DEATH BY CHOCOLATE

While I'm workin' the espadrilles and throwin' down what are sure to look like some heavy duty gang signs, one thing's for sure: no matter how many ways I tie my scarf, I'll never be European. This fact evidenced by the purchase and consumption of one single chocolate bar.

After nearly three weeks of hospital food, I broke down yesterday and high tailed it to the supermercado nearest the hospital under the guise of post c-section rehabilitation. What I was really doing though was hunting for deodorant and chocolate, two such things one cannot live without postpartum. Ten minutes and two euros later I had my fix, one of those really big chocolate bars, not at all like the American jumbo sized candy bar but more like the 'could be a tennis racket' size.

I will admit to being more Snickers than I am Nestle or Hershey but being that there are no Snickers, Whatchamacallits or even Milky Ways on this side of the Atlantic, the Nestle brick would have to suffice. It all started with my roommate, a Euro-waif, who not even a week after giving birth is back to wearing her size zero jeans. I'm not kidding. Size ZERO. Anyway, there she was her scarf draped casually over one shoulder and her chocolate bar resting in her lap, the tin foil folded neatly back like you would a fine linen bed sheet. Carefully, and what appeared to be in slow motion, she snapped off two little pieces along the perforated line in the chocolate bar. Until this moment of watching her fingers break those chocolate pieces away from the mother-load, I had naively assumed that executives in the chocolate industry had designed those perforations specifically to aid in my consumption. They were, in my small world, tracks for my teeth to rest in, leverage for the task at hand. Any notion of opening a chocolate bar but not eating it whole was unfathomable, dare I say sacrilege. Yet there she was, in her chic Euro scarf and size zeros wrapping the remaining 34 million squares back up for Armageddon. That's just about when I decided that a year's worth of Spanish living owed me the same luxury and so I set off for the supermercado.

As fast as my swollen little ankles could carry me, I waddled on down the road, entered the store and made a beeline for the novelties aisle. I'll admit, the deodorant I threw in the basket was just a decoy, and a pretty lame one at that. The cashier, fully capable of calling my bluff, thankfully did not. I'd convinced myself that I too can enjoy chocolate in moderation, one, maybe two squares at a time thus making it last until well into the following week. You know where this is going, don't you. [sigh]

So what happened once back 'home' at the hospital? Yeah, you know what the fuck happened. I snap off my two pieces, wrap the remaining bar neatly back up and put it to bed in the mini fridge for safe keeping. Fingers trembling ever so slightly in anticipation of what's to come, I sit down and pop the first perfect little chunk into my mouth. Heaven. The second piece chases the first, a sweet fountain of milk chocolate all the way down the back of my throat, almost pornographic. This, the European Way, should satisfy me but of course it doesn't. Instead it's like teasing a lion with a chicken wing from KFC. Not ten minutes later and I'm up for another two pieces, wrap it back up, mentally chastise myself for the indulgence and put it back in the mini fridge. Ten more minutes go by, same thing. Two more squares gone. The fourth trip I just say fuck it and eat the whole damned thing.

Sadly, the punishment for my crime is not the absence of the Nestle bar but rather the roommate's Cadbury sitting untouched since the day before between the strawberry and vanilla yogurts on the top shelf of the fridge, his wrapper snug as he hisses disapproval in his haughty French accent because European disapproval always comes with a French accent, “Go on now, Fat American. No more chocolate for you!”

Yes, moderation it appears is proof positive that I'll never be European.

No matter how many different ways I tie my scarf.

MORE WE AND LESS ME

Bob Barker and I have one thing in common. That is, no one is into our games. Well all I can say is that it's a good thing nobody played and won because the winner was going to get a FREE all expenses paid trip to sunny southern Spain. Not really, but it was worth a shot at making you feel guilty for not posting a guess. And since I know you're all curious as to what was missing off that hospital tray from my last post, I'll tell you.

Yes, here in the public hospital apparently giving patients a beverage with their meal is considered 'excessive'. It shocked the hell outta' me surprised me too. When I was admitted for a week earlier during this pregnancy I learned the BYOB rule the hard way. Now wiser, I had Joe bring me half a dozen 2 liter bottles of the bubbly to keep me hydrated.

Basically, the differences between my experiences in American hospitals versus those here in Spain are really more cosmetic than anything else. Granted, water is kind of a big deal in terms of nutrition but I think I can explain it.

You see here, the culture is such that if you have a loved one admitted at least one family member will stay bedside and keep vigil. If you're a gypsy, then you can multiply that by about 5 or 6 family members. No matter what though, your family will be here. There is no denying it and you have no choice in the matter because you are the 'not well' one. In having that family member bedside, you now have an automatic nurse's aid. It's your family member who will help you to the bathroom, help you to shower, help you get up and out of bed, help you change your clothes, and yes, get you that bottle of water when you need it. The nurses here are more focused on administering meds, updating their charts, and seeing that floor rules are being followed. They are not your mother, not your sister, and definitely not your waitress so don't even think about asking.

Additional examples of how the fat is trimmed here include the following:
-PAY-AS-YOU-GO TV CARDS
10 euros buys you 10 hours of tv programming
-SHARED ROOMS
Birthing suite?  Uhm, what's that? When it's time you'll be wheeled
down to the delivery room.  See No Delivery Service below.
-NO OPEN SNACK BAR/BEVERAGE STATIONS
-LIMITED TRANSPORTATION
this floor has 2 or 3 wheelchairs which means you may have to wait an extra 5- 10 minutes to go down for that ultrasound, to see your baby or to go pump
-NO DELIVERY SERVICE
If you want a service, you have to go to its location because they don't come to you.   For example, there's a lactation room with 6 Medela
breast pumps available daily from 8am-midnight. Wanna pump? Fine,
come on down.   But they won't be bringing one to your bedside.

For those who want more pampering there is private insurance which will net you a more country club experience but should complications arise be prepared to be shipped off to the public hospital because that's where all the specialists are. Is it third world? Hardly. But it is different. Once you figure out the game rules, it's really astonishing at how easily it all flows with what some might say is so little. And the best part is that it's available to everyone at the same bargain price: free. There are no copays. There are no more calls to Blue Cross Blue Shield to fight over prescription coverage or to explain why an extra ultrasound is needed. Here the doctor calls the shots not the claims agent.

This isn't to say that Spaniards don't pay for their medical care though. We do considerably more in taxes of which a hefty sum goes to healthcare. So yeah, there is a cost make no mistake. And sadly, I used to be one of those who said no way to the notion of my tax dollars going to pay for somebody else's healthcare. Why should I have to pay to get YOUR (insert health issue) treated? Sorry, not my problem. This coming from the girl who had a sweet insurance package from work but also one that cost me time I'll never get back with my three little ones because with my husband being self employed there was no other choice but to work. Had I not worked we would have never been able to afford coverage for our family being that two of the kids have a preexisting condition. No way. Never. So now, just a year into our new life in Spain I'm singing a different song. Way different. And I like it.

I'm not getting my million dollar birthing center experience like I had with the other three and that's okay. I now see how much pomp and circumstance was rolled into my Stateside hospital stays and to some degree it embarrasses me. Do we really need free soda machines in our maternity wards? A fountain in every atrium?  Is it the best use of the nurse's time to be babysitting a bunch of breast pumps? More importantly, would socialized medicine at this level work in the States? I don't know but I tend to lean towards hell no as opposed to just no or maybe. Why? American medicine, and this is just my opinion so don't get your panties in a bunch, is just too big a beast to tame. Insurance companies and hospital administrators and to some extent, the public have turned it into a profit seeking monster. The next time you flip on your local television station and see an ad for your city's leading medical center you might want to ask yourself this: 
Why do they need to advertise? 

That right there says it all.  Doesn't it?

FAIRy TALEs

Spring has officially sprung.  I know this because the rose bushes that line the pueblo streets are in full bloom.  The walk to school with the kids takes twice as long because trying to take it one step past talking the talk, I have somehow brainwashed my own kids into believing that "Stop to smell the roses," means you must smell every single one of them. 


But we're not all about fragrant flora here in Andalucia.  Even those who have never set foot on the Iberian Peninsula are familiar with the springtime rite that is Feria.  Oh, so you think I'm mistaken.  Not so, my friend.  Not so at all.  Feria means fair.  Fair as in party til the wee hours of twilight, eat your weight in food so good you'd swear it was illegal, and dance until your toes fall off.  And the fair of all fairs happened last week in Seville.  Dating back over 150 years, the week long annual festivities were originally intended as a livestock fair but eventually evolved into what it is today.  Sound familiar, state fairgoers? 
Come on, let's take compare...

RULE #1: QUICK, FRY THE FOOD.  ALL OF IT.

Pesca'ito frito. Translation: Fried Fish.

Long John Silver's has nothin' on this shit.



In Iowa, we fry everything. 
And yes, I do mean EVERYTHING.



What Spaniard doesn't love sardines?  Oooh, they
stink so good!  Removing the heads is apparently
optional.  Charlie prefers his with-something about

the crunch of the eyeballs.

RULE 2:  DRESS TO IMPRESS                 

                                                   





Go on, Girl!  Sink your teeth deep

into that fried stick of butter. Mmm.

Nothin' like a coronary on a stick!



                  



                           


It's all about the accessories.  Every woman will have a giant

flower pinned somewhere on her head.  Fans, bracelets

& matching earrings are also a must.  FYI, cleavage is (not?)

optional.

It's not every day that the fair comes to town.  In Spain, fashion is very important and I might even argue too important.  Take a peek at some of the best dressed from this year (Seville) and last year (Iowa).



La gitana dress is a staple.  Lots

of bright colors.  Lots of ruffles.

And lots of dangerous curves.




Aaaw.  This Iowa couple chose to color coordinate.  It's like

loss prevention for adults.  'Have you seen my husband? 

He's got a purple tee shirt and a drumstick the size of my thigh.'

Even the men aren't afraid to

show a little skin in Iowa. 

Here we get the pleasure of this

man's back cleavage.  Yummy!



RULE #3: BEWARE.  FAIR HAIR.

I'll make this short. Hair is a serious part of fair couture no matter where you are. As the lone short haired blonde (though I now think of myself as brunette in spite of what the rest of the pueblo says), I am The Minority when it comes to fair hair. At least by Spanish standards. Take a look at the do's and take note. 

Meet contestant # 7 from the Iowa State Fair's

mullet contest. Business in the front.  Rock

& Roll in the back.  Sassssssy, isn't he?

The gal on the right has a lot going on.  Rose dead

center accented by Olivia Newton John Headband

style braid punctuated by big ass bun.  This is why

I have short/no hair.  But it's pretty, isn't it?



The Spanish peineta.  It sits proudly tucked into the back

of every Spanish girl's bun.  Some are tall.  Some are short.

Some are sparkly.  Some are plain.  Personally, I think Mr.

Iowa State Fair  (see above photo) would take first prize

with one of these tucked into his mullet, don't you?

So there you have it, the best of both worlds.  Though you missed the April fair in Seville by a week, don't worry, there's always the Iowa State Fair in August.  If you decide to brave it, be sure to represent and tell 'em Pickle sent ya.  Oh yeah, don't forget to say hi to the giant butter cow.

                                                          



WWAD? (What Would Allah Do?)

It's slim pickins in the pueblo when it comes to maternity garb.  Well, quite honestly, it's slim pickins when it comes to any kind of garb at all.  As far as I can tell we have three official dress shops, one of them doubling as hunting supply store during season.  Hey, it's crisis over here (pronounced kree-seize) so I guess you gotta make your buck/euro wherever you can.

Imagine the excitement when the Moroccan's wife branched out on her own and opened up a women's shop on the main avenida just a stone's throw from his souped up version of the Dollar Store.  Though I wasn't expecting to find anything too sexy from this Muslim shopkeeper, I'll admit to hopes of a flowing (and waistless) dress that might ease me into the inferno that is summer in southern Spain.   Maybe it would have a pretty floral design that would mimick a henna tatoo.  Exactly what I need floating around my rapidly expanding midsection.  Sadly, my maternity collection, though I think Liz Lange would take issue with me calling it that, from the past six years is chock full of little more than polyester pant suits, long sleeved tops and two button cardigans; telltale signs of the summer mating of the schoolteacher in hopes of springtime babies.  

<><> <><> <><>

Caption?  Are you kidding me?!?
Let's make it a game, shall we?  
Post your best caption in the comments
section because I'm at a loss.

So with visions of airy cotton dresses, I hoofed it down to the new dress shop, so new in fact it doesn't even have a name, my 20 euro note burning a hole in my pocket.  And this is who greeted me.

Isn't she, uhm, subtle?
What in the hell?
And braless to boot. 

I had never seen such, such...what do I even call them?  Okay, so let's try again.  For a shop run by the only Muslim family in the pueblo, I couldn't believe my eyes.  Were those boobs or missiles?  Holy balls those things were huge!  Maybe Moroccan women are bustier than Spanish women.  Maybe Mohamed got some kind of a discount on this mannequin seeing as her boobs are twice as large as her head.  Is there such a thing as bargain basement for mannequin shopping?  Jeez o Pete.  Those tits are ridiculous.  And how did his wife feel about such bazookas in her storefront window?  It's not exactly Jihad material but it's gotta be cuttin' it close on a few of those doctrines listed in the Qur'an.

I shook my head to clear the image and entered.  Please have something that will fit me a month, 2 months, 5 months from now.  And may it not have rhinestones or leopard print.  Please. 

I scoured that store for far longer than it was worth.  I flipped past the zebra print leggings, ignored the "I Love insert African nation of your choice" tees,  and skipped the Spanish housecoat section altogether, though it was tempting.  And finally, found this.  Not bad and I still had some change left over to accessorize.  I would walk out for under 9 euros, thank you pueblo pricing but it remains to be seen how long the fit will last.  At three months I'm well, grande.  I guess if push comes to shove I can always go for the button down shown on the gal in the window.  In fact, at a closer glance, it just may be the perfect blouse for a  lactating mom, don't you think?

IT'S NOT ABOUT THE RABBIT

Hooded and cloaked to conceal their identities, the penitents
walk solemnly.  Many choose to walk barefoot, an additional
penance promised to God to absolve their sins.

I've had more religion in the past seven days than in the past 38 years.  Sinners cloaked in dark velvet hoods, a penance for sins held private for too long.  Flowered balconies brimming with pinks and purples as tearful saetas spill out over the masses below.  And crowds by the thousands, every one of them stretching skyward on tiptoes pinched in shinny new shoes as necks strain to see the Virgen float by on the broken shoulders of the costaleros.  This is Semana Santa in Spain.  This is Holy Week.


Our nights in the pueblo have been late, the mood somber.  We follow the priest up the main street to the town plaza as the float bearing Christ nailed to the cross maneuvers the tight corners of the callejon atop shoulders of school children.  It is in a word, humbling.  There are twelve stops along the way, each one just long enough for the costaleros to catch their breath and the priest to detail yet another station of the cross.  The pueblo is quiet, pensive, respectful save for the wayward Vespa that buzzes down an empty sidestreet in hopes of finding an open bar to catch the last half of the futbol game.  Tonight, this Good Friday, we will be back at the plaza for one last procession.  The two brotherhoods of the pueblo will carry their floats atop the shoulders of weeping men.  The two groups will weave in and out of our narrow pueblo streets until they meet in the main plaza thus reuiniting Mary and her Son.



This float is called El Cristo de la Caridad   It is mounted on a
handcarved rosewood platform dating back to the early1500s &
weighs over 1500 kilos.  And it was carried on the backs of men 
who march in unsion underneath its massive weight.

Semana Santa in Spain is serious stuff.  It's over the top.  Excessive.  So totally Spanish and even dare I say, somewhat hypocritical.  This is not the Hallmark Easter of colored eggs and fluffy white bunnies.  And I'm fine with that.  To witness grown men drop to their knees, heads bowed and hands clasped tightly as tears roll from cheek to chin and then drop to knuckle I realize it's not something you explain but perhaps, if you're lucky, just maybe it's something you feel.

CAVEAT EMPTOR

I have this really weird quirk that involves my beauty regimen, if you can even call it that.  On most days, I'm in and out of the shower with hair done and face on in under 10 minutes.  I don't spend a lot of time on much of anything, well, except for my eyebrows and I've already explained that red hot mess a time or two.   Come to think of it, I guess it's not really my beauty regimen perse, but it is my self image.  Basically, it all comes down to my hair.

I'm really particular about my hair. 

I don't mean it has to perfectly parted or glistening in the sunshine.  But it does have to be short.  And as far as I'm concerned, the shorter the better.  I've sported short hair for most of my adult life and since having kids it's only gotten shorter.  It's quick, clean, and easy.  I'm also lucky in that I can pull it off though I think that this has more to do with attitude than face shape because I've been every shade of two hundred and back again all the while sporting the same do.   And like clockwork I'm in the beauty shop every 5 weeks come hell or high water to get it trimmed back to nothing.  Because that's what a good pixie cut is...nothing.  Of course a pixie does not  a quirk make but the fact that each trip to the salon leaves me convinced of a five pound weight loss probably does. 

Unfortunately, the move to Spain has presented some challenges in the hair maintenance department.  First off, there's the unspoken rule - well, law is perhaps a better word for it - that if you are a female you will have long hair.  Period.  I've already been approached by women in the pueblo, "Por favor, you've got to stop shaving your head, darling.  Just let it grow out for a while.  You'll see, it'll be okay..."  Really?  How 'bout defining 'while'?  Is that  Crystal Gayle 'while'? Because anything beyond Susan Powter while is just not gonna work for me.  Secondly, my hair is shorter than most men's and by far the shortest of all the women's in town.  This fact I don't mind at all but it did have me a tad leary of that first appointment with the peluquera.  How was I going to explain that I needed it as short as she could get it without resorting to clippers?  Would she even do it?  Break the town norm and put her ass on the line for my five pound fantasy?  Point cut, texturize, oh yeah and don't forget the cowlick - all very minor details to you, the reader.  In English.  Ever try explaining all that in a tongue other than your own?  

Lucky for me, we've gotten past my Spanish 101 beauty parlor vocabulary and my girl does an awesome job each and every time.  I now sit back, grab the Hola magazine and let her go to town while my brain floats in and out of Spanish consciousness straining for only the most important of the pueblo's gossip that hangs like a soupy fog over the black vinyl salon chairs.  That is, once the shampooing is done.

Aaah yes, the shampooing.

I do realize it is quite possible that being follically challenged, in other words, practically bald (by local standards), I may be hyper sensitive to the Spanish approach to washing clients' hair but I gotta ask:  what the hell is the deal with washing my ears?  I lean back all the way, my head centered and hanging into the sink.  I make sure to scooch up all the way so my neck rolls seal the gap between me and the wash basin and I never complain about the water temperature even though it's always too cold.  The hair gets soaked, the shampoo goes on and the next thing I know it's gone from hairwash to aural assault with no warning whatsoever; a two for one special at no extra charge.  It's not just a pueblo thing either because I've had my hair cut on multiple occasions in Castellon, Valencia, Madrid and Cordoba.  It doesn't matter if I'm in the city or the pueblo - it's always the same, two minutes worth of scalp scrubbing and ten worth of sudsy ear swirls.  The first couple of times I thought it was just bad luck so I shrugged it off.  But then I started noticing that it wasn't just my bad luck but everyone else sporting a Superman cape. 

I don't know.  Maybe America's approach to customer service has made me soft.  The Customer is Always Right mentality may have prejudiced me to the point of no return.  Of this I'm not sure but one thing is for certain:  I'm already dreading my trip to the gynecologist.

COCK TEASE

Who needs an alarm clock when the neighbors have roosters?  Notice the plural on that my friends.  I'm not talking just one neighbor/one rooster, I'm talking multiple neighbors and God only knows how many cock-a-doodle-doing roosters.  The neighborhood in which we're renting is considered to be somewhat upscale as far as the pueblo goes which makes the rooster situation that much more comical.  Hey, buzz me in through the security gate but oh, wait.  Don't let the rooster out!  The pueblo streets, lined neatly with orange trees and flowering bouganvilla give no hint as to the feathered flock that sings us awake each morning, warning us  of the approaching dawn. Thinking back, I didn't notice it so much a few months ago.  Do roosters hibernate?  But now that spring is upon us it seems that the flock has doubled, perhaps tripled in size.  And in volume.


That trumpet tongued flock of cocks has my number too.  For as soon as my bare feet hit the cold tile floors and I shake off that last hope of a wink of sleep, they mock me.


With frosty silence.


Bastards.

TRAILBLAZING

I'm realizing that we haven't really gone out of my way to create any new traditions for our family.  I'm not even talking about exciting ones.  Year in, year out it's always the same.  Predictable about sums it up.  Sure there are the birthday cakes and overly decorated Christmas cookies; traditions carried out year after year without so much as a second thought and which, come to think of it, are pretty much no brainers.  I mean it's not like I can hide behind my pocket bible and lay claim to a secret Jehovah's Witness brotherhood for backup.   It's all been pre-programmed to happen automatically as if without even a second thought, a heartbeat away from instinct.  Well, all except those pesky little things like anniversaries, which if you read my last post and are still following, you're scratching your head wondering how I'm not in jail for that attemted homicide.  But back to my point:  traditions, or rather lackthereof.  What's a gal to do?  Here I am, a pilgrim (okay, not really but well, maybe just a little bit Mayflower) in a new land, I need to get my act together and figure this out fast so my kids don't end up having to dig their way out of the identity chasm we've created for them; credit card in one hand and botijo in the other. 



January 1, 2012 a new trail was blazed, albeit almost by mistake.  On a quest to tire the kids out for siesta, we took them up into the Parque Natural de la Sierra de Hornachuelos and started climbing.  Not an easy feat when you're schlepping a toddler hipside but I managed.  The views were stellar and the fresh air and sunshine did wonders for us all, though mainly me.  I was finally able to let go of the grudge-turned-grief for the anniversary that never was and leave it atop the rosemary peppered ridge.   What better way to ring in a brand new year than ascending paradise and tossing your baggage cliffside?  So I'm resolving to make a hike like this every New Year's Day; a family tradition to set each year off with a clear and better view from the day/year before. 

What new traditions have you brought to your family?

'TIS THE SEASON

It's been a while, hasn't it?  Rest assured all is well in the pueblo and with Christmas fast approaching we are beginning to get into the spirit of things.  I really thought I was going to miss snow, having spent the past three plus decades frozen stiffer than Walt Disney from October to April.  Alas, that is not the case.  No, not the case at all in fact I can tell I'm acclimating to the Andalusian version of winter when I complain about sub fifty degree days.   

I came across this video purely by chance the other day that I want you all to see.  For some time now I've been trying to figure out a way to explain what this move to the pueblo has meant for me...for us but I was always short on explanation.  Long on feeling but short, very short on explanation.  Well, this snippet really does a fine job of articulating what we've found since our arrival here.  Or perhaps better put, what we've found we can live without.

Still, life in the pueblo doesn't come without its quirks.  Take today for example.  We took the kids into the grocery store to stock up for the weekend before the whole damned town shuts down for Sunday.  Anyway, we're not in the store more than five minutes when I notice a customer in the checkout line chasing his holiday pastry down with a shot of Christmas Cheer.  I smiled politely, said my 'hola' as is customary to do regardless of whether or not you've ever met the person, and then made a sharp turn down the aisle with my grocery cart full of screaming kids.  What was that all about?  My brain imploded under the weight of questions like, "Gee, I wonder if they have an international chapter of Alcoholics Annonymous?'  and "Dude, can't you wait 'til you get home to start with that shit?'  I mean it wasn't even close to time for comida and this guy was chuggin' away like it was his last Christmas.  Geez.

But whatever.  To each his own, right?  As we finished up at the butcher's counter I got the kids to distract The Grinch so I could sneak some traditional Christmas goodies into the cart and then we made our way back up to the bar checkout.

Hmmmm, interesting.  "I think the gentleman forgot part of his purchase," I offered.
Checkout Girl:  "No, no.  He got everything.  I made sure of it!  I packed his bags myself."
Me:  "But his 'spirits'.  The bottle's still here.  And look, there's still about half of it left."
Checkout Girl:  (Giggles) "Aaah, no, no, no.  That's ours." 
Me:  Come again?  "Excuse me?"
Checkout Girl:  "It's for everyone.  Here!" (pours me a generous shot) 
Me:  "Uhm..."
Checkout Girl:  "Go ahead, chug it!  It's Christmastime!"
Me:  "Uhm...okay, thanks!?"
Checkout Girl:  "It's just our little way of spreading the holiday cheer."

And then it dawned on me.  100 proof liquor has that effect on me in case you didn't know.  The Spanish just may be onto something.  Well, at least the ones from my pueblo.  We may not have Black Friday.  Our Christmas lights didn't go up until just this week.  And there isn't one bell guilting me into making a donation on my way out of Target, Costco or the grocery store. But nonetheless, there is still an overwhelming feeling of Christmas.  In spite of the obvious lack of marketing we feel the presence of Christmas spirit more than ever this year.

And I'm not just talking 'bout the liquid spirits.

REINA SOFIA HAS CF

 

I'm sorry but I just wanna tuck those puffed out
curls behind her ears each & every time I see her.

In case you're not up to speeed on your Who's Who of reigning monarchs, let me intoduce you to Reina Sofia.  Reina Sofia means a lot in this country. First off, she's the queen of Spain and a pretty likeable gal from what I can gather although I do think it's high time she updated her hairstyle. But let's face it, when you're the queen you get certain perks no matter what your hair looks like.   As you probably guessed, Reina Sofia has a lot of things named after her: streets, parks, airports, and tons of buildings. Even the hospital that we go to in Cordoba for our quarterly CF clinic is named for Her Majesty. Hence, the title of this post. No, the queen of Spain does not have cystic fibrosis however the hospital named for her does~an entire unit in fact.  And that is where we found ourselves earlier this month.

Two weeks post visit and I'm now cursing myself for not having taken better notes because quite honestly, it's all kind of a blur.  Three squabbling kids squished into a doctor's office has that effect on me, ya' know?   But there were some noteable differences that are worth a mention.

1.  THERE IS INDEED AN "I" IN TEAM  


Dr. Cowboy caught the wheeze and prescribed
one puff of Seratide before each vest session
over a three week period.

Dr. Cowboy is our pulmonologist.  That's not really his name but whip out your Spanish 101 notes and I'll bet you can figure it out.  Anyway, he's like the captain of the CF team for us; the main guy we see and the one who runs the show.  He interviewed us and logged copious notes into the computer about the kids' health history and then he sat down with each of them to take a listen.  When he was finished he handed me two sealed medical packages:  the swabs for their throat cultures.  At first I was a little taken aback.  Me?  I have to gag them?  You can't be serious, I'll screw it up.  I'll puncture a lung or pierce a vocal chord.   Thoughts like these raced through my mind while my brain was trying to translate, that's your fucking job, buddy minus the obscenities into Spanish.  Alas, no translation needed.  We were to take the culture kit down to the lab.  The kids would get their throat cultures done there.  Hmmmm.... interetesting, I thought.  And then we were given a two inch stack of medical orders and told where to go to get each one done. 

So much for getting out of the
'homework' assignment. 

Our visit with Dr. Cowboy was a quick one.  But our time in the hospital, not so much.  The time we would have spent waiting in our old CF clinic routine was spent walking long, white corridors looking for faraway laboratories and hidden specialty offices.  I still haven't figured out how all the players come together - but for the time being it appears that technology links them.  When we entered the office of the GI doc, the first thing she did was pull up Dr. Cowboy's notes from twenty minutes prior.  She did her own dog and pony show, entered the new data and gave us our homework: collect three day's worth of fecal matter for each child and bring it back so labs can be run.  Oh but Good Doctor, they're pancreatic sufficient!  Best check those notes again....
    

2.  TAKE A NUMBER
Spain will forever be the country of 'manana'.  Why do today what you can put off til tomorrow?  I'll never get it, being of good German stock this mindset drives me nuts.  As we were running all over Reina Sofia (the hospital not the Queen) there arose a common theme:  la vuelta (the return).  Every stop was just that, a stop.  We took our number, waited the fifteen minutes to be seen and when it was finally our turn we were able to go in to make an appointment to come back.

Labs?  See you on Friday morning!
GI?  Catch you after labs!
Radiology?  We'll be there..how's Friday for you?

On one hand it was frustrating to me that clinic seems to be so compartmentalized here; each entity doing it's own thing on it's own schedule and I had to remind myself that it's not wrong, just...different.  Yet on the other hand I left each doctor feeling as though we were in really good hands, dealing with the experts in their field which helped me to swallow the inconvenience pill that comes with living in a pueblo 45 minutes away from Cordoba.

3.  OUR FREE LUNCH
Dr. Cowboy was very interested in how CF clinic was run in the States.  He asked about the frequency of our visits, which turns out to be the same here - every three months unless something comes up.  He asked about who made up the members of the care team, which again is much the same except there is no pharmacologist on team here.  And he asked about medications and the protocol in using them.


Then, very slowly he leaned over and said, "I want you to understand something very important.  Very important."


I was on the edge of my chair.  Charlie and Lola were taking turns jumping off of the exam table and Henry was unrolling gauze pads by the meter.  We were about to be denied, banned or exiled I wasn't sure which but it was serious from Cowboy's tone.

"You will not pay for medication here.  Do you understand?"


Uhm, no.  Actually, I don't because it's like a billion dollars back where we live...you know, in the Land of Milk and Honey where everyone is blond haired and blue eyed and drives a little red Corvette.  "Excuse me?" I managed.


"Cystic Fibrosis is a chronic and life threatening disease.  You will have a standing order at the hospital pharmacy for each child's prescription needs."

"How much is the copay?"


"The what?"


"Copay,"  I repeated.  "The part that we are responsible for."

"There is no copay for these medications.  As you run out, you will come in to Reina Sofia and refill your order.  We're not here to make a profit.  We're here to treat a disease."

I was speechless but managed to kick Joe's foot, my signal for him to confirm that I hadn't misinterpreted anything.  We would later learn that prescription coverages vary depending upon which region in Spain you live in.  In Andalucia, the regional government has funded a healthcare plan that covers prescription costs for chronic diseases such as cystic fibrosis.  Not funded in Andalucia's plan however is The Vest.  Patients here use other pep devices such as the Acapella and the Flutter in combination with manual cpt. 

Having access to free medication almost seemed too good to be true.  Was Hypertonic Saline available?  TOBI?  Pulmozyme?  Azithromycin?  When should we expect to start Charlie on the next batch of drugs?  I asked Cowboy what our protocol would be under the team's guidelines.

"Your children are uniquely yours.  Charlie is different from Lola just as Lola is different from Charlie in spite of them having the same genetic make up for this disease," he began.  "I do not feel comfortable starting either Charlie or Lola on a new drug just because they have a birthday.  I want to know first how their bodies are handling this disease, what it looks like for them.  I want to study their chest xrays, review their labs and get a baseline of where we are now before we jump into a change of plan."

I was silent, liking what I was hearing but still a bit paranoid that we might miss out on a more preventative approach to their care.

"If you're concerned about the availability of these treatmenet options, don't be.  We have access to them when we're ready for them," he continued.  "Let's keep a few things in our back pocket for the time being while we figure out where each child is.  Is that fair enough?"

"Yes.  Yes, it is."  We nodded in unison and explained to Cowboy that while we want to be very aggressive in a proactive approach we struggle with the possibility of over medicating the kids and as a result are very much interested in trying a more holistic approach before jumping immediately to drugs.  Cowboy listened, we talked some more and closed things by confirming that clinic had our contact information for the pending lab results.

By the end of our first clinic visit, I felt good with where we had landed.  I felt like Cowboy had listened to us, heard us and in the end it just felt like a good fit.  As with every clinic visit though, I was completely fried.  Clinic visits take a lot out of me physically, mentally and emotionally each and every time.  There's the early rising, the anticipation, the planning - so much going into it all to make it as worthwhile and thorough for the kids as possible.  And in spite of the differences, which were really just that - differences - no better  no worse, there was a constant.  That is to say, the constant of knowing that the team members who are dedicated to helping us fight cystic fibrosis for the sake of our children want to give us The Best.   Make no mistake, I'm not talking the best American care or the best Spanish care but rather The Best CF Care. 

And for that we are very, very grateful.

A MINOR DETAIL

Well folks, sorry to be the Debbie Downer but it appears that even Paradise has its issues.

There we were, bright and early on Monday morning running around like maniacs trying to get ready for the school day.  So typically us.  Kids were (barely) up and (sort of) dressed, plugged in to their vests and well into their treatment session as I was elbows deep into a dirty diaper and Joe was juggling the breakfast order alongside the school snack order.  Not bad for a quarter after 7 on a school day, I thought.
Then the power went out.

We fumbled a bit, then scrambled, and finally recovered managing to get out the door in time for the walk in to school.  Not the best start to a Monday but we pulled it together.

Tuesday was better, the week taunting us to pick up the pace somewhat. 
And then the power went out.

Wednesday came and we joked about what time we'd lose light.  Joe chuckled as he buttered the toast.  I managed a laugh as I doled out the breathing treatments.
Then the power went out.

Okay, so maybe not so funny any more.  We were quick to notice that it wasn't just our house, not just our block, hell, not even just our neighborhood.  It was indeed the whole damned pueblo! 

Thursday the same. 
Friday too. 
And don't forget Saturday or Sunday.

What the hell?

Every single day for the past eight days there has been a power outage for the entire pueblo.  It's short lived, ten minutes tops.  And it is reliable, always at 7:24AM.  But what gives?  What's the issue?  I wouldn't have ever dared to call the pueblo third world but come on how, this was getting a little ridiculous.

So, as I imagined a good Spanish wife would do, I sent the husband out to get to the bottom of it at the neighborhood bar. Seriously, where else?  Nothing gets answers faster than a bar full of soccer fans and a few rounds of San Miguel (beer).  Now, just so you know, going out to get some answers is not an in-and-out kinda deal least of all on a soccer night.  This would likely be an all nighter for me, which was fine.  I had a lighter and candles at arm's reach and my glass of wine within the other arm's reach so I was prepared.  And just as I had surmised, some four hours later he came home with the full scoop; as it turns out, the one and only thing for which I was not prepared.

Rather than bore you with the four hour version, I'll just cut to the chase.  First off, no one in the whole freakin' bar even flinched when he brought up the pueblo's power 'issue'.
What 'issue'? 
What are you talking about? 
Huh? 
They just stared at him blankly, silently willing him to shut the hell up so they could concentrate on the game. 

The electricity. 

Dude, what are you talking about?  What about the electricity? 

The fact that every day we have none for a ten minute spell.  What's the deal? 

Ohhhh...THAT.  Suddenly, the game was of no consequence and they took some pity on the new guy.  You'll get used to it.  In fact, you can pretty much set your watch to it.  Wait til winter when it's out for a couple of days. 

Come again? 

Oh yeah, last winter it went out for two whole days.  Juan Carlos lost a week's worth of business because his freezer stock went bad and he had to dump it all. 

Pardon me, but are you fucking kidding me? 

You guys are living up in the new part of town, right?  Well, it's not gonna be so bad for you guys.  Just the ten minutes or so every morning when the pueblo wakes up.  It's the unlucky saps in the old part of town that really have it bad, going for a few days at a time like that.  Don't worry though, you'll get used to it.

We'll get used to it.  Uhm, no.  I'm thinking this is something that I probably won't get used to.  I can get used to wearing shoes that pinch my toes.  Or I can get used to drinking luke warm coffee when I so prefer it scalding hot.  Hell, I might even be able to get used to everybody shouting at me as if I'm deaf becasue they think that if they speak louder I'll somehow understand all those colloquial phrases and inside jokes.  But no, living without a reliable energy source is not something I plan on getting used to.  I mean come on, we're well past the millenium folks.  Shit, my Nepalese student, the ones who's cousin was a Sherpa, had more reliable power than this.  I mean don't get me wrong, I think it's really cool and even a bit convenient that it happens to go out at the same time every day but there's a lot of shit that goes down regularly that I don't think we should tolerate just because no one has the wherewithall to fix the situation. 

So now added to my to-do list of
1. informing the universe about cystic fibrosis
2. writing and getting a grant to get computers (notice I said get computers not get new computers) for the pueblo's elementary school and
3. running a marathon
is
4.  stirring the shit up enough to get a revolution brewing so we can get the mayor/taxi driver to push for an update to the power grid which means at least two though preferably three to four new power transformers to replace the current ones which as we speak are about 40 years out of date. 

And they say that Stay at Home Moms don't work.

IT TAKES A VILLAGE TO RAISE AN IDIOT

I have no idea but for whatever reason, I've been off by a day all week long.  Monday was actually Sunday.  Tuesday was Wednseday.  Wednesday was Tuesday.  And by week's end I was ready to commit myself.  That is, if the rest of the pueblo didn't commit me first.  This is a Three Act Drama so be patient.

ACT 1:  Set in the middle of Calle de los angeles in front of Mohammed, the lone Morrocan guy's, discount shop.  Keke (track coach and sometimes firefighter) rolls up to Village Idiot (played by me).

Keke:  Hey!  How's it going?  We've missed you at RunClub this past week, everything alright?
Village Idiot:  We're hanging in there.  We've had a house full of sick kids.  Nothing major, just a nasty cold but it's knocked everyone out.  That, and then there's the car.
Keke:  The car?
Village Idiot:  Well, our car has finally arrived at the port but now it's a matter of how long it will be tied up in customs.  Joe will likely be heading to Valencia early next week to pick it up.
Keke:  That's great, isn't it?
Village Idiot:  Well yeah, except it means I'll probably have to miss one or two more practices. 
Keke:  Oh, don't worry about it.  You know where to find us.  We'll look forward to seeing you towards the end of the week.  Are you running today?
Village Idiot:  (Thinking he's referring to the race in Sevilla that actually occurred the night before)  Me?  Oh no.  I can't, no car.  Remember?
Keke:  (Looking quizzically) Uh, yeah.  Right, no car.  Well, we'll see you later in the week.  Take care...
Village Idiot:  You too. Oh and have a great time (referring to last night's race in Sevilla)!


ACT II:  Set about 200 meters down the block from the encounter with Keke.  Fellow teammate, Miguel, and his family drive by, honk and wave to Village Idiot.

Village Idiot:  Hey (waving spastically)!  You guys heading out now?
Teammate: (smiles) Yeah.  We're on our way.
Village Idiot:  Well have a fantastic time!  Good luck!
Teammate: (pauses, smile fades) Uh, yeah.  Okay. 
Village Idiot: It's gonna be great, you'll see!  Take lots of pictures for me, okay?   Bye!!
Teammate:  (nods and waves) Adios...



ACT III:  Set at the Village Idiot's house later that afternoon.  Paqui drops by for a quick visit.

Village Idiot:  So what time are you heading out?
Paqui:  Heading out?  For where?
Village Idiot:  For Sevilla.
Paqui:  Sevilla? 
Village Idiot:  The race, silly.  Aren't you running tonight?
Paqui:  You mean 'ran'.  The race was last night.
Village Idiot:  But I just saw Keke and Miguel heading out of town.  We just talked about it.
Paqui:  Well, I don't know what you talked about but I'm telling you that the race was last night.  I was there, trust me.  And so were they.  I rode in Miguel's car for crying out loud.
Village Idiot:  Then where were they going if it wasn't the race?
Paqui:  Someone died, a mutual friend I think.  They were on their way to the funeral.

Close curtain.

SIX DEGREES OF PUEBLO

Alas, the pueblo.  Village seems too small and dare I say, Medieval and city, well, as we hover at 5,000, that is far too big a word for here.  So pueblo it is.  Given it's relatively small size, I've concluded that it's made up of all of about ten families plus us, Los Americanos.  How can ten families be 5,000 strong you ask?  Why, marriage of course. 

Take, for example, my friend and neighbor Paqui.  Paqui is married to Pedro, an Archie Bunker kinda guy minus the bigot.  Her cousin, Pili is married to Pablo and they live two doors down, right in front of our place.  Pili is a painter and Pablo is a plumber and together they have a little girl, Ana,  Henry's age.  Every Friday night Paqui, Pedro, Pili, Pablo and a dozen or more other family members gather on the front patio of Pili and Pablo's house for drinks and laughs.  Pablo's brother, Oli(ver), usually pops by with his wife, Gema, who happens to be Paqui and Pili's cousin.  Not to be left out, Beatriz and her crew are good for at least every other Friday night.  Beatriz's husband is Juan and Juan's sister is a sister-in-law to Oliver's other brother, Rafa. 

Nevermind rereading it, just be glad you don't have to try to remember all of it.

So I tried to circumvent the obvious confusion brought about by the intermingled family ties by instead focusing on the Who's-Who of the pueblo; the key players if you will, the Don Corleones if there ever was such a thing which only led to further confusion when I learned that...

the mayor is the taxi driver, out on leave until her term is up
the baker is the goat herder
the hair dresser is the real estate agent
the auto mechanic is the taxidermist
the police chief is the grocer
the plumber is the insurance agent
and finally, lest we forget the banker
who is actually the bartender but only on Friday nights.

And somehow, though I haven't quite got it all worked out yet, they're all related to Paqui.