Hello All!
I suppose I shouldn’t start every post with an apology for being late to get it done, but this
one really is behind schedule, and I am suitably chastened I assure you. I was going to blame it all on the Summer
Olympics, but as we haven’t been able to watch them that would be too disingenuous. Although it does prompt me to ask if anyone
remembers the 1984 film “Blame it on Rio”, starring Michael Caine and Demi Moore? It was described by reviewer Vincent
Canby as “…one of those unfortunate
projects that somehow suggests that everyone connected with the movie hated it
and all of the other people involved."
It has been a hectic couple of weeks since my last update as
several events collided with the ferocious heat of Andalusian summer and a
persistent Levante wind to make life
seem a chaotic whirl of chores, paperwork and near-heat prostration. It’s been interesting for all that though, so
let me share a few brief stories and perhaps some pictures.
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| Not Isabel, but quite like her. |
It all started a couple of weeks ago when a delightful
little sky blue 125cc Vespa Primavera scooter became mine. She had been owned by a supply officer aboard
one of the US destroyers stationed here (there are three), who was returning to
the states and couldn’t bring her back.
Isabel (the scooter, not the officer) had a mere 800 km on the
odometer, and is as appealing a wee thing as you can imagine. Scooter commuting – they are called “mopeds”
by the Americans here, inexplicably – is very common. For the Spanish, I reckon it’s because the
costs of gas, insurance and maintenance are pretty low in a country where those
things can be pricey relative to the average income, and because the ability to
pull your ride up onto the sidewalk makes chaotic and crowded urban parking
almost a non-issue. There’s always room
for another moto. For Americans, I think they are popular for many
of the same reasons and because the driving age in Spain is 18 - meaning that all
the kids here who would be starting Driver’s Ed back home and driving
themselves to High School are stuck without wheels. As long as a scooter is 50cc or less though,
no license is needed and thus crowds of American – and Spanish – kids can be
found whizzing back and forth on 50cc 2-stroke Vespas, Peugots, Kymcos and
Yamahas, sounding somewhat like a crowd of angry lawn mowers urgently en route
somewhere. As I was a happy scooter
rider back in San Diego where my Celeste Blue 150cc LX is stored awaiting our
return, it’s been pleasant in a way to spend time in the land where the Scooter
is King. Or at least Prince.
But, no matter how happy I am to be once more perched atop 2
wheeled transport, the administrative details must be seen to. Without going into excruciating detail, let
me just observe that whatever the undoubted virtues of the Spanish bureaucratic
apparatus may be, speediness is not among them.
Thus, two and a half months after applying for my Spanish driving
license, it still has not come. Not a
problem yet, as my International License is good for a few more months. The registration of the scooter, applied for
a month ago, has yet to appear. I have
been on multiple trips to the folks in charge of each of these critical pieces
of paper, who are serenely untroubled by the slow pace of progress and are
quite content that the dog-eared and badly photocopied temporary license and
registration papers should suffice me.
They are good natured, resigned and encouraging in the way one might
encourage a child to be patient and wait until Christmas…
In any event, most days now I can be found somewhere in the
cloud of scooter commuters, where Isabel’s somewhat throatier 125cc 4-stroke
note adds a bit of elegance to the buzzing of the smaller bikes. Just don’t ask me for a license…
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| Casa sweet casa |
Well, all of this which might have extended into a nostalgic
exploration of the history of the scooter (Piaggio factory, post WWII Italy),
or a reflection on the Byzantine administrative structure created by smooshing the
US Navy and Spanish bureaucracy together (and isn’t sad that this is what the
Byzantines get remembered for?), was almost immediately superseded by …THE MOVE. The last week of July saw us packing up our
small batch of possessions and moving them from our temporary on-base house into
our house in El Puerto de Santa Maria. We
are about 10 or 15 minutes east of the base, in the urbanización of Vista Hermosa, in a smaller two story place with a
big, walled front yard and a medium sized swimming pool. That last detail becomes important later. We have lemon, orangeWe’re not too far from shops, cafes and an
ice cream store, and far enough away from the beach that even the summer crowds
don’t really affect parking. It’s a nice
place, with a couple of teensy weensy little issues.
The kitchen is an obvious afterthought, with a smallish 3
burner electric cook top and something that could best be described as a really
big toaster oven jammed onto the countertop nearby substituting for a real oven. The sink is…odd, with one smallish actual
sink and a flat, shallow oval pan with a drain next to it whose purpose we
cannot guess. This would all be easier
to manage if it wasn’t also jealously claimed by little tiny ants who evidently
feel that sharing our food is their due for the privilege of their
company. As far as I can tell these are pharaoh
ants – polygynous, unicolonial wee pests that are a successful invasive species
everywhere in the world save Antarctica.
I hate to be accused of illiberality, but I cannot share the ants’ view
of our proper relationship and I foresee turmoil ahead.
Another issue is utilities.
While we were on base we could blithely crank up the central A/C to “Ice
Age”, with no more worries than the obvious ecological ones. Out in town we are paying for our
electricity, which is reportedly quite expensive. Many of the rooms have individual units, but
we are loath to power them up and face ruination come the end of the
month. A lot of our personal comfort
therefore is now associated with the pool in the backyard. Temperatures have been solidly in the mid-90’s
for the past month, only varying between still, humid 90’s and windy, dry 90’s. We’ve been trying to live like our Spanish
neighbors, using shade, fans and strategic opening and closing of windows and
shutters to try to stay cool. The
evenings – after about 10 pm – are pretty nice, and one comes to understand the
Spanish inclination to wait until then to contemplate dinner and
entertainment. I wish we could accommodate
our schedule to theirs, but it seems unlikely I could convince everyone else at
the hospital that we really should be starting later in the morning and staying
up at night with our Spanish hosts. So…we
sit in the coolest room in the house and eye the A/C controller
speculatively. And spend as much time as
possible in the pool.
On Monday we moved into the new place, and on that day - as
we were signing the lease documents and finalizing the inventory of furniture
that is part of the house - the folks from the Housing Office here were moving
our temporary loaner furniture into the various rooms. This consists of beds, dressers, chairs,
tables, sofa and lamps to make the place livable until one's household goods
shipment arrives. Last we had heard, our
earthly possessions were shipboard, having left Alabama en route to
Algeciras. We had three interesting days
of settling into the new place.
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| Boxes, boxes, boxes |
On Thursday morning I got a call from the moving company
saying that our 12 crates of stuff was here on a truck and that they would be
really, really happy if they could deliver it Friday morning. So the rest of Thursday was spent scrambling
around trying to arrange pickup of the loaner furniture, and at first light
Friday morning our puzzled Spanish neighbors were treated to the sight of one truck
packing up furniture and taking it away, while another one unpacked furniture
and trundled it in. Americanos locos, indeed.
Anyway, the rest of the weekend was occupied in unloading the boxes,
peering into the folds of the wrapping paper, and shaking our heads at the
packing methods of the movers who had packed us out of San Diego. To say that for the most part a troop of
gibbons could have done a better job is perhaps unfair to the gibbons. They - the gibbons - seem like amiable
primates, lacking the evident devious malignity of the outbound packers. By the end of Sunday, we had crammed as much
of everything into everywhere as seemed possible and spent the next week trying
to figure out which of our possessions ended up where, and where they should
actually go. We are, at least, no longer
walking sideways to squeeze between the mountains of empty cardboard shipping
boxes and paper. Our Spanish movers were
true to their promise that they would come back to reclaim eventually the
cardboard and paper, blessings be upon them. Ah, the joys of moving. Nothing really brings home the essential
folly of acquiring material possessions like seeing all of yours laid out
before you....
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| Box madness. It's a real thing. |
But all of this is not to say that we haven’t taken any time
to explore! The week prior to all of
these goings on we piled into the Golf and headed to Southeast, toward the Sierra de Grazelema. This is a mountainous region in the heart of Cdiz, home to the Parque Natural Sierra de Grazalema, several moderate mountain ranges, and many of the "Pueblos Blancos", which are famously picturesque towns perched atop and between the crags and valleys of this region. I'll have more to say about them in future postings I hope. This trip was by way of a preliminary exploration of an area we hope to return often for hiking and sightseeing. I saw Griffon Vultures several times on the drive up, and the area is rich with other wildlife including short-toed eagles, and a few pairs of increasing rare Egyptian vultures to name a couple. On this trip we stopped at the small town of El Bosque to pick up trail maps at the tourist office, and then headed to Ubrique. Besides its almost impossibly lovely setting at the foot of the Sierra de Ubrique, the village is famous for its leatherwork. It's currently a site of manufacture for several prestigious fashion brands, and a place where there are plenty of gorgeous leather goods for very reasonable prices. We left with a cleverly designed purse for my wife, and plenty of ideas about future shopping excursions for all of us. There are also extensive Roman ruins close by - so returning often seems likely for this history/nature/travel enthusiastic family. Stay tuned!
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| Ubrique and the Sierra de Ubrique |
Less distant but interesting in its own way was a mid-week visit to Rota's own Jardin Botanico. This is a modest but well-maintained botanic garden nestled among the pine trees that line the western beaches of the town of Rota. The exhibits were nice, although I would like to have seen more time and space devoted to Mediterranean natives, but the true highlight was the sighting of 3 chameleons. These were Chamaeleo chamaeleon, members of the only native European chameleon species (the African Chameleon is found in the Peloponnese, but is thought to have been introduced). We saw what our guide assured us were two smaller males and a large female making their deliberate way through the branches above us. How cool!
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| I wish we had seen one this clearly... |
We've been otherwise occupied with just the business of settling into life in "real Spain" as we started calling the world outside the fence line of the base. The great thing about life overseas is that, plebeian though the tasks be, negotiating them in a new place, in an unfamiliar is a new adventure every day. I look forward to sharing the adventure with you all, gentle readers, and shall hope to be a bit more prompt with my next. We've got a big trip to the province of Aragon coming up, so my next may be from the foot of the Spanish Pyrenees. Hasta luego!
