The Sot-Weed factor looks at houses in Andalusia

“The man (in short) thanks both to Burlingame and to his natural proclivities, was dizzy with the beauty of the possible; dazzled, he threw up his hands at choice, and like ungainly flotsam rode half-content the tide of chance.”

The Sot-weed Factor, John Barth

Well, here it is my second Sunday in Spain.  The morning air is filled with the cooing of what I had been mentally terming “mega-pigeons”, but I now believe to be Wood Pigeons (Columba palumbus).  Their call is a euphonious blend of a typical urban pigeon’s coo, and the more complex and plaintive song of a mourning dove. The rain of yesterday has mostly moved off to the east, and the sky is busy with puffy white and gray clouds bumbling along in pursuit.  The sun is quite warm when it finds a space to shine, but the intermittent shade makes for a very pleasant temperature. Indeed, so far the days have been remarkably pleasant, with any tendency to excess heat being moderated by a fairly reliable ocean breeze.  July and August loom in the imagination however, like tedious dinner guests invited long ago in a fit of generosity whose imminent visit is now quietly dreaded.  The locals just shake their heads when asked about the summer temperatures.  The Spanish seem to rely on the breeze, shade and strategic planning of the day’s activities.  The Americans prefer air conditioning.

Now, as you may imagine, there is much to do upon transferring to a new duty station in a different country.  Indeed, the collision between U.S. Military administrative requirements, Hospital programmatic imperatives and Spanish bureaucratic necessities engenders a complex and sometimes frantic paper chase among the far-flung, and oft-closed offices of the entities concerned with each point of statutory correctitude.  The Byzantines - gone from this region since 624 - must surely feel their legacy is preserved and indeed improved upon.  But all that has proceeded apace and without any undue drama.  

I do still have a week of mandatory International Cultural Relations training, 3 days of hospital orientation, and a week or so of Focused Provider Practice Evaluation to complete before I shall be held to be an actual useful member of NH Rota’s staff.  There was a time that the apparent presumption that I might well have forgotten every military duty that I have learned in 28 years along with such competency as I possessed at all the other Navy Hospitals and Navy Medical Centers where I have labored -  attested to by voluminous databases whose purpose would seem to be avoiding this very inefficiency - there was a time, I say, that this would have irked and disquieted me.  Now? I am unruffled.   One learns to use the time spent waiting, as the forms which must be filled out in perpetuam are completed yet again, in serene contemplation of the transience of all things…or one goes mad.  As far as I know, I am not mad.

In truth, all the desiderata of the world of bureaucracy are easy to accept.  There is no choice to  make, so submission is the blessedly rational response.  Would that this were true of choosing a house.  As the quote from John Barth’s wonderful novel above - describing his protagonist, the feckless Ebenezer Cooke - seeks to hint, I too am constitutionally predisposed to see the “beauty of the possible”, and can find the apparent merits of almost any choice offered.  I like to think that this reflects my essentially optimistic nature, but someone not charitably inclined toward me might opine that this trait instead reflects an unwarrantedly romantic view of my own ability to deal with challenge and adversity, and an utter incompetence at projecting my likely future state given a potential starting point.  This combination of qualities has indeed resulted in some, um, interesting acquisitions over the years.  I pause here while memories of various wildly unsuitable jobs, cars, apartments, boats and articles of clothing here float before my mind’s eye…

So…when I am shown the neat and orderly rows of apple-pie-order cottages that make up the on-base military housing, I think to myself what a fine thing they are.  Handy to everything and constructed to the tastes of A/C loving, big fridge owning, washer/dryer using, cable TV watching, 120 volt and 60 Hz power consuming Americans.  Of course, if you think your HOA is a bit too involved in your domestic affairs, try having the Navy as your landlord.

When squired through the labyrinthine streets of the old town sections of El Puerto de Santa Maria or Rota, the towns to the east and west of the base respectively, I am charmed by the busy urban life on offer in the thoroughfares of the city.  Roads and alleys whose twists and turns reflect their ancient roots as cart paths and pedestrian lanes, and upon whose cobbles it is likely that Columbus trod in his time. Tendias, Carnecerias and Restuarantes bustle with comings and goings, and one feels oneself in the very heart of things.

In a walled garden, tucked into the rural outskirts of Rota I listen to the neighbor’s hens clucking and chirruping amiably, and contemplate the hand built rough beam ceilings and reflect to myself on the rustic virtue of time spent closer to the earth and the green things that grow therein. 

Led among the pine shaded villas where wealthy Madrileños and Sevillanos keep their summer homes I am enchanted by the sound of the nearby ocean, the cool breezes from the bay, the gardener-tended yards with cascades of red, yellow and purple bougainvilleas draped over thick stone and masonry walls.

This is not to mention cute, cute, cute traditional Sevillian style houses with tiles, and arches, and ornate iron window grilles, being tendered by little old people so perfectly adorable that one suspects them of being planted by a casting agency.

You will say that these are first world problems, and that I should expect no sympathy from anyone, and I will abjectly agree (although I’ll stick my tongue out at you when you’re not looking.)  It does make the life of your humble correspondent a bit uncomfortable at present however - especially as I am to present the accommodations chosen to wife and son on their imminent arrival to Andalusia.  I’m starting to  feel like one of those male bower birds you see on a BBC documentary - scurrying here and there around the rainforest attempting to set up an appealing domestic arrangement so that the very discriminating female of the species can be coaxed into moving in and raising a clutch.  My heart belongs, I fear,  with the Wood pigeon coo-cooing on my roof - what matters where our nest shall be, for I am a fine fellow with a lovely sonorous song.  Sigh.

I shall leave you there, gentle reader, and hope that my next missive will be filled with tales of a new casa.  Right now, I have to go find a car…