Wednesday, August 15, 2018

Copperbottoms and Assman - It Could Have Been the First Post

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

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