans, but that canine has more sense in his little paw than most homosapiens we know. So it is with the greatest sadness that I tell you that Thunder has been missing since 8:00 PM on December 23rd.

On that evening, our Chica, using the poorest possible judgement, tried to multitask and do a few errands while walking the dogs. She tied Thunder and Roxie to a post outside the very busy La Paz market and when she returned, Thunder was gone. We got a call at almost 9pm that night while dining at a friend`s house. Within minutes, we were searching the rainy streets of Madrid in four groups with Maria and her mother rounding out our search party. We were scheduled to leave for Switzerland at 7 AM, ten hours after receiving that phone call, and still weren`t packed. Hours later, having found two people who had spotted Thunder running through the streets, we regrouped to figure out a plan.

With non-refundable tickets, and the sense that 5 people would be no more useful than one, it was decided that Chip and the kids would fly to Geneva and I would stay to put up posters with Maria. Reports were filed with the police and a poster was made of Thunder, looking his finest, offering a 500 euro reward. And now, the hard part. We wait.

The Spanish are kind-hearted dog lovers. They treat their pets fantastically and appreciate love for a pet. Several passersby were nearly moved to tears when they saw us putting up the posters; several offered to assist. We thought the reward money would bring Thunder back more quickly during a holiday when everything closes. But in every population, reward money can bring out the devil.

Now we find ourselves in a canine version of the movies Ransom and The Changling -- where Angelina Jolie loses her son, then the police return a boy that looks close, but isn`t hers. We`ve received a dubious phone call from a man that couldn`t answer any questions about Thunder, but swears his brother has him three hours outside Madrid. He offers to drive the distance, then meet to exchange the dog for the money. Maria explains that Thunder has a chip embedded in his soulder with an ID number and as soon as they take him to a vet and scan the number, we will be thrilled to make the exchange. When the caller hears this, he loses his enthusiasm. Oh, he claims, it isn`t about the money...it`s because it`s Christmas... he says he`ll call us back, but doesn`t.

Please, please, let this be the time that some kind-hearted person has rescued Thunder from that rainy night; that the lovely person has a hunch that Thunder might like a smoked almond and a piece of a clementine while being petted all night; that this angel has waited until Monday to take the dog to the proper autorities because everything has been closed. Let Thunder think that he has been away at a dog spa and that we`ll be picking him up any minute...

Choose Your Team!

2009-12-21T17:49:00.001Z

When you're new to a city, and there is more than one team in town, you can choose your team!

You have no alliances.

You can choose the BEST team! You can choose the team with the NEW stadium. You can choose the stadium that has the HEATED SEATS! Your team can be full of cajillion dollar players!

You can choose the team that has an Opera Singer at the start of the game!!!!

Go Real Madrid!

Dear España - a love letter

2009-12-15T14:02:00.001Z

Dear España;

I didn't want you to find out this way. I didn't mean to hurt you, it was never about hurting you...it's just, well, it's me. I know you found my air ticket in my bag, and yes, I guess I've been unfaithful to you this past week. I've been with Los Estados Unidos. Oh! Just to hear you cry out like that chills me to the bone! It's not that I don't love you dearly. This new romance of ours is like nothing I've ever felt. I love so many things about you: the way you dress your streets with beautiful Christmas lights, the way you look at me from your stunning city scapes, the late nights Flamenco dancing, and the loud tapas bars where we have to shout at each other to be heard. I know, I know -- we've had lots of tender moments too: dining at the finest restaurants in the world, exploring the most exciting museums on the planet. Remember that time we walked hand in hand through the Retiro? I could never replace those...what?

Yes, I'm sorry, E.! I did walk on my heated floors in my heated kitchen and bathroom but, please, try to understand! I only used my heated towel warmers because they were, well, turned on. And while having a really toasty, fluffy towel after a shower was nice, I'm sure I can get used to my ice cold floor and the hard towel that's been dried outside, no problem. España, I'll do anything to make this relationship work.

Please, don't make yourself sick over this! It's not wise to answer all these questions... All I'll say is: yes I saw my old friends. Yes, actually, some of my best, closest, dearest friends in the world. And I'm not going to lie to you. I enjoyed every minute of it. I enjoyed being able to talk to people and have them understand what the heck I was saying and to take a cab without mishap... OK, sorry! I'm just saying, we haven't always had the easiest relationship. You're right, that which doesn't kill us makes us stronger.

I'm so, so, sorry E. Forgive me! I promise that I'm going back to my language therapy classes to work on what's happened between us. OK? I'm going to enjoy the really fun FOF's I've made here and continue to learn everything I can about you. And I promise, no matter what, I'm going to be faithful to you from now until, well, summer.

Paging Dr. Shepard

2009-12-04T11:37:00.001Z

On Wednesday, I had been sick for a few days, but feeling better, looking forward to a long weekend in Paris with the family. I was taking the kids to meet my husband who was already there on business. But packing several steamer trunks of clothing did me in and on Thursday morning I had to use every bit of energy just to haul my legs over the side of the bed.

It's decided that the kids will fly to Paris alone and I will stay behind -- granny-dumped with the dogs in Madrid.

Time goes by and the dogs and I realize: I am really, really, really sick. I don't have the energy to throw Roxie her rubber chicken, and I have all kinds of revolting symptoms which I will gracefully refrain from telling you about. I am conscious of the fact that I should see a doctor, maybe even go to a hospital, since I don't have a doctor in Spain. Then I think, just tear off my limbs, anything would be better than having to go to an emergency room in a foreign country where I don't speak the language. Anything is better than going to an emergency room in the United States where I DO speak the language. I'd almost rather die. So instead, I lie in bed until I think: I actually may be close to dying now, the hell with the shower and the blow dry, I should use my last few moments on earth to crawl to the elevator, get to the first floor and call a cab. Then I remember a story that my friend N. told me once, a story so outlandish, so remarkable, that it's been seared into my sickly brain. It was a story about a doctor who makes house calls!

During my last remaining minutes on earth, my best friend, iphone, convinces me to call N. and get the doctor's name. She's the sort who does her homework, whose recommendations are unimpeachable. She reminds me that the doctor she spoke of was a pediatrician, but, kind soul, offers to take me to the hospital anyway. She also gives me the name of an Anglo-American clinic nearby. A few phone calls later and it's arranged that a doctor will be coming to my house in about a half an hour!

Sure enough, half an hour later, straight from central casting, my Spanish hero Doctor arrives. Mas o menos, this is what he looks like:

But, being Spanish, he is dressed in a beautifully tailored suit and an Hermes tie. He carries a gorgeous leather briefcase and has the bedside manner of an Ambassador. He is tender attentive and loving professional and seems like he really cares about my illness, despite my lack of a blow dry and make up. He apologizes for his English, and smiles warmly. He spends plenty of time analyzing my sickness, explaining what course of action he recommends and prescribing drugs. He doesn't roll his cinnamon-colored eyes when I launch into a full history of my reactions to various classes of antibiotics. The cost for my liason housecall? 150 euros! The cost for the 3 prescription drugs, including a third-generation antibiotic? 14 euros -- less than a kilo of cherries! The experience of having a housecall? Priceless...

Where's the Gaggenau?

2009-12-01T14:07:00.002Z

I'm wondering: would any of you, when renting a very nice apartment in Madrid, think to ask your realtor if the kitchen and bathrooms were heated?

My fingernails are actually BLUE since returning from the Artic tundra that is our kitchen and I'm realizing: nope, I didn't think to ask that question. Call me gullible, but when I see an elevator, I figure it probably works. When I see a lovely apartment, I figure, it's probably heated -- in all the rooms. First I thought, gosh the vents must be closed. Then I looked around and, guess what? No vents! And no Gaggenau-million-dollar-stove-that-stays-on all-the-time-and-heats-the-kitchens-in-European-country-homes either.

And I know that when I pose the question of heat to my landlord -- through an interpreter, of course -- that he will pfff the air of dismissal through his lips and remind me that nowhere in our rental agreement does it state that all rooms are heated.

And now it's time for me to run from my warm and cozy bedroom into my freezing cold bathroom for a frosty shower. I know, some of you are thinking, stop wining and enjoy your European plazas and fountains. And I will...just as soon as I can get up the nerve to get out from under this warm blanket.

Giving thanks

2009-11-25T08:45:00.002Z

Puerta Alcala

When some delightful new Spanish friends (A&A) asked me recently (after reading my blog) whether or not I liked Spain, I realized that my love for Madrid and my appreciation of all things Spanish weren't exactly translating in the blogosphere. Sometimes my dry sense of humor is, cough, too dry; Sometimes, it's just not funny. So, here it is straight-up:

Even with the electrical issues, the phone working intermittently, not being able to use the iron and the oven at the same time and with the cable working when the moon is in the 7th house and Jupiter aligns with Mars; even though I've been stuck in the elevator several times and lost my son for half a night in a soccer scrum and can't remember how to work the TV, I couldn't be happier to be here in Madrid.

Despite having eaten a couple of mouthfuls of god knows what, and maybe having eaten spiced bunny, and definitely having eaten rooster, I've enjoyed some of the most delicious food in Spain that can be found on the planet. And tomorrow is another day when I will possibly try another of the tastiest treats I'll ever eat.

In spite of the fact that I have no ear for language whatsoever and have to repeat where I'm going to every cab driver; even though I look like Rainman watching people's lips forming their words so that I can approximate Spanish pronunciation, I know that someday soon, I'll utter a passable Spanish sentence.

Even though my children sometimes love us for introducing them to this new home and often hate us for pulling them away from their friends; and even with the longing for our dearly-loved friends and family back home, I cherish every day here with my babies, and am thankful to my language-impaired husband who's allowing us to live this dream, in this gorgeous country, with my new and fascinating "speed-friended" friends.

Regardless of the fact that I'm still trying to figure out where I'm going and how to get there, I have the biggest thrill every time I walk out the door and see the plazas and the fountains, the new and the different...

Thanks for listening; thanks for reading (and for, um, commenting...) I hope you have many things to be thankful for this week!

Hello Tick-y

2009-11-18T19:56:00.023Z

During Spanish class today I felt a bug crawling between my eye and my brow. I tried to brush it away, but there was nothing there. The creepy-crawly facial sensation got worse when my classmate, Tex, wondered aloud if I didn't remember seeing some advanced tense of the verb Olvidar (to forget) in a text we'd read two weeks ago. Hello Kitty, a new student from Korea decked in apparel by the same name, was humming a soft melody as I was was trying to remember the verb, "to forget". No, I told Tex, I have absolutely no memory of that verb. I forget! With that, Hello Kitty, humming her ancient tune, widened her eyes and rifled through her Hello Kitty stuffed animal pencil bag. It was then that the facial tickle turned into a full-fledged tick.

I rushed home to explore exactly what my medical issues are. Here's the Google definition:

The causes of facial tics are still poorly understood,but some things are thought to trigger or worsen the symptoms. Tics ... can also very often be symptoms of other conditions such as Tourette syndrome, whose causes are most likely neurological... Stress and anxiety have also been shown to provoke and significantly increase the frequency of facial tics.

I have the following symptoms:

The urge to lunge at Hello Kitty when she hums incessantly from 9:30 am to 1:30 PM
The urge to lunge at Tex for showing off her photo brain every chance she has.
The Urge to swear uncontrollably (when learning Spanish).
Uncontrollable facial tics (while in class).

Symptoms disappear after 1:30 PM when class is over.

Finca Fantasy

2009-11-16T21:18:00.006Z

Recently, Chip and I were invited to a finca, a Spanish farm that is roughly the equivalent of a horse farm. In truth, we weren't fully invited, but there was promise of a future invitation, as in, some day you'll have to join us at our finca. A nice Spanish couple -- FOFOF's (friends of friends of friends) -- described how, every fall, they spend weekends on their 4,000 hectares of land with a distant view of Madrid, enjoying the countryside while the autumn leaves change color. At the time, I didn't speak hectare and didn't know whether it was half an acre or a cajillion acres. Later, I whip out my iphone iconvert application and find that 4,000 hectares actually equals 9,884.215 acres!!! Now THAT is a finca, amigos!

The next morning we discuss our potential invitation with the kids, imagining hunting in the rugged plains surrounding Madrid. They agree it sounds exotic. We ladies wonder what we'll wear and decide on an imaginary tweed ensemble with custom leather riding boots. But, as a person who once took up golf to justify buying a fetching pair of navy Ralph Lauren golf shoes, only to experience the agony of hacking a ball around a course for four plus hours while wearing them, I decide to dig deeper into my finca fantasy. Will we walk to the hunt or ride vast distances on horseback? Will we dine at an antique oak table that seats 50 and enjoy trays of food delivered by Chicas? Or, will we recline in the open air, fireside, with an exceptional Ribera del Duero and the finest pata negra, wrapped in monogrammed cashmere blankets while our wild boar crackles on the spit?

Maybe it'll look like this.

We're deeply excited, merry even! While we're salivating and making little clapping sounds and practically packing, someone (and by someone, I mean one of our children) decides to put a damper on things. Here's the conversation:

"Does this mean we'll have to shoot an animal?"

"Man up!" another one says, "this is a weekend at a finca, bro!"

"Tio (Spanish for "Dude"), the three of us watched Bambi together."

The B word brings silence to the table as we try to forget the orphaned baby deer. Slowly, we realize that although we love our fantasy finca, and as much as we think we like guns, we like animals even more. There's no way we can shoot one and watch it die. We're still gonna play paintball, eat meat, wear leather shoes, and one of us may even wear fur (but only when it's really cold or when we attend a dressy occasion -- sorry Alison), but we can't harm the animals.

I'm mentally unpacking when, luckily, someone has another great idea.

"What if we shoot our guns into the air and miss everything?" And with that it's settled. We will, if ever invited, simply pretend to shoot things and miss, perhaps even scaring the animals away from the hunt, while we stay warm in our tweeds and leathers in the European countryside and let rip our cries of Bwaahaahaahaa!

Our doorman is very LOUD!

2009-11-16T21:08:00.003Z

In three months we've had three doormen. The permanent doorman was having a lung removed when we arrived in Madrid. Marco, the temporary one, busied himself with all kinds of physical labor showing management that no man, one lung or two, could possibly compare to him. With unemployment in Spain hovering somewhere around 24%, Marco had no problem mopping the steps, opening the door and watering the grass on our rooftop everyday. Nonetheless, labor laws prevailed and the sweet, permanent doorman and his good lung returned in September. He tried, but bless him, he didn't have enough stamina to walk, let alone mop and open doors. Now we have a new guy, Sever!

He looks exactly like Mr. Bean with a 2000 kilowatt smile and the enthusiasm of Ed McMahon telling you that that you've just won the Publisher's Clearing House Sweepstakes. His voice starts out blaring and obtrusive, then cresendos into a thunderous clamor at the end of every banal sentence. If you aren't prepared, when you walk into our building, he will scare you and you will wet yourself:
Senora! HOLA!!! I saw... your HUSBAND!!!

Oh...really? Great.
He just went into... THE ELEVATOR!!!

Um. Ok.

Sometimes, he's so enthusiastic that he answers his own questions before you have a chance to answer yourself.

Que tal? Bien? Bien, Bien!!!

And you can forget about whatever pressing engagement you have if you're unlucky enough to be caught by Sever. No amount of non-verbal communication, such as looking at your watch, positioning your feet and body towards the elevator, tapping your foot and looking bored -- nope, none of that, will dim Sever's smile and enthusiasm. Verbally communicating your time restraints won't do much either. He will acknowledge that you have something going on -- oh, SI, SI, SI!!!!! -- but he will still position himself between you and the elevator and will happily regale you with stories of the time he lived in America.

Lately, I've been walking into my building with my dead cellphone to my ear. I put a finger to my lips in the briefest of shushes, and wave lightly while pointing to the phone indicating that someone important is on the line. I try to convey that I am in the midst of a huge business deal and that grave issues are at stake. He nods knowingly and brushes his fingers across his own lips, suggesting compliance. Then, right as I'm about to make it to the elevator, he can't help himself:

Senora! I saw your CHILDREN!!!!

School Daze

2009-11-13T18:48:00.002Z

(chimp brain)

When, on a Saturday night, you can't adequately tell the Spanish police that your son is missing -- yo busco mi hijo! I look for my son! -- the first thing you do on Monday is re-enroll in the intensive Spanish program at International House.

You sit yourself down next to two twenty-somethings, one German and one Texan, and you hope for the best.

La Profesora speaks no English, but hey you're in Spain! You get it! You're supposed to be speaking Spanish by now. You're ready to engage. Your new metal pencils from the cool Japanese store at the airport are leaded and ready to escritor. But you're like the animal in a Far Side comic. You see the teacher's lips moving, but nothing makes any sense... just a word here, a word there.

Did she just say Quesadilla? I'm pret-ty sure. What, we're talking Tex-mex? No wait, she isn't talking food ... maybe she said, "que es dia" or "que sa dia?" but that doesn't make any sense. What is day??? Maybe if I listen. Huh? Something about preterito perfecto...

... What's that Texan doing in this class anyway? Gimme a break. Every Texan I've ever met is secretly fluent in Spanish. She practically lives in Mexico. No she did-INT just say she has a photographic memory! HATE her. Why not stay home and read the Spanish dictionary? Why don't I have a photographic memory? What if I have a brain disease? What if my brain is shriveling with age and it's too late to learn another language...

... Wonder if that laser hair removal appointment is tomorrow or Friday. Better check. Either way, I'm outta here at 1:30, home by 2, then I apply the cream. I'll just have an hour to numb. Hope it doesn't hurt... Yikes. She's looking at me... God, I hope she doesn't call on me... her lips are moving. Do I say, "I'm sorry I wasn't listening", or "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you", or "No se?"

Luckily, the Texan answers for me.

A Gift To My Commenters

2009-11-13T18:24:00.001Z

Thank you for restoring my faith in the blogosphere people!

Here are some visual cyber-gifts for expressing concern over our lost child AND for taking a step on the wild side with your witty comments.

Muchos gracias!

I gift you pictures of CINDY in Spanish Vogue this month!!!

GO girl!

Sultry...

Pant-astic

She doesn't act like this in the states, does she?

If you happened to see the pics of Sharon Stone topless in Spanish Vogue a few months ago, you know that one thing they do really well here in Spain is Photoshop. Unfortunately, they photoshopped Cindy's lips right off...

Have a great weekend!

An Incredible Soccer Night...Turned Nightmare

2009-11-08T13:50:00.005Z

Last night we attended our first futbol game in our adopted city of Madrid. New Yorkers, you got nothin' on the rivalry between Real Madrid and Atletico fans. Jets vs. Giants, Mets vs. Yankees: add vast amounts of alcohol, latin tempers, cigarette smoking in the stadium seats, celebratory red and white smoke bombs to start the game (red and white for the Atletico stadium) and world class group swearing (in song) and you have just a taste of what we experienced. Here's a recap of the game:

The sound track in this video is so very misleading. Instead, imagine inserting the song the mob crowd sang when Real Madrid's number 4, got a red card and was tossed out of the game: Adios hijo de Puta, Adios, hijo de Puta, Adios ... well you get the idea. Translation? Goodbye, son of bitch! That's the only one I can actually print on a family blog...

So how did this festive night turn nightmare? Leaving the stadium, the five of us had to grab 2 cabs. The crowd surged (did I just say, "the crowd surged"?) and there were distractions: One fan, so drunk he literally couldn't walk, fell off a motorcycle and was crawling around the street. There was a mad dash for cabs, so we hopped into our two, drove the 15 minutes home and arrived realizing that neither Chip, nor I, had Clark. Clark was still in the mob somewhere on the other side of town with no phone, no money and no keys. Frantic, Chip and Lucia grabbed another cab back to the stadium. Sam stationed himself at the door to our building with 20 euros in case Clark had taken a cab and couldn't pay and I waited upstairs by the phone. No words can describe the amount of despair we felt when 2 hours later, neither we, nor the police, could find Clark. During that time, Chip, Lucia and some riot police (who spoke no English) had been driving around the stadium. An hour later, when there was still no sign of him, the police took a description of Clark, dropped Chip and Lucia back where they'd last seen him, and drove off, wishing them buen suerte (good luck)! We've never been more terrified.

Just as I was getting through to the emergency person at the US Embassy in the wee hours of the morning, I heard the elevator ascending. There was Clark with two police officers, looking pale, but no worse for wear. He'd had a crazy adventure involving being pushed over a barrier, waiting for us on a pole in the middle of the mob, panicking after time went by, trying to run home and realizing he didn't know where he was, and finally finding two policemen in the streets who put him in the back of the heavily plasticized police car. What took so long to get home? Twice, the police stopped the car, turned to Clark and said, "Lo siento, un momento, por favor." Then they took out their guns and proceeded to break up big street brawls. They were "bros" as Clark calls them, great guys who cracked jokes all night and entertained him by driving on the center medians with their sirens on and cracking themselves up. Twice they went down one way streets the wrong way. "Wow, just like in the police car scene in Superbad!" Sam said with admiration.

The fallout: Sam and Lucia have vowed to tatoo "Clark" onto their forearms. I suggest that, instead, we tattoo Clark with: "Reward offered for safe return", along with his address and phone number.

Blogging 101- a rant

2009-11-06T16:31:00.002Z

YO, it's called BLOGGING people!!! Sooooo, by definition, you're supposed to put your thoughts under the comment section!

What usually happens is, someone EMAILS me to tell me that they liked one thing or another. Ok, I'll admit, Delora likes (no, loves) that more than a total freakin' comment shut out, but how about going for the real thing? Just a little "LOL" in the comment box or a "ZZZZZzzzzz" -- I'll take anything. Give my big three commenters, Tay, Chip and Mental P, a break. How about it? No one will judge you!

You don't have to spend hours thinking up the wittiest thing you'll ever say. No need to manufacture Faulkner type comments or David Sedaris caliber humor (well maybe a few comments like this would be good.) Quick -- first thing that pops into your mind -- bang! Type it in! It's that easy folks.

What? Afraid someone's going to seek out your cyber-identity and your off-color comment will be a blight on your important career or your admission to Harvard Divinity School? Go anonymous!

Throw me a bone people...it's lonely in cyberspace!

What is this?

2009-11-06T07:36:00.000Z

I've been slathering this on my skin for a week...

An Oddity.

2009-11-02T22:20:00.001Z

This is odd. This is my (grown) friend KK chasing the stately blue peacock on the grounds of the Alcazar in Seville -- but she's not the oddity I refer to above.

This is odd (for Spain, but not for NYC). This is my friend Jamie, who can never be too far from his Blackberry, even when on vacation with close friends, even when taking a private tour with a private tour guide. He is not the oddity I refer to above.

This is really, really odd. Behold La Muher Barbuda (1631). KK and I spied this painting on a tour of a private home, now open to the public, in Sevilla. The subject, Magdalena Venture, is 52 years old here. At age 37, she began to grow a thick beard, a surprise, no doubt, to Felici de Amici, her husband. If you look closely, you'll see that Magdalena is breast feeding a child (at 52?). She looks exactly like her husband standing in the background -- minus the breast.

Imagine what laser hair removal could have done for her.

Courtyards of Cordoba, Spain

2009-11-01T22:58:00.001Z

How beautiful are these Courtyard patios? The Romans built the original city of Cordoba in 206 BC on the Guadalquivir River. These designs are made with river rocks from the Guadalquivir. I was lucky enough to see these ancient beauties with two of my favorite people, KK and Jamie on their recent visit with us. Thinking that Cordoba would be merely a good place to stay for a night on our way to Sevilla, I wasn't prepared for how beautiful and unspoiled the small city is. I would tell you more, but our guide had a very quiet voice and Jamie was on a conference call with his head set during our tour...

Copy Editors Needed...

2009-10-29T18:17:00.002Z

This is the t-shirt that's not on sale...

The Royal Cougar

2009-10-29T07:44:00.001Z

In the United States, Hollywood is the closest thing to royalty; but in Spain, we have actual royals to obsess over. Most of the time, the Spanish royal family behaves properly. They wear lovely, conservative clothing, they cut ribbons, somberly attend funerals, mingle with other Spanish nobility and generally act regally in front of their subjects. Sometimes, a princess has her nose altered ever so slightly. Or, there's a scandal when it's revealed that this same Princess had a bit of a "past" before marrying the Prince, but generally, the Spanish Royal Family behaves well.

The one big exception to the rule: Cayetana Fitz-James Stuart y DeSilva, the 18th Duchess of Alba. According to the Guiness Book of World Records, she holds more titles than any other royal in the world, including the Queen of England. At times, it seems, her picture is on the cover of almost every magazine in Spain. Framing her unforgettable, wrinkle-free 83 year-old face, is her signature, white, fluffy mane of hair. Preferring bohemian garb, she typically wears colorful clothing, dozens of ankle bracelets, necklaces and other bohemian trinkets, eschewing the designer labels.

Some call her one of the most loved celebrities in Spain.

Her bohemian fashion sense seems to be in keeping with her philosophy about life. Always a free spirit, she consoled herself by marrying a Jesuit Priest after her first husband died. Sometime after her second husband died, she became involved with Alfonso Diez Carabantes, 24 years her junior. When it was revealed that the Duchess would marry him, the royal family and Cayetana's six children had to step in and put a stop to their secret plan. A couple years ago, The Duchess had a shunt in her head and was in a wheelchair recovering from a serious illness. But the thought of putting on her Pucci inspired bathing suit and frolicking on the beach with her boyfriend, must have gotten her back on her feet, surfing the waves.

Recently, she confided that "el crisis economique" has affected her too. It takes mucho dinero to guard her spectacular art collection of Goyas and Velazquezes and to maintain many palatial estates, so she's watching her euros. And she's having fun. She has the voice of a kitten...

But she's a royal cougar.

Hemingway's Madrid

2009-10-23T12:59:00.003+01:00

“In Madrid on cold nights you can drink sherry brandy and go to bed. To go to bed early at night in Madrid marks you as a little queer. For a long time your friends will feel a little uncomfortable about it.
Nobody goes to bed in Madrid until they have killed the night. Appointments with a friend are habitually made for after midnight at the earliest. In no other town that I have ever lived in is there less going to bed for sleeping purposes.” -Ernest Hemingway Happy Friday!

Best Dinner Ever (For Foodies)

2009-10-21T10:29:00.003+01:00

Another meal, another 3 star Michelin tasting menu -- this time it's dinner at the famed Restaurante Martin Berasategui (#33 in the San Pellegrino world's 50 Best Restaurants), just outside of San Sebastian in Gipuzkoa. Having just finished lunch at Arzak (#8 on the list), we're still pretty full.

Chip and I totter into this elegant restaurant, pleased by the lit garden walkway, the high ceilings and the floor to ceiling glass vistas to the garden. We're greeted by a lovely, English-speaking maitre d' and after intense debate, we place our orders and the first courses arrive.

See this fork? It's normal size. The asparagus is mini. According to the chef, it took 10 people to make this mini salad of vegetables in gelatin!

That's only the start to a parade of teeny-tiny food courses, mystery foods and courses that come with instructions and warnings. We're advised by a white gloved waiter not to bite down on our black squid ink ball until our mouths are fully closed. One of us didn't follow directions at lunch and spewed orange liquid onto the tablecloth. I'm alarmed. Is this literally one of a squid's balls? Is it literally filled with ink? Will my teeth be black if I smile afterwards? I imagine someone milking a little squid teat somehow, to get the ink out. I resist the urge to hurl my mini salad, batten the hatches and swallow something I don't want to ponder further, and it's, actually, quite good!

C. and I discuss many controversial topics, like: was that a grape skin filled with chocolate or a chocolate jello ball we ate for lunch? We debate whether or not we've eaten our weekly caloric intake in this one meal. Is this a ball 'o some'um or some'um else? Clam or mussel? Morel or truffle? What exactly is a sweetbread? Blissfully unaware that the top chefs in the world spend years studying the chemistry of coagulation and molecular gastronomy, we struggle with how to classify certain items -- animal vegetable or mineral.

Martin himself appears from the kitchen and greets us. We take pictures, he signs the menu and we're invited into the kitchen. What a place! Seeing the group of men and women in their flawless white aprons and toques prepare the last courses of the evening brings a tiny tear to my eye. Here stand the very people have toiled over my mini meals, carved and poached my mini asparagus, and possibly, milked my squid.

Back at the table, the mini desserts keep coming and the cholesterol keeps building until we're like a couple of wax figures with mechanical elbows. Conversation devolves. Will the children pass any of their classes? Will they forgive us? Will we learn Spanish? Soon, all I really want is to brush my teeth and go to bed. Please! No more chocolate, I'm thinking. Finally, the courses stop coming and I dart into the ladies room on the way out and there is the proverbial icing on the cake: mini toothbrushes and toothpaste! Promising not to eat anything that isn't super healthy for the next 2 weeks, I grab a toothbrush and my husband, and we collapse into the back of a cab hoping that the cab driver will understand our pronunciation.

Best Lunch Ever! (For Foodies)

2009-10-20T23:03:00.001+01:00

Really, if you're happy with Burger King, don't waste your time on this post. Re-watch Tina's video; you'll have more fun.

I, on the other hand, come from a family that spent every breakfast deciding what we'd eat for lunch and dinner. Food is in my blood; it's past of my family heritage. My father is a fantastic cook of mostly quirky Asian food (sea urchin delicacies, etc.), but he can make anything. My Grandparents were all gourmet cooks and bakers and my Paternal Grandfather was the Director of Nabisco Labs way back when. After Dad and Mom split, he with his wok, and Mom remarried, we were a motley mix of half, step and full siblings with a mother who was much more successful in the business world than in the kitchen. (I emphasize MUCH.) Consequently, we ate at restaurants most nights, where we talked about, yep, the food.

So here I am in San Sebastian, a city that, according to The Lonely Planet Guide, has more restaurants with Michelin Stars than Paris! (Actually a quick fact check on the Michelin website seems to prove that that's not the case, but whatever.) We only have a couple of days here and one of them has already been, ahem, frittered away with Jacques-oh-lee, so that leaves us with one day. We throw caution to the wind and decide to eat at 2 different 3-star Michelin restaurants in one day! What the heck! We get the tasting menu -- that's 20 or more (!) courses of food -- all within 10 hours!

Friends tell us we can't miss Arzak, a restaurant run by a father/daughter chef team. We can´t get dinner reservations, but we manage to score for lunch. A stucco flat-front building with an awning just three feet from the roadway, the place is nothing to look at from the outside, but inside is different. Actually, it's not that much different, but it's kind of sleek with shaped-cement walls inlaid with impressions of forks and spoons. Subdued, gray tones and fine linens give the impression that we could be in fancy cave in Manhattan or Paris. Before we know it, small plates of delicacies are being brought to our table four at a time. We sample fried lotus root chips held together like a teepee by a fish cream in the middle, tiny shish kabobs of seafood with, what looks like spun sugar around them, but isn´t. Thin disks of fig are served crispy with a sliver of Foie gras and tiny pommegranite seeds -- heaven.

(No earthly idea what that is, pictured above, but it has a liquid middle.)

We discuss the proposed health care plan and other worldly matters most of the time, then spend inordinate amounts of time debating what we just swallowed. We love food alot, but are squeem-ish about a few things. Asking for clarification in Spanish doesn't help, so some of the questionable things get washed down our gullets with some other good things. Sometimes we eat a bite of something, like this foamy chip below, and find out that it's our vegetable -- eggplant!

Hours later, having eaten some of the best food ever and having solved all the world's problems, except for how to make the dollar go a bit farther against the euro, we emerge from our sleek gray cave back into the sunlight, blinking like a couple of moles, wondering why Europeans think that all Americans are obese.

If you see this woman, run!

2009-10-16T06:46:00.000+01:00

I haven't posted much lately because I've been a binge -- a glutinous foodie binge -- through San Sebastian on the Northern coastal border of Spain.

San Sebastian is one of the most beautiful small cities I've ever seen. Where else will you find a delightful grid of narrow cobblestone streets, filled with charming shops and fantastic restaurants, next to some of the finest beaches in Europe? As one guide book put it: It's impossible to lay eyes on San Sebastian and not fall madly in love! One reason people feel the love is that the city is known to have the best pintxos, a variety of small appetizers, in the world. Most pintxos are composed of a slice of bread with some delicious concoction on top. Eating pintxos is accomplished by dropping into the bar that looks best to you, and choosing from a vast "buffet" of treats laid out on the bar. Check this out:

file:///Users/debperkins/Pictures/iPhoto%20Library/Originals/2009/Oct%208,%202009/IMG_0107.MOV

Just one thing to be aware of: a little drink called Txacoli (Jacques-oh-Lee). This regional "wine" looks, to the untrained eye, like a cava or a champagne and tastes somewhat like Pinot Grigio. Watching it be poured -- just one or two stingy inches -- into a rocks glass, is entertainment in itself. The bartender takes the bottle up high and leaves the glass on the bar. This is what she looks like:

file:///Users/debperkins/Pictures/iPhoto%20Library/Originals/2009/Oct%208,%202009/IMG_0110.MOV

Sometimes she yells: Txacoli!

One can easily wonder what all the fuss is about for such a tiny glass of wine. One can easily order two more tiny glasses while eating some of the best appetizers ever on the planet! And, I've heard, one can even find herself face down on her bed with her shoes on in the late afternoon wondering what the heck happened...I'm just saying.

Speed Friend-ing

2009-10-06T08:35:00.002+01:00

You know speed dating: 5 minutes at a table with a stranger blurting out your deepest secrets before the bell rings and you move to the next table? At the end of the hour, you decide which guys you want to see again, right? That can be what it's like to move to a foreign country and make new friends -- if you're using the Streator Moving Method, that is. Ms. KK Streator, who has moved many times in her life and can barely touch foot in an outpost of Tanzania without running into an old friend or roommate from Brown, has very specific ideas about moving.

Thanks to this friend, I came to Madrid armed with tips about how to make friends. She knows very, very well that I can amuse myself happily for months without another human being. She doesn't think that's healthy. She warns me: you must be the one to make the effort! She chides me: people already have a life with their own friends, you have to be the one to make it happen. Apparently the days of the welcome wagon are behind us. Now, new city dwellers, it's up to us to send up a flare and let others know how lucky they are to have us darkening their doorways. KK says we can do this by collecting lists of contacts from our real friends and following through with friends of friends (FOFs) once we arrive. We can host endless dinner parties, join endless clubs, take tours, join museum groups, take Flamenco lessons, learn to make tapas, call our mother's old garden club friends and see if they're still living... God, I'm tired.

So, I started with the Streator Moving Method months ago. I made spreadsheets, I called, emailed and invited the FOFs! Several times, I mistook one FOF's kid for another, or paired the wrong husband with the wrong wife. I thought one FOF was a friend of Jeanne's from college when he was really someone's old boyfriend's friend. Soon, I'm introduced to friends of FOFs and now there's a whole new level -- FOFOFs. Geez! Do you see how confusing this is? And it's coinciding with the period when I'm trying to learn Spanish and blurting out some long forgotten French words and calling my children by my dog's name.

But guess what? The Streator method works! I've done my speed-friending and I'm enjoying an occasional lunch here and dinner there with some really great people and just when Chip worries that I'm becoming way too attached to my computer, I announce that I'm headed to the museum with so and so, the one who does such and such...unfortunately, I can't remember her name.

Apropos absolutely nothin'

2009-10-05T16:13:00.002+01:00

Sometimes when you move to a new country you find yourself with some extra time on your hands. You can't talk to your old friends, you don't have that many new ones, you don't know the language in the new country and since nothing really works, except for the internet, intermittently, you find yourself trolling a lot. And sometimes, when you're stressed, you enjoy a tidbit like this that makes you laugh.

Keep It Short

2009-10-05T16:08:00.002+01:00

If you plan on calling me, just know that there's a 98% chance that we'll be disconnected after a minute or two.

The electricity cuts off approximately 2 dozen times a day leaving us with the impression, sometimes, that we live in a very beautiful part of Beruit. The electrical company says that the apartment may not be wired to handle the amount of electricity that we need to live in the apartment....did you get that? Luckily, there is a way to "open a case", to test whether the apartment is fit to live in, electrically speaking... It will take several months, but in Spanish terms, that's the blink of an eye.

The following is a sample conversation that I've had many times recently:

Delora: Hi, how are you? I'm so sorry that we got cut off earlier!

Friend: No problem. What a pain in the #$@ though! Everytime I call you we get disconnected.

Delora: Yeah, it's really a drag. So quick, how are you? Silence...

Lately, I haven't even been able to enjoy these short conversations. Why? Because of a nice little monopoly called TELEFONICA. Telefonica reminds me of the ATT monopoly in the US about 25 years ago. Although our local phone service has been out for 8 days, and we're on the EMERGENCY list, it will take between 8-15 days until the technician will be able to make it to our house. Telefonica provides our landline service and our cable service. Just one glitch: when you plug in the phones, it blows out the line. Oops. And the microfilters that they suggest you buy to keep from blowing out the line? They don't work either.

Watch your back, César Alierta, Executive Chairman of Telefonica. There's a new cowboy in town gunning for your job. He's a man of few words, but he's customer-oriented, focused on service and highly intelligent. From what I've seen, there's no way he couldn't do a better job. Here he is:

Thundér Pérkins, future Executive Chairman of Telefonica

Shopping Sleuth

2009-10-02T11:26:00.000+01:00

Millions visit the city of Madrid to see the traditional tourist attractions -- the exquisite museums, the gorgeous architecture, the open air markets, the Flamenco dancers and the bullfights, among other things. Not so for my friend Taylor, who makes her first visit to Madrid to decipher the grocery market.

Being the gem that she is, she spends her first full day here accompanying me to Él Corte Ingles. A store the size of Minneapolis, our version of Bloomingdales houses a giant supermarket in its basement. Entering the store, Tay puts on her game face. Gone are any visible signs of jet lag. Instead, this bright-eyed woman capable of heading a G7 conference takes in the scene. She scans my shopping list, scrap paper, used as a general guide, something to remind us we're out of milk. She chastises me gently: you haven't grouped the like items together.

We start in the produce department, where I've been yelled at twice these past weeks for touching the peaches and pears. Only the fruit picker, a woman who stands on a raised platform with the fruit bins around her, is allowed to touch. After ordering our fruit, Tay decides that our best strategy is to divide and conquer. We're looking for items for a specific recipe. She offeres to search for Sherry, something I've been trying to find for 6 1/2 weeks. When she returns, victorious, 10 minutes later, she is amazed that I'm still in produce. (See annoyingly chipper photo with Sherry -held like a trophy - below.) She shrugs and tells me that this place isn't too different from the Stop & Shop back home. Again, she tells me gently, if I had grouped the items on the list...

Next we pick up eggs. Oddly, (to Tay anyway), they're not refrigerated. Are they usually, I ask? This tips her off to the fact that I don't have a clue about groceries in any country. She's irked that she can't check the eggs to see if they're broken because they're wrapped in a protective sleeve (BTW, all six were broken in one of the packs we bought). Milk and juice aren't refrigerated either, I point out. This, she explains patiently, is because I'm buying ultra, ultra pasteurized milk. Unwittingly, we've been drinking the stuff that comes in cartons in the US and is used in fall-out shelters from Chernobyl to Secaucus. An hour later, when we're still near produce trying to find unsalted cashews, she concedes that sometimes, even she makes substitutions. We grab the salted nuts.

Next we hit the meat department where, with her beginner's luck, she points to a package with a hen on it. There's the chicken! Moments later, she staggers backwards clutching her heart after seeing a small purple chicken fetus with eyes staring back at her from a package. We're not in Kansas anymore.

I mean really, where's the pig leg (with hoof) aisle in Westport, Miss smarty pants?

This entire counter, almost a 1/4 mile, is full of cheeses. And it's only one of THREE places you can buy cheese in this store:

Let's just say that, after a couple hours in the store, Taylor's eyes start to glaze over a bit. When two Él Corte Ingles employees can't tell us where the tea aisle is, we agree to leave without a few items. Leaving cornstarch, Earl Grey tea, dried cherries and frozen waffles (are there frozen waffles in Spain?) behind, we happily leave the food maze.

Eating, resting for the afternoon, and enjoying an early evening glass of Rioja allow us to better assess the shopping issues. Here's what we Taylor identifies:

Some items can be found in several sections of the market -- creating confusion. Olive oil, for example, is found in: "Products from Andalucia", the sale aisle, the "olive oil" aisle AND the other oil aisle. No such thing as one long aisle that is filled with oils. Nuts can be found in produce, nuts, specialty items and sales...you see the problem? People like me, who have a rare form of shopper's Alzheimer's end up seeing the nuts and saying, oh yeah, I need nuts! I end up with 3 or 4 packs when I'm unloading the bags at home.
MINI AISLES -- the worst thing ever! I never thought twice about the long cereal aisle or canned vegetable aisle back home, but here, I long for them! It's like a cruel game of concentration to find anything. Why? because little areas hold food unrelated to the food in the next mini aisle. So cereal is one place, but cereal bars? God only knows where...
Taylor suggests using the signs, high up and in Spanish, to guide me. Um, did I mention I don't know Spanish.

Él Corte Ingles- take notice - you need organizational help! Tay might just be the woman for the job.

Language "Barrier"

2009-10-02T10:45:00.001+01:00

I drank the Berlitz Kool Aid. I believed that if I applied myself for 2 and a half hours a day, twice a week, for 4 months this past Spring, that I would be passably fluent in Spanish by the time we moved here. Chip figured he'd just absorb the language when we arrived.

We've been here almost 2 months and are just now becoming proficient at stating our address to cab drivers. (We do have a tough address.) We hid in our apartment for a few weeks after realizing how dire the situation was, venturing out only with the help of our interpreter. Unfortunately, she has a life and refuses to accompany us 24/7, so now we're out there on our own sometimes.

Bravely, Chip walks to the "la farmacia" in search of Advil. No such thing, so he tries the generic name of Ibuprofin. He even throws in a little spanish accent for good measure. The lady behind the counter finally seems to understand and puts a small white box on the counter. Chip looks down and tries to tell her that he wants the giant size bottle. "Mas grande -- mas, mas grande!" Holding his hands wide apart, he indicates the huge economy size bottle he's looking for. She's embarrassed for him and gives him a quizzical look. She stares directly at his torso, before going behind the counter to retrieve another box of the same size. Chip recognizes the "XL" on the new box, picks it up, and realizes for the first time that she's given him a box of condoms.

In this country, famous for its Latin lovers, does he admit, he really didn't need want the XL box of condoms and then try for the Advil, or does he take the XL's and go elsewhere in search of pain medication?

The Addams Family

2009-09-30T23:48:00.000+01:00

The Spanish are wringing their hands over this picture that appeared recently in the local Spanish papers after being leaked from the U.S. In it, the Spanish Prime Minister, José Luis Rodriguez Zapatero, appears with his wife, their two daughters, and, of course, the Obamas.

The word around town is that the Prime Minister struck a deal with the Spanish press years ago not to publish pictures of his children, but now that this one has been leaked, all bets are off. The poor girls will be photographed mercilessly.

But some say that the real reason everyone's upset is that they cannot believe that the Spanish teens were allowed to meet with the President of the United States in Goth attire. Sticklers for protocol, many Spaniards are embarrassed by a Prime Minister who wouldn't instruct his family to dress properly for such an important picture.

My brilliant 20-something Spanish teacher (who has just completed a 10 year Goth phase herself) sees it slightly differently: why, she asks, when there are so many beautiful goth clothes and shoes available, did they have to represent us in those goth boots?

Urban Cowboy

2009-09-26T13:48:00.000+01:00

We've been city dwellers for 6 weeks now, so I don't expect to hear cows mooing in my apartment. Yet, there it is again, coming from Sam's room. I crack the door and see my boy's face lit by his computer screen. He sees me eyeing the mess in his room.

I'm trying to keep the crows from ruining my crops, he explains.

The crows? We live at the top of a six story building, yet I haven't seen crows. Could you please clean up your room, I ask? And hang up the towels.

I have to harvest my peppers now or they'll rot and I'll lose the $25,000 I've invested in seed. With fervor, he completes a series of repetitive mouse movements to "harvest" his crops and gain points to buy other farm items. He's saving for a farmhouse.

Welcome to Farmville, the computer program that lets anyone, urban or suburban, run a farm into the ground or be the creator of a beautifully planned plantation complete with livestock, plants, decorative farm elements (lakes, hedges, horse jumps, etc.) and animals you can gift to friends. Sam shows me his friends' farms -- Regan's, Madeline's and Tim's -- all grander scale operations that require a lot of tendin'. Woah, Sam chuckles, Tim really needs to harvest his wheat! Sam's farm is modest in comparison. Surrounding the 8 or 9 tillable acres are some trees and a dozen or so farm animals. Some were gifts from friends. He's splurged on a small pond with a bench nearby. Fruit trees shade the area. It's a peaceful place to sit, he says wistfully.

Now he's deciding which crops to plant next. Crops yield different quantities of food and different profits at market. Sam calculates the possibilities. He likes the returns on squash and raspberries, but different crops demand different harvesting times requiring the farmer to plan his schedule accordingly. Sam doesn't want to wake up in the middle of the night for raspberries, so he chooses squash. That'll allow him a full night's sleep.

Genius, I'm thinking. It won't be long before you get that farmhouse, I tell him proudly. I pick up the towel and hang it myself.

Actually, if you let me use your credit card, he says hopefully, I can buy the $50,000 farmhouse for $20 dollars. Then I won't have to live in the $1,000 farmhouse. He sees my face and turns back to the screen. Okay, okay. I'll get the little farmhouse. And maybe Madeline will send me another sheep.

Man in White Heels

2009-09-25T18:15:00.000+01:00

(Forward to minute 2 when he loosens his jacket and the fun begins)

Recently, Chip and I were lucky enough to be given tickets to see the master Flamenco dancer, Rafael Amargo, in the beautiful Teatros del Canal. Chip didn't share my excitement as we settled into our seats; he removed his glasses as though he were getting ready for bed and
folded them into his breast pocket. The audience was packed with young ladies and men visi-bly excited by their proximity to the Latin dance master. After a few minutes, the lights dim-
med and the curtain rose. There, frozen in the spotlights was a tableau of dancers (including two beautiful topless women.) They posed for several minutes as the excitement rose to a
crescendo. Then the fun began.

Chip reached for his glasses and never took them back off.

Our Irish Twins

2009-09-18T07:45:00.001+01:00

You may know that we have teenaged triplets; you might not know that we have Irish twins. Lucia, Clark and Sam's brotha-from-another-motha, Thunder (8), and their sista-from-another-mista, Roxie (7), are a mere 11 months apart. Roxie, our long-haired, blond miniature dachshund and Thunder, our Mensa-card-carrying black and tan, have been in Madrid for a couple weeks now and are definitely showing signs of culture shock. Actually, our canine children are exhibiting the very same behavior that Lucia, Clark, and Sam did when we first arrived in this country (and still do on occasion.)

Mood Swings: There's a lot of anger brewing under that fur. Roxie, always an even-tempered squirrel chaser, finds herself in the squirrel-free city of Madrid. She lashes out by barking incessantly at other neighborhood dogs whenever they try to welcome her to the hood. Barking loudly at bugs, traffic noises filtering in through the windows and wind has replaced her squirrel games. Thunder, our much more cerebral pet, has retreated into a moody passive-aggressive world of his own. Always a rule follower, he now refuses to sit on command.

Anti-social behavior: We've raised our dogs in the same way that Dr. Skinner, the famous child psychologist, raised his daughter -- in a box. Our box was bigger, of course, by a few acres, but still, R and T haven't socialized much with their own kind. In Madrid, where the humans greet strangers with a kiss on each cheek, the canines are, naturally, more open and friendly as well. Our twins are expected to be gracious with the neighborhood dogs who have different boundaries, different customs and speak a whole different language. One woman, who thought that Roxie (and her parents) couldn't understand her, actually called her "gorda" -- fat! Now Roxie will only play with Thunder (see "lethargy" below) or a rubber, bikini-wearing chicken we found in the hood.

Lethargy: If Thunder could, he'd insert a canine catheter and demand his meals on a tray. He doesn't display any of the joie de vivre or quick witted repartee that was once his trademark. Instead, he elects to climb to the top of the tallest chair in the room and curl into a ball remembering good times in Connecticut - or - lick himself from dawn until dusk.

Ah, culture shock. It's not fun when the kids lash out about the move, but we expected that. We didn't expect our twins to have such a similar reaction.

Someone in Spain is Making a Living on Misprints

2009-09-15T22:28:00.000+01:00

T-shirts seen while walking the streets of Madrid:

Daddy's Bitch

Huge like that! (on a body builder type)

Abercrambie NYS (New York State?)

You Ain'ts Got To Worry About Substance When You Gots Style (philosopher?)

Shopping with Giranimals

2009-09-14T22:52:00.001+01:00

Would you rather purchase this meat -- whatever it is...

Or this one?

Foot Fault

2009-09-13T15:17:00.000+01:00

List of Perkins' Childrens' Transgressions
on their First Day of Spanish School

1. Loosening shoe. Clark was reprimanded for loosening his shoe to relieve a blister forming on his heel. Apparently, there is a rule against shoe adjustments. A full shoe removal warrants a detention. I'm not kidding ... fall-out from the shoe bomber?

2. Being an American. Lucia's teacher started the first morning of school with a warning to the class that she would not tolerate cheating like the Americans. "All Americans cheat." She also warned that she would confiscate all students' drugs.

3. Choosing a different seat on the bus. Clark, notorious for his car sickness, had the audacity to change his seat from the back to the front of the bus. Telling the bus monitor that he was going to throw up did not stop the barrage of Spanish reprimands.

4. Being late for class. Fair enough. Sam received his first detention ever for being late (with a group of his new friends) to class after lunch. With no bell ringing, no watch, and no idea when he's supposed to be back in class, he may get more. Trouble is, he didn't learn the term "detention" in Spanish to know that he'd received a detention. So, he missed it.

5. Not reciting Catholic prayers (in Spanish). Clark again. When asked by his teacher why he wasn't participating in religion "class" (He says it was a Catholic mass), Clark replied that since he is neither Catholic, nor Spanish, he doesn't know the prayers. And if he did, he wouldn't be able to recite them in Spanish. Not knowing Spanish is tolerated in some classes, but not in religion.

First Day of School!

2009-09-09T16:31:00.001+01:00

School started today. You can see for yourself the kind of excitement we all felt. We received several different answers about when and where to catch the bus. Surprisingly, the kids didn't want us to accompany them to the bus stop, so we were very inconspicuous...

(hint: to see full screen, click on the youtube image. Otherwise you lose the right part of the screen)

Sauteed Police

2009-09-06T09:36:00.000+01:00

We decide to dine at a place in our hood tonight - Fabula. It reminds us of a hip restaurant from home with modern art, dark walls and electronica playing softly in the background. Then we get the menus -- no English translations available and nada English speaking person to be found. One teen suggests we just close our eyes and order whatever our finger lands on, a sort of Spanish roulette, but we're not brave enough to pull the trigger. Then we have a brainstorm! We'll use the translator on my Apple iphone to decode the menu. The iphone can do no wrong.

First menu item: Tartare de boletus y aquacate con naranja de sangre y carbineros salteados.

Translation: Avocado tartare with mushrooms and blood Narang and sauteed police.

Supermarket Confessional

2009-09-03T11:49:00.003+01:00

Some people are genius grocery shoppers. I am not. There's nothing I hate more than going to a Super Stop & Shop. I start to hyper-ventilate and before I know it, I'm phoning a friend, a genius super-shopper, for advice: Taylor, where are the legumes? With the precision of an air traffic controller, she calmly directs me to the exact aisle and shelf for french lentils, recommends alternatives, offers advice on fat content and prices per ounce by brand. She and KK know this is true: I literally haven't been to a supermarket more than twice in the past five years.

We have eaten, thanks to an excellent right-hand woman, Maria D., who, among other things, has been stocking our cabinets for over 6 years. Maria shakes her head sadly when I mention my food shopping anxieties in my new city of Madrid. She knows I'm out of my league.

Now I'm in Spain, without Maria and Taylor. I'm advised to shop on-line. See the screen I'm presented with above? I'm not sure I could navigate that screen in English, but in Spanish it's a total wash. We're eating out alot...

Amigos Desperately Needed

2009-08-29T23:23:00.001+01:00

Clark and Sam slept in Sam's twin beds. It's noon and I don't hear a peep.
I enter the room, dark except for the glow of matching laptops on matching beds.
What are you guys doing?
Nervous laughter...we're on facebook.
Who're you talking to -- the girls from camp?
Um, no. They take at sneaky look at one another. Sam answers first.
I'm talking to... Clark.
Clark, your brother in the next bed?
Um hmm. He taps out another message. Clark chuckles.
Why? I'm baffled.
Because it's fun! We're talking to Lucia too!
Lucia, in the next bedroom.

School starts in 11 days.

Sammy Clark Madrid 2

2009-08-27T10:18:00.000+01:00

Javier Bardem, in Vicky Christina Barcelona, is the real reason the boys wanted to move to Spain. Perhaps, against my best parental judgement, I opt to watch the movie with them one night when Chip and Lu are out of town. They'll be so excited about Spain, I think to myself!

The boys watch without comment, then comes the pivotal scene:Javier propositions two women -- complete strangers -- dining in a restaurant. He suggests a weekend away at a quaint

Spanish village, together. They chastise him. How can you ask such a thing, they chortle.

He refuses to be chastened: Life is short. Life is dull. It is full of pain and this is a chance for

something special. The brunette is aghast, but Javier won't apologize. What offends you, he asks, that I find you both attractive? In the next scene, all three fly to Orvieto.

The boys look at each other as though all the secrets of the universe have been revealed.

Mom? You can say stuff like that? They smile BIG smiles.

Flash forward to Spanish immersion camp 3 months later. I ask Lucia if the boys like any particular girl at camp. She rolls her eyes. All the girls like both boys, she explains: When the

boys were asked at camp which girls they like, the responded: todas las chicas (all the girls).

The boys thank you Javier!

The Birthday Boy

2009-08-20T22:01:00.001+01:00

Happy Birthday, Gill-man!

The Kids Are a Little Stressed...

2009-08-20T19:49:00.001+01:00

Here's the course line up for their new Spanish school:

1. Lengua Castellana y Literatura (Spanish language and literature)

2. Ingles - (English. That's gotta be an "A" right?)

3. Ciencias Sociales, Geografia E Historia (Social Sciences, Geography & History)

4. Fisica y Quimica (Physics AND Chemistry) Hmmm.

5. Biologia y Geologia (Biology and Geology, we think...)

6. Matematicas (Geometry & Algebra, and maybe some other maths...)

7. Educacion Fisica (Gym, another "A", worst case, a "B")

8. Educacion Plastica y Visual (Art? See above)

9. Technologias (Tech)

10. Musica (Flamenco?)

11. Religion/H y Cultura de las Religiones/ Atencion Educativa (all I can say is, they haven't had much of this...)

12. Choice between one of the following: Frances, Aleman or Cultura Clasica (French, German or Classic Cultures)

It was not a good day.

Things I love about Spain...

2009-08-20T19:27:00.000+01:00

It's the unofficial miniature Dachshund

capital of the world...

Supreme body confidence! Every woman, no matter how flabby, obese, or elderly, feels perfectly comfortable in a bikini, or just a bikini bottom. And they make no apologies.

Trust! When your new Spanish credit card and debit cards don't work (every day), shop keepers nod understandingly and tell you to take the merchandise home and pay when things get worked out with the bank!

Cheap Wine! You can't buy a bad wine at any price and after a long day of dealing with logistics (every day), that's a nice ending.

Fashion fusion! Seen on the beach in Marbella: a man wearing red espadrilles, a speedo -ish bathing suit, a man purse and a CSI Las Vegas baseball cap.

A new way to manage teens

2009-08-14T05:59:00.001+01:00

Occasionally, teenage children will exaggerate.

For instance, they'll call you on their first day of Spanish immersion camp, as Lucia did recently, and they'll say: this place is like a prison. And you'll sooth your teen and say honey, it can't be that bad. You'll even go to sleep with a smile on your face. Then you'll visit your teen at camp, because she's ill. Large cement block walls will lead to 12 foot locked iron gates. A heavily pierced and tattooed 18 year old from the Czech republic will buzz you through. You'll locate your daughter's counselor fiddling with a ring of keys on her belt as she leads you to Lucia's locked dorm room. As the door unlocks you'll see your daughter curled in a sweaty ball in an airless cement room. They won't let us open the windows because of the mosquitos, she'll tell you. Later, she'll feel well enough to give a tour of the "camp". She'll show you the group shower, one white tiled room with multiple shower heads, where she showers in her bathing suit. There's no soap anywhere. You'll suggest brightly that she's probably learned a lot of Spanish though, right? She'll agee nodding. We've learned a ton of swearwords...

You'll leave thinking, occasionally teenage children will tell the truth.

Our nemesis (el ascendor)

2009-08-14T05:12:00.001+01:00

When looking for apartments in Spain, no one warns you to check if the elevator (el ascensor) works. Ours, a beautiful baroque wrought iron variety typical in Spanish buildings of a certain era, moves slowly through the center of the building, the marble stairway spiraling around it. The small glass box (holding 4 slender people, tops) allows stair-walkers to amuse themselves on the walk by seeing just who might be caught between floors inside the little glass trap. If it's a slow day, you can just watch the narrow band of rubber that creaks over the pulleys as they move the box up and down. In fact, you can smell the rubber burning just a little. This is not an elevator for the young or impatient. A series of steps, similar to those required to build a nuclear reactor, must be followed in sequence and at properly timed intervals for the box to move. Typically both young and impatient, delivery boys are frequently stuck between the first and second floor of our building tapping on the glass (saying something Spanish that means, help!) Sometimes the elevator repair man rides on the top of the box for a couple hours to figure out the latest glitch. When he gestures that it's ok to get in, we Americans mime a Schwartzenegger muscle pose or do a Chariots of Fire type slo-mo run to show him that we're sure the elevator is fine, but we're in training. We'll take the stairs.

Why we haven't been to the Museum

2009-08-13T20:45:00.001+01:00

A partial list of broken items in the apartment we're renting:

No cold water in the kitchen
Broken dishwasher (circa 1995)
Broken washer and dryer (circa 1995)
Broken oven (circa?) - already fixed twice
Broken toilet in Sam's room- already fixed twice
Broken shower in Sam's room
2 broken shutters -- the exterior metal kind that block out sunlight
Electrical circuitry on the 2nd floor
Alarm system
Misc: towel bars (2), shelf in the refrigerator, various cabinet doors

Number of times the electricity has gone out - 8; but our landlord is on vacation until September, so he'll call the electrical company in September...

Yup, we moved to Spain!

2009-08-12T02:43:00.000+01:00

Kind of. We're here, but it looks like it'll be a while until we're settled. We knew this move would be a cosmic lesson in patience. Patience, to us, is waiting more than four or five minutes for our order to be taken at a restaurant. Here in Madrid, if you don't have 2 hours for a quick lunch, forget it. So we should have known there would be complications: a broken dishwasher, washer, dryer, oven, alarm system, window shutters, and elevator. It's really hard to move to the top floor of a building without an elevator. Movers here have nothing to prove and wouldn't dream of walking a feather duster, let alone a sleeper sofa, up 6 flights of steps. They'd rather smoke a pack and enjoy some wine with their lunch while they wait for the elevator. Three hours later, when swearing in several languages erupts, they smile, as if to say, it wouldn't be a day at the office if someone weren't swearing at me in a foreign language. Luckily the Spanish place no value on an even temper. Pass the Rioja.