In the interest of getting another story posted, I reached into the archives and found the last story I wrote before I moved everything to the blog which I started in March 2006.
This particular piece was from January 2006 and would fit as the very first post.
Copperbottoms and Assman – Oh, if only I wrote children’s
books.
Fade to Saturday, January 7th, 4pm at the Old Monk. There are
about 14 million things going through my head right now. I only just
returned from Spain
two days ago, and there’s a lot that needs to get done. So, instead of
doing any of that, I’m having beers. It’s 80 degrees outside, a perfect
summer’s day. Of course, we’re just starting January.
As a creature of habit, I tend to follow a fair amount of
little routines. Things like: having a coffee and then a monster
drink before going to the gym, or having two coffees and a monster drink before
a soccer game, or spending the first Saturday after my vacations abroad at the
Monk trying to get a jump on the Spain write-up. You could make
an argument that I tend to be at the Monk doing a bit of writing most
Saturdays, anyway, and that is a fair point. However, it’s always
significant to mark this particular day, since it more or less marks the
completion of another wonderful experience in Spain, and suddenly it’s time to
launch the new year, which means getting back in the swing of things…the
routine, if you will.
Unlike the past years, where I’ve ended my write-ups with
the terrace chanting, psych yourself up words like, “this punk is going to try
and make it happen this year,” this time round I find myself in the position
where I’ve already made it happen. My new year in the states begins
immediately with a countdown to a whole new bit. In about four weeks, I’m
moving to Spain.
So, instead of merely recounting the past three weeks of my holiday, I need to
backtrack a bit, then catch you up to where we are, and finally on to where
this is going.
When I was six, my parents took a four week vacation to Europe. In the weeks leading up to their trip, I
read picture books, National Geographic magazines, and maps about their
destinations. I got so fired up that I announced that one day, Europe was where I wanted to live.
It’s amazing how easily people dismiss the comments of a
six year old, but I’ve been pretty persistent. After a visit to the UK in the early 80s, I returned home convinced
that I needed to be in Europe.
Adolescence and college only fuelled that fire. As
graduation approached back in 1992, I thought I’d be over there within one
year.
14 ½ years later…I’m on my way.
What took so long? Life, of course. The
experiences I’ve had since school have been phenomenal and irreplaceable. –
smashing cars in England, breaking feet on Greenville, almost getting in a fight
cos’ someone is doing coke in your house, head butting the dartboard in the Old
Monk, speeding over speed bumps down Richard…those are the glamorous, if not
absolutely frightening stores. (Some of you might be going, “Wait, did I
miss a Bryan
story or two?” Nope. Some stories have yet to be written.)
Unlike my sister, who moved to Spain soon after college, I stayed
stateside and fought for a career. Not surprising. It’s sort of the
traditional thing to do, and it’s what my dad did. Of course, I was
trying to get the global position, the assignment abroad, but through my
contacts at work. Looking back, I realize that I took the slightly longer
path, but during all these years in Dallas and Boston, I’ve been looking
for something to believe in. Myself.
Fortunately, during that search, I also found the
confidence to take matters into my own hands.
Returning to Dallas after Boston that fall of ’98 was a bitter thing for me
initially: almost achieving my goal to
be in Europe, only to tank it right at the
finish. Apologies go out to the UK, the Warrington
police, and the guy who’s nose I broke, but that was all part of life’s rich pageant.
Clearly, the UK and Bryan didn’t quite fit
back then.
On the bright side, back in Dallas,
I found the Old Monk and Little Goliad, and was very lucky to have the support
of some friends, even while I slagged Dallas and
the US.
It’s not so much that I’m not a patriot; it’s more like I
need to be where I belong. A wise Pablo, in his disgust of my lack of
appreciation for the finer points of Dallas, pointed out that perhaps I needed
to spend a couple of weeks abroad each year to see if I really needed to be
overseas or not. His suggestion was excellent.
Every trip I’ve made to Spain
in the past seven years just reaffirms my conviction that I feel more
comfortable in Europe than stateside.
Now the question will be: Am I still comfortable after three weeks, three
months, three years? It’s time to find out.
Some folks here will recall my outspoken remarks about England and Ireland. I’ll always love
those countries (hell…I support England
in the World Cup) and wouldn’t rule out a move there at some point. Yes,
most of the bands I listen to are English, and I’ll always have a passion for
the conflict that Ireland
has endured.
After the debacle of 98, I didn’t feel comfortable hitting Britain or Ireland. Visits to those
islands since that time have proven that it’s probably best that I stay on
continent. Never mind the £ to € exchange.
When a Dutch company bought my team out of bankruptcy
several years back, I really thought that I’d be in the EU soon. 3 years
on, and that’s still not the case.
It seems when I elected to gain that career experience, I
did too well. My management team hasn’t been interested in letting me out
of Dallas.
Instead of just going through another year of the same old
shit, I realized in summer 2005 I could do something different. After
making this decision in August, I began my transition, and have busily, albeit
quietly, begun putting things in place.
As I put the word out (of my intentions), I wrestled with
the angst of spilling the news too soon. Half of Texas
knew about my job in Manchester
in ‘98, and after I fucked that up, I vowed never to make that particular
mistake again. The pain of having to “explain” why I never actually got
the job was too great.
The process of getting my visa for Spain was relatively
straightforward, but somewhat vague regarding time frames. I’d heard things
could take anywhere from 3
to 8 months. That kind of made it difficult to know when exactly I’d be
going, particularly since I’ve been kind of saying “I’m going” regularly for a
really long time.
I dragged my boss down to the Old Monk (quick! How many
times has Old Monk been written thus far?…we’re only on page 3!) one
night at the end of September, and told him about my plan: Leave the
company, relocate to Valencia,
and teach English for a while.
My boss reacted as I expected him to, “Make it happen, Bryan, and keep me
informed.”
In early October, I set out to compile all my required
documents for my visa application. I’d had a few conversations with the
Spanish Consulate, and they actually believed they could get my paperwork done
in about 3-5 weeks. This seemed particularly fantastic to me, since I had
already made vacation arrangements for December 15th. It was
actually feasible to collect my documents, get my visa, and be out of the
country by the end of the year.
To me, getting the paperwork in order was going to be
easy. First, I needed a letter from the police department saying that I
was an upstanding citizen. With the exception of a small traffic
violation involving a hedgehog over on Palo Pinto, I didn’t anticipate any
trouble with the records department.
Sure enough, a quick visit to police headquarters, $3, and
I had a letter stating I was golden.
I celebrated the completion of task 1 by having a coffee at
La Duni, and called my mom for help on task 2: a doctor’s note saying I’m
not insane, not addicted to drugs, and don’t have the plague.
I allowed my mother to talk me into going for a physical
(the last visit I made to a doctor was one hung over morning during college
immediately before departing for a tennis tournament). My mom gave me the
number to her doctor, and I made myself an appointment for later that
week.
Most of you know that I’m not a fan of doctors, so needless
to say, I was a little anxious when I got to the office. I was greatly
encouraged, however, when the doctor remarked, “You’re probably the healthiest
person I’m going to see this month.” I got my little speech on why it’s
dumb to smoke, I paid my co-pay, and left the office with only slight annoyance
that my “doctor’s note” wouldn’t be available until the following week when the
office manager returned from vacation. Even with the week’s delay, I was
still on track to hit my target date.
Two days after my original appointment, the doctor’s office
called- they wanted to re-do a chest x-ray. I took care of that same day,
and thought no more about it.
Two days later they called again, and wanted me to go for a
cardiogram, as they wanted more views of something they saw on the x-ray.
Gulp.
After a search on the internet to find out just what a
cardiogram was, I’d read enough to scare the shit out of myself.
I went to some heart diagnostic center for this thing one
morning the following week, and repeatedly told myself that this was just a
formality. I was easily 30 years younger than any of the other
patients, which still wasn’t all that comforting.
Two days after that, I picked up the phone on the first
ring when the doctor’s office called again. Though the results from the
cardiogram were normal, they now wanted to do a rest-echo test. Double
gulp.
Back to the internet for more research, and I believe I
changed my pants, too.
At this point, I figured I’d better tell my parents.
That conversation wasn’t all that pleasant or calm; I was a bit hacked
about forking over hundreds of dollars on tests without really knowing what was
happening.
Late October, I enter the doctor’s for the rest-echo
test. First question from me is, “When can I get my clearance
letter? I need it to apply for my visa. Second question from me,
which came 5 minutes after some girl smeared jelly all over my chest, did a
sonogram, then told me I’d be called in about a week with the results was, “Why
the fuck is this taking so long? It’s a sonogram…the results are right
there!”
I suddenly realized that my December target departure
wasn’t going to happen. I hadn’t even applied for my visa yet, and my
boss didn’t want my resignation until after the visa was approved. I was
now faced with a January/February time frame. On top of that, I
apparently had some medical situation, which wasn’t easy to tolerate, since I’d
had no symptoms, ailments or anything. As far as I was concerned, I
couldn’t have been healthier, despite the fact that my alcohol and cigarette
consumption was increasing at an alarming pace.
I’ll press the pause button briefly on this medical
bit. Up to this point in late October, I’d been spreading the word among
some friends that I was headed for Spain. “I’m trying to get
through this process – I’m just waiting on the medical clearance,” I said, “then
I can get the visa, then quit work, then get out of here.”
Now, with the exception of three people, I had heard
nothing but positive feedback from friends and family. “It’s about time,
B-Low. Congrats, we’ll miss you.” I don’t mean to make light of
this; telling friends that you’re about to be really far away gets very
emotional very quickly. (Furthermore, I was finding myself in that
position of “holy shit, once again all these people think I’m leaving, but
instead I may be dying from some heart problem.)
I was particularly concerned, though, about the reaction of
one person to my announcement about Spain. Though our friendship
has been unusual during the past two years, it is extremely special to
me. I was most alarmed at her reaction; she seemed to be most upset and
surprised that I was leaving. However,
we did take some time to talk about it and at the time, I thought we were on
the same page; all signs indicated as such. Sure, it was going to be
tough to leave her, but I hadn’t left yet.
We hung out a few more times over the next week or so, and then came a
bit of a surprise.
I’ll spare you the details, but in short, I managed to get
my heart broken.
Right. Back to the test results. On a Friday early
in November, mere days after I got zinged by this girl, I sat in the doctor’s
office, and was told, “Bryan,
you’ve got ----. It’s very serious, but can be treated with medication,
and possibly surgery, but you should have a relatively normal life.”
All in all, this came as bittersweet news. The doctor
did agree to sign a clearance letter for me, but he’d basically told me that I
was fucked. For life. I’m one of those punks that didn’t really
want to be told that now, even though I’d had this condition since birth, I’d have
to be on meds the rest of my life, and possibly have to alter my
lifestyle. I’d also have to visit my local cardiologist once or twice a
year forever.
I left the office in a stupor (after paying another
co-pay). I’ve had a problem since birth, and now that I know it, I have
to change my life? I’ve got to go to Walgreen’s for a prescription?
I don’t have any symptoms (except for the pants shitting mind fuck I’d been
going through every moment while I smoked 3 packs a day for the past
month).
And I STILL didn’t have my clearance letter; it would be
available the following Monday.
As low points go, I found a new depth for myself. In
less than 5 days, my heart had been absolutely annihilated, both physically and
emotionally. Not too cool. Spain seemed so very fucking far
away. Simply making sense out of ANYTHING seemed next to
impossible. I spent the weekend hiding, desperately trying to convince
myself that this was simply another test I could pass.
As I wallowed in pity, my sister wisely turned wonder twin
and got moving. She located a cardiologist in her town that I’d be able
to visit regularly in Spain.
She also had some kind words of support for the other bit. She gets super
points for that…as I was still back on the, “damn, everything sucks” campaign.
I managed to rally by the end of the weekend. See,
I’m fortunate to be a wonder twin, too, and I learned from one of the
best. A few hours of Yaz, some Bouncing Souls, oh, and about 30 beers…and
I got myself sorted out just enough to NOT tank the whole objective. For
those of you who have always been curious, the tattoo is for Keeping the
Faith. Sometimes you need the reminder right there on your
shoulder.
In fairness to the doctor’s office, they were honest,
though not particularly considerate. The manager gave me my letter the
following Monday, along with some kind supportive words, a proper scolding
about smoking, and a big hug. She also called another cardiologist’s
office to get me an immediate appointment for a 2nd consultation.
Though still heavy of heart (literally too, it seems), I
raced off to Houston
the next day to apply for my visa. I was now a month behind schedule, and
there was no way I would have a visa in hand by December 15th.
Now, I’d go over for vacation, return in January, then back to Spain
with visa in February.
The experience at the consulate was great. A very
nice woman took care of my paperwork, and assured me that in 4-5 weeks, I’d
have my visa.
Countless personal vacation hours had been used up to this
point, but I was now back on track. I was starting down a new path, with
new opportunities…with the aid of prescription medication and a semi-annual
visit to a heart guy.
But on the bright side, I’d be in Spain within 30 days for Christmas
break.
Fade to November 21st – my follow up consult
with the cardiologist. I took yet another afternoon off to make the
appointment.
Yet another slick office, yet another moment where I
noticed that I was 30 years younger than anyone else in the waiting room…
Once back in the examination room, I borrowed a phrase I’d
learned from sister and brother in law when asked why I was there. “Ni
puta idea.”
A few minutes later, the doctor came in, then mentioned he
wanted to review my rest-echo video. Before he saw it, though, he gave me
a quick overview of what to expect for the rest of my life as someone with this
condition.
I waited patiently as the doctor viewed the video next
door. I wasn’t happy, but I’d figured out that objective primero was to
beat this crap: what’s some major heart problem got to do with standing
in the way of my future, eh? Keep the faith.
The doctor walks in 20 minutes later, kind of
chuckling. “You don’t have this condition,” he said. “You have a
perfectly normal heart for someone who works out a lot. We actually call
it ‘athlete’s heart’. It happens to resemble that of a heart with said
condition. You’re fine. See you later.”
Hmmm.
Excuse the pun, as my heart truly goes out to those that
truly have this disease I thought I had. They’re still fucked. For
me, though, I was still fucked, but at least my heart worked right…particularly
well, in fact, because I go to the gym so often. I still needed to listen
to Yaz, but oh my gosh, I’d discovered a new lease of life.
So yes, I had a happy Thanksgiving, thanks very much.
Better yet – on with the plan, under my terms (though with the sad absence of my
friend).
For the next two weeks, I got ready for vacation, taking
some comfort in the fact that I’d have time to enjoy a vacation and then return
to the states and say proper good byes. I wouldn’t have to try and cram
that all in to a few days.
Boom fade to Wednesday, December 14th. I
spent a few hours closing out my time in Dallas
by having a few personal pints. Chris slid in for a couple of late beers,
so we did have a bit of Goliad cheer.
Pablo and I made good use of a napkin the evening before
(same venue of course), listing things I’d need to be aware of while in
Spain…things like blog sites, software apps, how to work an ipod, etc.
Quite the time, dear Pablo…thanks again.
Friday morning, the 16th, I arrived at Gatwick,
then transferred across town to Heathrow, where I’d pick up my connection to Valencia
later that day. Fairly non-eventful, but a bit tedious.
A beaming sister greeted me around 9 that night in Valencia,
and we trekked back to her house. Fran proudly showed me the new addition
to their house: the room on the terrace where I’d be staying. How
glad I was to be back in Spain.
I opened my eyes Saturday morning to sun shining through
the drapes and a little boy quietly standing next to the bed. “Hello
Uncle B, “ the little one said as I gave him a big hug. I must say, it
was a brilliant way to start my time in Spain.
I was expecting the next three weeks to be a practice round
for me. In one sense, I expected it to be rather relaxing, since I really
had no need to cram too much into 20 days. After all, I’d be back very
soon into the new year. I needed a break from the emotional shit I’d
endured for the previous six weeks, and being far away would help.
On the other hand, I was eager to hit the ground
running. There’s a lot of uncertainty ahead of me, and I was interested
in laying some ground work to enable a quick start in February. I wanted
to assess my Spanish, so I could get past the panic stricken moments.
I jumped right into the language barrier; we had a family
lunch at Fran’s mom’s house. This always serves to be an intimidating
experience for me – the family is great, but everyone talks fast, and Daniel
and his cousins Aina and Carles are all playing with enthusiasm.
I rough housed a little with Carles and Daniel, and I’ve
got to say that it’s difficult to follow a conversation in a foreign language
when a six year old is winging pillows at my head at the same moment that
Daniel is launching himself on top of me from the arm of the sofa. But,
I’m never too concerned with what others are thinking, so I wasn’t bashful; I
even allowed myself to be tied up with newspaper handcuffs.
Later that evening, we stopped by a shop to buy some shoes
for Daniel, and I met my first students. I felt very confident to know
that I’d been in Spain
less than 24 hours, and already had a few hours a week booked.
Sunday was a shopping day for us. Christmas was a
week away, and Lynne was working all the next week. We hit the mall, and
I found a photo display documenting the changes to the area over the past
fifteen years. This mall is adjacent to an extensive science/arts complex
designed by Calatrava. It was great to see the progress from the early
90s, particularly since I’ve been coming over for so many years.
In some sense, I was just along for the ride on this
shopping trip, since I didn’t really have any specific things I needed to
get. So, I kind of hung back and let Lynne and Fran do their
thing…selecting clothes for the cousins, checking prices on audio equipment,
etc. El Saler is pretty much a shopping mall (as intimately known in the
states) that has a supermarket on site. We finished our outing by getting
all the necessary staples (beer, wine, baking stuff, food) for the next couple
of weeks.
Now, I blame myself for my poor choice of carts. I
selected one with a faulty wheel. At the time, I didn’t think it would be
a problem. After all, I’ve worked at Albertson’s, and I’m really good at
muscling carts with broken wheels around. (Many of the carts at my store
had broken wheels on them because Whit and I continuously surfed them on the
way back inside from the parking lot).
After 30 minutes, we’ve got too much in the buggy, and I’m
in trouble. I’m already loaded down with umpteen bottles of wine, 30
liters of water and milk, and we keep piling stuff in. Daniel is asleep
in another cart, and I’m jealous. I struggle on, through, and feel
momentary relief at the checkout counter.
A couple hundred euros later, and I’m trying to muscle the
cart out to the car park, and almost tipped the fucker over…the bad wheel was
really posing a problem. Sweating profusely, I dragged the cart on out to
the car, and even I could understand the Spanish words for, “Look at the idiot
pushing a broken buggy.”
We made it home, eventually, and there was a bit of time to
read Richard Scarry’s Best Word Book Ever with Daniel. He’s a big fan of
the page about airplanes and the airport.
Monday was a workday for Lynne, but not for me. I
woke up at noon, slightly
embarrassed about the hour, but hey, I’m on vacation. I’d picked up Nick
Hornby’s Fever Pitch in Heathrow, and managed to finish the book by that
evening. I feel a remarkable connection with Hornby, not only through
literary style, but also his humor and his appreciation for Arsenal.
Later that night, we all watched The Incredibles, including
Daniel. I’m amazed at how riveted he is – he intensely watches the movie,
moving only twice. Once to remark, “He’s really fast, “when a character
runs through the woods, and a second to say, “That’s totally wicked!” repeating
some of the dialog from the end of the film.
Tuesday, Daniel stayed home sick and didn’t go to
school. It was rainy, and I was thinking I might be getting a cold,
also. I did talk briefly to my sponsor, and we made plans to meet up on
the 2nd or 3rd of January.
Wednesday, I had another quiet morning, then met up with
Lynne to have lunch with some of her friends. Yet another opportunity to
converse in Spanish, but I choked. I’m sloppily searching for excuses,
but I wasn’t feeling so hot.
Furthermore, I was slightly distracted as Daniel, who had his eye on a
polo (ice cream bar), went up to a perfect stranger and asked the man to buy
him one. In the end, one of our group
took care of the Popsicle, which came with a little toy helicopter. In between blowing my nose and watching where
the helicopter was going to fly (so I could duck), I didn’t feel all that
chatty.
In fact, I was feeling close to lousy, and had already told
my sister that I’d probably need to stay in bed that evening. However, Rafa calls up at 5pm…he’s got tickets to the VCF match that
night. It took me two seconds to change
my mind and agree to go. There’d be
plenty of time to be sick after I’d supported the club.
I metroed in and met Rafa around 8, and we hustled off to
Mestalla. We had a good opportunity to
catch up with each other during a relatively slow game. During the second half, however, VCF turned
it on and we saw three great goals – goals that make you say, “Dang, those were
great.” It was totally worth it, even
knowing that I’d have a really bad cold after sitting outside on such a chilly
night.
Sure enough, my cold was in full force Thursday morning; I
needed a Kleenex every 30 seconds.
Daniel was home sick from school again, and he wasn’t much better. So, he and I played ramps and cards, and
every few minutes, one of us would say, “mocos” and grab a tissue.
I also managed to finish a book about a serial killer in Minneapolis; I have no
desire to visit that city again very soon.
Good book, though.
Friday, the 23rd I woke up feeling much better,
as was Daniel. We did some last shopping
in Valencia
that afternoon before returning home to launch a full scale onslaught on
Christmas cookie baking.
Part of baking cookies is finding ways to help the little
one “help” without having him hinder progress.
Sometimes it’s just not safe for a 3 ½ year old to be left holding an
electric blender when both the stove and the oven are on. In effort to allow Lynne some powerbaking
time, Daniel and I read “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” on the sofa. It’s been a tradition for he and I, and we
read along to the groovy sounds of the Old 97s, Beatles, Gomez, and the Foo
Fighters. You just can’t beat the XMAS
2000 mix. Thanks again, Pablo.
Christmas Eve, and time to put the star up from the Advent
Calendar. Each morning during December,
Daniel would count up to the appropriate day and then put the ornament up. He counted in Valenciano with Fran, and
English with Lynne or me
.
We still had a lot of baking to do, so I made truffas while
Lynne whipped up a bunt cake and some toll house, haystacks, and some butter
cookies (to be decorated later). Again,
helper Daniel wanted to participate actively, and while he certainly
contributed, he and I did take some time to build another Lego town so Lynne
could continue zipping along in the kitchen.
I’ll take a moment here and talk about playtime and my
nephew. True, he speaks three languages,
frequently using all three in the same sentence. He mostly spoke Spanish to me (to everyone,
for that matter), but he definitely has some key English phrases, albeit not
necessarily using the proper prepositions just yet. “Let’s play in trains!” or “Let’s play in
blocks! Let’s do that!”
I continue to be in awe as Daniel carefully concentrates
when he builds anything. There’s a real
pleasure that comes from building towers or houses or whatever we want. It’s very important that we use ALL of the
blocks. At the completion, we sit back
and smile with content. (OK, we also
both tended to clap our hands and say, “Hey that’s really neat” also). Then, we knock the blocks over, and do it
again. For hours.
Eventually, the fun comes more from destructing instead of
building. It also becomes more silly as
we knock each other’s blocks over. Thank
God that neither Fran nor Lynne videotaped any of this, especially since the
constant interruption of mocos (thus needing a tissue) is not something I’m
keen to see after the fact.
On the evening of the 24th, Fran locked himself
in the kitchen and prepared and impressive four course meal for the three of us
and Concha. I appointed myself assistant
wine drinker, and we enjoyed a very wonderful dinner that helped get me in the
spirit of the season.
Now, this story isn’t supposed to be a cultural monolog,
but over the course of my visits, I always seem to encounter something that
I’ve never experienced before. This trip
was no different: for the first time in
my life I saw a nutmeg. In my
upbringing, I’d only seen ground nutmeg; I’ve always just assumed that’s the
only way it comes. So now I know. It’s a nut.
On a slightly different note, during this same evening I
discovered that my nephew wears a brand of underwear called ASSMAN. Seinfeld episodes aside, this struck me as a
bit unusual, but I also made a mental note to pick some up for myself. I’m always looking for another reason to
laugh hysterically at myself while I’m putting underwear on…
Christmas morning.
Whoops, someone made the mistake of reminding the little one what day it
was. Thus, we all got to get up quite a
bit earlier, as Daniel was ready to see what Papa Noel brought him. I’m glad I pulled myself out of bed, because
it was quite nice to see Daniel appreciate his Rodney Copperbottom (the frantic
trip to ToysRUs did pay off). The Spiderman
bath towel was a big hit, too. Probably
a good idea (for Daniel’s sake, at least) that no-one managed to get the camera
out when he streaked around the house in it right after his bath.
We headed off to Lola’s for Christmas dinner around 2 – yet
another opportunity for me to butcher the Spanish language in front of 30 odd
people. Actually, with the exception of
an embarrassing moment when I dramatically explained to Pilar in Spanish all my
reasons that I felt in no position to be a parent, I managed ok. The embarrassment on my part came when I
found out that the question Pilar had asked me was something totally unrelated,
like “So when are you going to be in Spain for good?” The conversations I had about possible
apartments for me to rent, smoking laws in Spain, and soccer were all fine. Quite the nice afternoon.
Our baking efforts were not in vain – Christmas cookies
were enjoyed by all.
I’ll take another brief moment and mention the car
rides. Most of the time, Fran drives,
I’m shotgun, and Lynne and D are in the backseat. Frequently, Daniel would crash out during any
ride 20 minutes or longer. City driving,
though, and he was awake and alert for the duration. “Red car.
Yellow car. Red car,” I’d hear
from right behind my seat. Clearly my
mother has spent some time with her grandson – this is a game that I learned
when I was D’s age.
“Santa’s climbing up! Santa’s climbing up!” came the
exclamation from the back of the car about 5 times during any ride. This was Daniel’s way of observing the
decorations new to Spain
in 2005; countless stuffed Santa’s climbing on a rope were hanging from many
balconies and terraces around the city…and we’re talking hundreds. (If you’re intrigued, you will very likely
see one hanging from my parents’ house next Christmas, my dad happens to be
crazy about his.)
No one had to work the week between Christmas and New
Year’s, and we took a day trip on Boxing Day to a little community close to Valencia
that specializes in leather goods. I’m
actually refusing to feel any guilt for spending a month’s rent on a new jacket
for myself. Of course, I hadn’t bought
Lynne or Fran’s Christmas present yet and I had just quit my job, but, but, uh,
um, um, no, no guilt whatsoever…
Tuesday, Lynne and I spent a little time in city hanging
out, which was cool in its own right. I
was particularly delighted to get home and find an email from Texas saying that my visa was approved and
ready. Finally. This deal is going to happen.
We spent the next several days relaxing – long lunches,
play time, movie rentals. I got just as
emotional watching “Finding Neverland” in Spanish as I did in English (note to
self – you might NOT want to leave that in the story).
Daniel and Lynne got haircuts one day, and on another,
Lynne, Maribell and I visited a gym. The
two of them hit the spa, and I tried to remember what to do in the weight room.
We went to another dinner party, where I finally found my
stride in Spanish conversation. Paloma
is always cool, and her party was a great time.
I held my own conversing with several folks, and even managed to rip on
a guy who liked to joke a lot.
I continued my newfound confidence during the New Year’s
celebrations with Juan, Teresa, Jaime and Vivi.
Vivi and I talked about politics while we smoked on the terrace; I’m not
really able to discuss politics at the best of times, even in English, so this
was a cool challenge. As I continued to
consume wine, I continued to converse in Spanish, though my comprehension
capabilities diminished…but it was a nice celebration (nothing overly crazy)…and
good call on putting those lights on the terrace, Fran. Nice touch.
New Years Day was low key.
We did have a family lunch at Concha’s, and I had another opportunity to
get beaten up by my little buddies Carles and Daniel. At one point, Concha made a comment to Lynne
about the wear and tear I was taking while we rough housed, and I completely
mistranslated. I heard Concha refer to
me as Big Bird (I can’t remember his Spanish name from Barrio Sesame at this
exact moment), when she was actually mentioning to Lynne that I was being
beaten up like baby food. Again, because
I was dodging pillows and diving little ones, I didn’t feel too bad for not
completely comprehending.
Lynne returned to work on January 2nd, and Fran
left me to do some errands. Daniel and I
spent the morning hanging out. This was
pretty much my first experience as an unattended babysitter, so it was only
fitting that within 2 hours, I’d already had to change Daniels outfits
twice. I maintained my composure as I
tried to reason with my nephew, “Now, you’re going to tell me if you’ve got to
go to the bathroom again, RIGHT?”
But, we had a nice few hours playing blocks (por supuesto),
playing catch with a balloon in the hallway, flying the toy helicopter (from
the ice cream polo the previous week – how cool is it that some of the most
entertaining toys come from such simple sources). Later, we listened to a James album while
doing a jigsaw puzzle.
“You know, Uncle B,” Daniel remarked in the hallway as we
kicked a little ball back and forth, “You’re my big uncle, and you’re my
friend.”
Crys.
It was unfortunate that I didn’t feel so well on the 3rd,
because I was supposed to go visit Alan, the guy who I’d be working for at the
school. I never really left the bed, and
barely managed to call him that night and tell him that I’d see him in a few
weeks.
I was glad to be feeling better on the 4th, as I
was not too thrilled with the thought of being ill while flying to London and then Dallas. After quick goodbyes (see you in a few weeks)
with Lynne and Daniel, Sondra took me to the airport.
I sat next to a Chelsea fan
on the Valencia –London leg, but we had a civil conversation about the
league, FA Cup, and Spain.
Immediately upon arriving at Gatwick, I checked into my
hotel, lay on the bed, and read an entire John Grisham novel. (How come I never can remember them right
after I read them?) I continued to feel
better, so ordered room service, and then watched a soccer match on Sky
sports. Later, I couldn’t get to sleep
(since I’d slept most of the day before), but was pretty psyched to find that
Flashdance was on TV.
The next morning, I had a couple of coffees at Gatwick
before getting on the plane for my final leg of the trip. I watched a few unremarkable movies on my
video screen, but was more entertained by a little altercation between a large
German (I think) man sitting directly in front of me and a slender American guy
sitting directly in front of him. The
American was trying to lean his seat back, and in doing so, managed to knock
the German’s food tray into his lap.
This didn’t please the German, who sort of jumped up and growled. A couple of flight attendants popped by, then
hurried off to get one of the more sizeable members of their crew, who came and
invited both guys off for a private word.
Ultimately, this wasn’t a really big deal, but when faced with a 10 hour
plane ride, anything helps to pass the boredom.
Mom and Dad were there to greet me when I came out of
customs. We headed to Uncle Julio’s for
a little snack, and I managed to suck down three swirls. I kind of floated back to Goliad, said hello
to Lori, Bennett, and Regan, started my car (which had been hinting that it’s
battery might die), then headed to the old monk for a little down time. A few pints later, and I was ready for
bed. After all, it was Thursday evening,
and I started back to work the next morning.
With jetlag in full force, I woke up ultra early Friday and
headed to the gym (again the car started with just a bit of reluctance). Feeling a bit refreshed, I had a coffee and a
smoke, then got in my car to drive to work.
I wasn’t particularly pleased to find that the battery was
now dead, but hastily went to the big house for help. Chris used the Durango to jump me, and I drove immediately
to Park Cities Volkswagen, where I found one of my old service guys I’d dealt
with in past years..
A couple of hours (and a couple hundred dollars) later, I
jumped on a conference call while I finished the commute to work. I’d purposely scheduled myself back on a
Friday so I would only have to work 8 hours before taking a weekend. I’d already told my boss that I’d be
targeting the last of January for a stop date, and I was hoping to discuss what
we’d have to do over the next few weeks.
Things were a bit complicated, because I had yet to
formally resign from work. My boss was
totally in the know, but he didn’t want my letter until I had a visa. The next step after resignation would be to
announce my departure to my customer, and then the rest of my company. I was really ready to let everyone know;
holding on to a secret can be a bit burdensome.
Unfortunately, my boss and I didn’t get to have that
discussion on Friday, so I worked through my frustration by going to the old
monk for a few beers, then later to play a soccer match. (I could blame my poor performance on jetlag
instead of alcohol).
Between daily trips to the monk and sleep, I got back into
the work mode, though in shortimer mode.
My boss announced my exit early the next week, and then I was able to
talk about my plans with other coworkers.
What happens next?
I’ve been in the monk a lot lately, chatting with old
friends, chatting with new friends, getting ready for the adventure.
It’s now February 6th, and I leave Friday.
Con permiso, I’ll quietly head across the ocean. Thanks to everyone who has come out over the
past month…it meant a lot to have the personal time. Thanks especially to Whit, Spence, and Nate –
those calls were much needed.
As this act comes to a close, I just can’t stop smiling. Thanks for that. Have an extra ciggy during intermission, and
refill your drinks. It’s about to get
nutty.
See you out there – see you over there – keep the faith
cheers
bryan
