The practice putting green. The course was near the seaside tourist town of San Vicente la Barquera.

With my new handicap of 12, I was in the 13th of 22 threesomes on Saturday, so my tee time was 10:40. Even though the temperature was only about 15° C (59° F), the course was just so hilly that I was down to short sleeves after the first hole. All the golf I had played this year in the States was the lazy American kind where you sit on a cushioned seat and zoom right up to your ball, but this was Man vs. Wilderness Cantabrian golf, and I had to catch my breath before each shot.

The first hole was a steep climb.

Very soon into the round the rain began. This meant donning an impermeable outer layer. I had specifically made a trip into Santander earlier in the week to buy some rain pants for this exact occurrence. It never really poured, but a mild drizzle was maintained for the rest of the round. My woolen felt golfing cap absorbed several pounds of water and had to be rung out several times. I had four spare gloves in a ziplock bag in my golf bag (I learned in Ireland that my golf bag is not water proof when my HD video camera stopped working and needed a $300 repair). It wasn’t until the eighteenth hole that I had any problems with grip slippage. The only casualty of the rain was my scorecard. It was a disintegrating lump of pulp when we finished the round, but the scores of the guy I was keeping score for were barely legible, so we transferred them to dry card and turned it in.

Since there were eight local golf clubs competing against each other, it was possible to form the threesomes such that no one was playing with a member of their own team. My two playing partners on Saturday were an amicable pair. One guy thought he was a lot funnier than he really was. He’s the kind of guy who, when we finished the round and the secretary took our scores, told us that they would send everyone an SMS to tell us our tee time the following day, and said, “Okay, give me your mobile,” obviously asking for his phone number, he said, “But if I give you my mobile [phone] how can you send me a message?” She had to ask three more times to nail the syntax of “Please tell me the number assigned to your mobile phone,” such that he couldn’t escape into jokester-land. Exhausting.

He did, however, tell me a lovely story about how he was invited to the inaugural day of the course we were playing, which was designed by none other than Cantabria’s golfing son, Severiano Ballesteros. During his round, he saw Seve playing another hole and went up to talk to him. He said that Seve was kind enough to stop and chat for a few minutes and have his picture taken. He was a great man. May 7, a week from the date of this post, will be the first anniversary of his death.

We were playing at Santa Marina Golf Club, which was built near this 19th century chapel, which curiously has a tree growing from its bell tower. You can’t build anything in Spain without it being near some stone relic from another time.

I was very happy with my play on Saturday, especially my back nine that started with a string of eight bogeys. The eighteenth hole might be the hardest hole of golf I’ve ever played. It’s a par 5, but I never managed less than 8 strokes.

The rules of the tournament were that only the six best rounds (gross, no handicaps) from each team would be counted. The team from Laredo had a final score on Saturday of 519, an average of 86.5, which included my 93. The next closest team on the leader board had 520, but that was with only five players (an average of 104), so it didn’t count. The actual second place team was 36 strokes behind us with a 555.

Sunday was gorgeous and sunny…but very, very muddy. There was what the golf rulebook calls “standing water” on every square centimeter of the course. I made a slop-slop-slop sound as I walked up and down the steep inclines. If you didn’t visually identify the square meter where your ball landed in the fairway, it was a lost ball, because they plugged down into the mud such that just a tiny square centimeter of the ball was visible. Every single player on our team scored worse the second sunny day than on the first rainy day. That should give an indication of just how difficult an already nearly-impossible course was playing. One guy playing in a pair of wellies looked ridiculous on the first tee, but like a genius on the eighteenth green.

On Sunday I witnessed an event that would definitely win the storytelling competition my golfing group has every year in February. My threesome had finished a hole and was walking to the next tee when we saw a heavy set gentleman from the group in front of us returning to the tee with his driver. His ball had missed the fairway by a couple meters and had plugged into the ground and been declared lost. He teed up his ball and sent it slicing off into the woods. He shouted some Spanish curses about defecating on the mother of the ball he just hit and flung his driver with all his might. His intent was probably to fling it straight down the hole towards the fairway, but he held on to it a split second too long and it went careening over our heads and up to the very tip top of a tree, where it lodged itself securely. We tried shaking the tree vigorously, but the driver wasn’t going anywhere. This was a pretty serious situation, since a driver costs easily $300, which is probably 300€ (400 USD), if golf clubs are priced like other consumer goods. One guy from our group had the idea to use his golf ball retriever, a telescoping tube used to pull golf balls out of water hazards. He extended it out about 6 meters (20 feet), but it was still way too short. I suggested we could throw some rocks, but really I was imagining it either staying there forever or having to hire a cherry picker to fetch it. Just then, the other guy from my group, who was in his late forties or early fifties, jumped up into the tree, which didn’t look at all conducive to climbing, and promptly climbed about 25 feet into the air with the agility of a chimpanzee and grabbed the club. And somehow he made it back down without breaking his neck. Just then it made sense how he could only take the club back until it was perpendicular to the ground and whip it through the ball and hit it further than I can with a full swing. Amazing.

Every time I golf in Spain, I am amused by the fact that there is some law that requires them to put life preservers near the big water hazards. It’s a practice that strattles the line between reasonableness and silliness. I wonder how many golfers drown every year in water hazards in the US. If it’s more than 0.3, I’d be surprised.

The starter (the guy who stands on the first tee and controls who begins when) told us a story of one member of the club that plays golf in shorts, even in the near-freezing winter temperatures. When asked why, he replies, “When I wear pants, my wife gets so mad at me for how dirty I’ve gotten them, that I’d rather play in shorts.”

When I showed my wife this photo, she reenacted the shorts-wearer’s story, telling me that I had ruined those trousers. Surprisingly, however, they came out of the washing machine looking like new.

I shot a 93 the first day and a 95 the second. The tournament officials didn’t bother to properly add up the scores before declaring Laredo the winner. It wasn’t even close.

The best part of the course was the clubhouse, an old wooden structure that, as is common for golf courses everywhere, used to be the house that the owners of the land lived in. The greens were in a pretty bad state of disrepair. Apparently the club is running out of money because there’s a lack of members. And I can understand why. Who would want to pay money to be abused like that every time you play? The course is just too hard. They’ve tried to make it easier by getting rid of all out-of-bounds and replacing the white stakes with red stakes, marking forests as “lateral water hazards”, but it’s not good enough. Santa Marina Golf Club seems to be in a downward spiral where the course is so hard that they are running out of members and money, which in turn makes the course even harder as it falls into disrepair. It’s a shame, because the location is visually spectacular, with views from the sea to the snowy Picos de Europa with rolling hills and luxury chalets in between.

Laredo Club de Golf, the best golfers in Cantabria who don’t have a home course. That’s a bronze Ballesteros behind us.

What passenger really cares whether the wind is coming out of the north or south? Maybe once in a hundred thousand flights one of the first class snobs is planning on having his driver take him from the airport directly to the marina where he will be taking his ketch for a sail that afternoon, and, with this handy wind data he can start planning his tacking course. But most of the time, all the first class folks want to do when landing in Madrid is find car hire in Spain at the Hertz desk.

My hypothesis is that the pilots receive a transmission with all the weather data, and rather than consider its utility to their audience, they just read the whole thing out to us verbatim. The practice amuses me every time I fly.

And now you will be unable to ignore it, too.

For one, I was in a country in which everyone over the age of five spoke perfect English, but they chose to speak a different language to each other. You mean my mother tongue isn’t the inherently superior human language? It sounds stupid in retrospect, but I remember thinking that.

Look again at those two ideas. They are both inherently Liberal ideas.

Over the years, I have noticed that I am almost always in political agreement with other expatriates that I meet. We generally hold similar values on the left-right political spectrum, both in financial and social issues. I always attributed this to the unavoidable epiphany brought on by immersion in a foreign culture. It necessarily shakes any conservative patriotism you have to the core.

Just recently, in the past couple years, I’ve been reading about the psychology of decision making and politics, and I think I may be mistaken about why expats tend to be more liberal. The positive correlation between voluntary emigration and Liberal values is still very strong, but I think I may have the causation backwards. It’s not that living abroad makes you liberal; it’s that having a liberal mindset makes you want to live abroad. People on the left end of the political and moral spectrum are much more open to having new experiences and hearing new, possibly conflicting, points of view. Conservatives are much happier with what they know. It’s even right there in the meaning of the two words: Liberals are for change and rocking the boat, and Conservatives are for maintaining the status quo.

Here’s a TED Talk on the subject:

I just sent off an absentee ballot today for a state primary. Just as it’s in the Conservatives’ interest to make same-day voter registration difficult, which tends to disenfranchise poor and minority voters (who will always vote Liberal), it would also be in their interest to stymy the ballots from non-military expats, although I suspect there aren’t enough of us for them to care…yet.

What follows is my original blog entry, which consisted mostly of photo captions. Observations from my present self will be presented in green.

Cornwall is the southwestern peninsula of England, rich in history from prehistoric monoliths to legends of King Arthur’s Camelot. We drove most of the way on Thursday night, and found a hotel just outside of a city called Exeter. Our first stop on Friday morning was St. Michael’s Mount, a mountain/island/fortress/castle on the southern tip of Cornwall. So named because of a vision of the saint seen over the island a while back.

Marga on the large beach, uncovered at low tide. We walked all the way to the island on a causeway built in the 17th century. I think she still has and wears this sweater and jacket.

The harbor on the island. The boats have been beached by the low tide.

Marga halfway up the climb to the castle on top.

Looking for approaching warships

At last! The castle!

A tower from up in the castle

Looking down into the garden

Waves crashing on the rocks

Queen of the castle

Another view of the queen

Erik, admiring the view

Oh no! The tide has covered the causeway! Looks like the harbor’s full (of water)…I hope we have enough quid for the ferry!

Enjoying a little sun before leaving this majestic place.

Looking back at St. Michael’s Mount after the ferry ride

After leaving St. Michael’s, we headed to Lands End, the furthest western point in England. What better place to watch the sunset? This picture is a little boring, but there’s better to come! Scroll down!

Arms-length photography…perhaps I should invest in a tripod…

What a cute couple! …in their early twenties…

The first and last closed refreshment house. I was thirsty too!

Jeez, I was really working the black jeans and black sweater northern european look.

Prints for sale, $19.95.

What a terrible shame that this is the best resolution I have of these photos. The landscape was breathtaking!

Nice how the sun hits the cliffs…

This rock almost fell down. Good thing I was there! (Alternate title: ‘Atlas in Black’)

Apparently my sense of humor has shifted about as much as this rock in ten years.

No caption. I might have to encourage this hair color again. I like it!

Margarita on the rocks

A nice stone wall overgrown with heather and gorse

Sun on its way down

Living dangerously. Nora, don’t ever do this!

We spent all of Saturday in a little coastal town on the northern side of the peninsula called St. Ives. This was a little chapel amongst the many shops.

This is where we experienced our first Cornish Cream Tea. Yum! At the time, I was unfamiliar with the riddle of going to St. Ives. Bummer.

We took advantage of the low tide and had a nice walk on the extensive beach

Marga, barely able to stand the freezing water

Erik, barely able to stand the freezing water

Crossing the little mini-rivers running from the tide pools to the sea could be great fun. Looks like an ad for a clothing line.

More beached vessels. In a few hours they would be floating again.

On Sunday, we went to the biodomes known as the Eden Project. We were mistaken about what it was, as were many that entered. They were just big greenhouses with a million different plants and a million tourists stopped dead in a traffic jam on the narrow winding paths through the 90% humidity domes. Not a pleasant experience, nor interesting scientifically, nor educational. I do not recommend the Eden Project. So we got in the car and headed home, stopping for an hour to park on the highway in a traffic jam. You can see pictures of the Eden project on the panoramas page. Included below. These actually are high resolution.

Lands End panorama

St. Ives panorama

St. Ives surfers

St. Michael’s Beach

St. Michael’s Mount View

The Eden Project

Hi, it’s 2012 me again. Apparently I chose not to blog about one of the more memorable parts of this trip, driving around late at night trying to find a B&B to stay the night. We wanted to stay in Penzance, but all the hotels and B&Bs we checked were fully booked. We ended up driving south to a tiny harbor town with the adorable name of Mousehole, where we found a guy who was just starting a B&B and had just put his sign up on the road, but was not really ready for any guests yet, as the house was still being restored. We must have looked quite desperate because he relented and offered us a tiny room upstairs. We were delighted. We asked about local restaurants, and he recommended a seafood place “just down the road”, so we took off walking down the coast. After what felt like several miles later, we were just about to turn around and head back to the B&B when we came upon the restaurant overlooking the water. I don’t know if it was from the stress of finding lodging at the last minute, the walk down a dark winding road, or the romance of our first solo trip together, but there was something truly special about that meal that we will both remember forever.

Mousehole is an gorgeous little English village with stone houses and narrow winding streets. I recommend a virtual walk around the town via Google. It’s lovely. Finding gems like Mousehole is what makes travel so much fun. As Vonnegut put it, “Peculiar travel suggestions are dancing lessons from God.”

The first exhibit we came to was the tiger exhibit. They were about as exciting as most cats during the day.

Next to the tigers were the gorillas. We were there right at noon, and there was a zookeeper tossing heads of lettuce into their enclosure. If it hadn’t been for that, we might not have seen them at all. We only saw two of the ten (or so) they have.

Next up were the bears. There must have been at least fifty of them in a wide open area surrounded by cliffs. The young ones were quite playful and put on a good show.

As you can see, they were the exact same color as the surrounding rock face, which made them very hard to spot.

Can you see the bear? Hard, isn’t it?

We initially thought there were only about ten bears, but then everywhere we looked in the landscape we saw more. My wife, who had visited Cabárceno Zoo over a decade ago, had distinctly remembered the bear enclosure as being very well done. There was a fence up at the top of the ridge, but it definitely felt like the bears had a wide mountainous space to roam.

Bears are siesta experts.

Nora enjoyed the bears.

Next up, the long-necked enclosure containing giraffes and ostriches.

Nora kept saying, “The duck is coming!”

We saw a pair of giraffes engage in this intimate kama-sutra-esque you-scratch-my-neck-and-I’ll-scratch-yours routine. It was as sensual as it was awkward-looking.

Next, we came to the wolf enclosure. I thought that Nora would enjoy this one more than others, since she’s very aware of The Big Bad Wolf in all his fairy tale roles, but she didn’t seem to care much. It took a while to spot them, but there were two wolves sleeping in a patch of dirt.

Before the wolves, we had been to the hyena enclosure and not seen a single beast. Yes, they’re nocturnal, but it was a little disappointing, and the other visitors also seemed disappointed and confused. So when we had finally found the wolves, I made a casual remark to a guy walking near the enclosure that, “If you’re looking for them, they’re over there sleeping.” He responded that, thanks, but he knew where they were because he visits at least once a week. Not only did he know where several more wolves were hiding in the enclosure, he knew their names and how old they were. We continued to converse, and he told us the names of all the gorillas, guessing which two young ones we probably saw that ventured out for the noon feeding, and lots, lots, lots more information about the animals at the zoo. They just got a new hyena in from Prague last week, don’t you know!

Our new friends don’t work at the zoo, but visit often and avidly, enjoying the sport of finding all the beasts in their enclosures with binoculars, a hobby which must stimulate ancient hunting neurons. The man and his wife live locally and have many animals of their own; in fact, they run a petting zoo of sorts called Armonía Animal that specializes in miniature ponies and how they can be used for therapy for autistic children. They are the only Spanish branch of the American organization Personal Ponies. After asking Nora her name (she was busy moving small pebbles from the gravel walkway inside the wolf enclosure fence), they told us that, of all their many, many animals that they have, the one that everyone loves the most is their parrot named Nora. They gave us a business card and ensured us that they know how to show non-autistic kids a good time, too. We might have to check them out sometime.

I’m pretty sure we were the first people ever to think of howling at the napping wolves.

Then we saw some bison and other African ungulates.

When we drove up to the zebra enclosure, I suggested we might even skip it, since they were just in their stables eating hay. My estimate of enjoyment was way off the mark. It was nice to actually pet them. I had never touched a zebra before. As with most animals, their fur was slightly more bristly than their domesticated counterpart.

Nora had a good time reaching in to touch them.

The dromedary exhibit included this cool church ruin. This bactrian had a droopy hump.

I thought Nora would love the elephants, who were also the same color as the bears and wolves and rocks, but she was pretty indifferent.

Nora and the elephants. They were bigger than she remembers.

Then it was picnic time! Nora has figured out that sandwiches are for suckers, and that a clever food hacker can just eat the meat from inside and avoid the boring bread.

Feeding time at the primate exhibit.

Then we saw some wallabies, which are pretty much enormous Australian rats, not as cuddly as I thought they would be.

Then we saw the lions, which were very far away and being lazy felines.

Lionesses.

Baboons!

I didn’t like the baboon exhibit too much because I got annoyed at the primates on my side of the fence who couldn’t overcome their own egos and think about just how bad their crackers and cookies might be for their captive cousins.

Here you can see, zoomed out, the size of the lion enclosure and the general landscape that we enjoyed during our entire visit.

After visiting the baboons, we continued on our way. When we came up over a hill, my wife and I both gasped in surprise at the magnificence of the view that greeted us. Behold:

The city of Santander. We had no idea we were this close or that we would have a view like this.

The lynxes were also being very feline.

Finally we parked at the main restaurant and farm facility. There was a bird of prey exhibition going on with a trainer sending owls and hawks flying over a crowd of people, but we were tired and headed instead to the small animal enclosures.

The prairie dogs were hard to spot.

The meerkats were easier to see.

There were about a billion turtles.

And the award for Least Cuddly Creature goes to…the porcupine!

And finally, on to Nora’s favorite animal of them all: the goat.

She had an absolute ball reaching her hand through the fence and letting the goat lick her fingers. She would squeal with delight and announce to everyone within earshot that the goat had licked her hand before placing it through the fence again. We literally had to drag her kicking and screaming away from the goat exhibit.

After a visit to the bathroom, we were ready to head home. Except there was one little animal we had yet to see and didn’t want to miss…

The propane tank pygmy hippopotamus!

The hippos must have been quite bored, because they were yawning a lot. Great for photos!

It was contagious!

Overall we left the park with mixed feelings. My wife and I enjoyed ourselves quite a bit, but we were disappointed by how disinterested Nora was about the whole thing. She had a fun day out, but really wasn’t all that bothered about the wild animals. Although she said “I don’t want to get in the car!” each of the twenty times we had to get into the car, the car rides weren’t the obstacle to enjoyment that we had feared. She most enjoyed the zebras and goats that she could touch and interact with. The visual stimulus of a faraway lion or tiger or gorilla meant little to her. I think we will wait a year or two and see if she develops more of an interest in animals before we consider going back.

I have known for some time that the location of every commercial aircraft is known more or less in realtime and the information is publicly available via either the airline or a government database somewhere. However, I’ve never had much of a need for this information.

Then, someone came along and realized how to best present this data. Your modern smartphone, after all, knows its latitude, longitude, angle relative to the Earth’s magnetic field, and angle relative to the Earth’s gravitational field. So if it also knows the location of any other object, be it a star or a friend or a train station, it can calculate, using fairly simple geometry, when you are pointing the phone in the direction of that object.

Presenting Plane Finder AR (the AR stands for Augmented Reality). For $2.99, you can point your phone at any airplane you see in the sky and it will tell you the airline, the flight number, the city of origin, the destination, the distance from you, and the current velocity. With only a dozen uses, I have gotten well over three dollars worth of enjoyment out of the app.

Most of the planes that fly over me here in northern Spain are going from southern Spain to the UK, usually with Ryanair, but occasionally I’ll see one going from Florence, Italy, to Atlanta, Georgia, or from Barcelona to New York City. Although this information is really quite useless to me, it really is an awful lot of geeky fun.

A shot from my living room window. The plane is behind the black box.

A street vendor was selling freshly grilled chorizo and morcilla (blood sausage).

My wife and I shared a piece of chorizo.

Looking for the next bar.

This bar was tiny and absolutely packed. And for good reason.

The skewing of these tapas photos was a complete accident, but I like it.

Our choice. Serrano ham with goat cheese with Modena vinegar, and a meat and tomato stew with a pheasant egg on top. With a beer and a wine, of course.

Apparently this bear drew some chalk art on the street. The sardine escaping its can to eat a dangling worm was the official logo of the 2012 festival.

Ice cream with my girls.

Eating ice cream down by the water.

Just as we can see Santoña from Colindres, you can see Colindres from Santoña. My house is over there somewhere.

One of my favorite things about Santoña is that they have several monuments to canines, I assume to the dogs that keep fishermen company on long fishing voyages.

A monument to Juan de la Cosa, a native of Santoña who was the captain of the Santa Maria and sailed with Columbus on that infamous 1492 voyage.

The sunset was lovely, over Santoña’s little beach.

Bollard and boats.

Nora’s Spanish grandparents showed up late in the day.

Nora had fun climbing these granite benches.

And jumping off them. See all those benches vanishing off into the distance? She climbed up and jumped off every single one. That’ll burn off a scoop of ice cream in no time.

A lone sailboat.

The same boat, coming into harbor, with Colindres in the background.

The giant sardine that initiated the costume parade. It got pretty cold, and I was underdressed, and the music was too loud, so I didn’t enjoy the actual parade all that much. I much preferred seeing all the people dressed up walking around the street earlier in the day.

This was the very last of 24 groups dressed up for the costume competition, and it was the only one that inspired me to take a photograph. It was men carrying faux bullfighters on their shoulders like what happens after a successful bullfight.

And the bulls followed after. Ha!

Overall, it was a very successful day out. Nora wore high heels (willingly!) for six hours and several ambulatory kilometers. She took them off for a couple hours after a bit of an ankle twist, but then demanded to put them back on.

My little Sevillana. ¡Olé!

Desayuno

The first meal of the day. i.e. breakfast. It’s even a compound word, like “breakfast”, since ayuno means “fast” (as in not eating), and des- is a negating prefix, so you’re literally “un-fasting”. Unlike the US or the UK, the typical Spanish breakfast is very light and completely devoid of protein. The most common breakfast is a café con leche with some type of pastry or cookies.

I always assumed that Spanish farmers or other people that do long hours of manual labor in the mornings probably eat a heartier breakfast, but I know a few of them and they don’t.

A typical Spanish breakfast: coffee with milk and a pastry.

Almuerzo

This one is complicated. The dictionary says it’s “food eaten in the morning or midday”. Spanish-to-English dictionaries always translate it to “lunch” and there are those who use it synonymously with comida, but I think the best English translation would be “brunch”. The few times I’ve had one, it was more substantial than a simple snack or tapa, and left me with no desire to have lunch afterwards. It’s normally served at around noon, or just before.

Interestingly, almuerzo breaks the etymological rule of thumb that most Spanish words starting with al- came from Arabic. This word comes from the Latin word for “bite”.

A typical Spanish almuerzo: a concoction of fried eggs, bacon in a tomato sauce, served at noon with plenty of wine.

Comida

Translating best to “lunch”, this is the primary, and largest, meal of the day, eaten at midday. However, what the Spanish call “midday” is not what an American would call “midday”. In Spain, they eat their lunch between 2:00 PM and 4:00 PM. Most shops are closed during this time and reopen at 5:00 PM until about 8:00 PM. While the noun comida and verb comer mean “lunch” and “to have lunch”, they are also more generally used to mean “food” and “to eat”, and there is rarely any confusion.

Traditionally the midday meal consists of two courses, one of which normally requires a spoon to eat, like a soup or legume stew, the other is usually rice (e.g. paella), pasta or a small serving of meat. All restaurants assume that you will be having two courses. In daily home cooked practice, however, one course is all we ever eat.

Last time I checked, nutritionists and dietitians agree that it’s healthiest to have your biggest meal in the middle of the day like the Spaniards, rather than at the end as the Americans do. It may be healthier, but it can make it difficult to become productive again in the afternoon, especially if there was any wine involved.

A typical Spanish lunch: beans with wild boar, followed by…

…a steak with fried potatoes.

Merienda

This is another in-between meal – like the almuerzo – and best translates to “afternoon snack”. I never really heard it used until I became a parent and saw that every Spanish child has an afternoon snack of some sort, be it a piece of fruit or a small sandwich. From what I can tell, most adults don’t eat the merienda, but I suppose the word could be used for some British-style tea and cookies.

A typical Spanish merienda: a small serrano ham sandwich.

Cena

The final meal of the day is strangely similar to the US or UK breakfast: high in protein. Eggs are a common ingredient, often in a tortilla de patata (Spanish omelet). Meats and cheeses are often included. If you go out to a restaurant, sandwiches and hamburgers are a common supper.

A typical Spanish dinner: tortilla de patata.

If there’s one thing Spaniards love, it’s food, and I think it shows in their language. Of course no one ever eats all five meals, but no matter what time of the day you get hungry, you’ve got a Spanish noun and verb to use.

The full brochure.

The first pincho we tried was at La Marina Company. It was by far the most elaborate and special in a “you’re not going to ever make this at home” sort of way.

La Marina Company: Panacota de frambuesa con anchoas – That’s a cooked cream of raspberries with anchovies.

The presentation was gorgeous, but the combination of flavors was a little too bizarre for our philistine tastes. It came with a little dropper of Modena olive oil. There were too many flavors for my wife’s expertise in anchovy quality to gain any purchase.

A close-up of La Marina Company’s pincho. In general we were pretty displeased not only with the pincho, but also by the service. It took about ten minutes for the pincho to make its way down from the upstairs kitchen. By that time, we’d almost finished our wines.

La Casona: Suprema de buey – This “Ox Supreme” was described in the brochure as “Hamburger of ox meat with onion, egg and cheese”. After La Marina Company, our eyes were immensely disappointed when the tiny little burger rolls were plopped down before us. But wow, had hour eyes deceived us! The first bite had us both moaning with pleasure. The grainy bread, the tender meat, the sweet caramelized onions and the cheese made an excellent combination. Supreme, indeed!

It’s really not much to look at, but I could happily eat a dozen of these little treats.

Cafetería Colón: Hamburguesa de potro a la barbacoa – “What’s potro?”, I asked my wife. “Baby horse”, she replied. Whoa! Well, this is the place that had kangaroo meat in 2009. The ingredients listed were: sweet roll, colt meat, tomato, onion, garlic, pepper, parsley and barbecue sauce.

Like most foods with barbecue sauce, the sauce completely overwhelmed any other flavors, making this a very boring pincho to eat. The potato chips on the side did little to make it any more special. I’d certainly never have guessed that it was foal meat. It was a big let down after the previous hamburger in La Casona.

La Abadía: Destinos Pejinos – Apparently pejino is a local word meaning “a humble resident of coastal Cantabria”, so the title translates to “humble Cantabrian destinations”. Indeed, the primary ingredient was respigos, a local winter delicacy. The ingredients were listed as: pastry toast with cumin and respigos.

Visually, it looks like something your sick cat might leave on the carpet, but it was quite tasty in a humble, healthy sort of way. I didn’t care much for the “pastry toast” on the bottom; it reminded me of a bland granola bar.

The second night, we went to El Concept, but they were out of pinchos, and had enough business so that they didn’t really give a damn. Boo!

El Somera: Guiso de jabalí al chocolate – The name means “wild boar stew with chocolate”, and sure enough, that’s what it was. Unfortunately, for cost saving motives, there were a lot of potatoes, and very few chunks of boar meat. I must say, however, that I was impressed.

The little bowls were lovely. It definitely took second place away from La Albadía’s respigos.

A bore eating boar.

El Guti: Hamburguesita de ternera con salsa de queso y su guarnición – The title means “Little beef hamburger with cheese sauce and garnish”. The meat was fantastic, and the potatoes were fresh out of the frying pan.

The little burger looks insignificant, but the taste was powerful. I think it just barely edged out El Somera for second place.

Conclusion

Of the six pinchos we tried, I would rank them as follows:

1. La Casona – Definitely the best tasting pincho of all, despite presentation.
2. El Guti – Excellent flavor, though simple presentation.
3. El Somera – Wonderfully warm stew, with a slightly sweet chocolate tone.
4. La Albadía – Very hearty and healthy, but nothing spectacular.
5. Cafetería Colón – Too much sauce, but a decent snack.
6. La Marina Company – A lot of work put into preparation, but a very eccentric taste.

So concludes this year’s Pincho Week. I hope to do much better than a 33.3% sample size next year. ¡Hasta entonces! Until then!

Getting There

As booked months in advance through Orbitz, we would fly from Charlotte to Philadelphia on Friday afternoon and from Philly to Brussels Friday night. We would arrive in Brussels at 8:00 am their time, and, after a 3 hour lay-over in the airport, we would continue on to Bilbao, Spain, where our son would meet us. Two weeks before our trip, however, Orbitz notified me that Brussels Airline had cancelled the flight that would be completing our long day of travel. We were, they said, now booked on a flight leaving the following day. Our 3-hour layover in Brussels had turned into a 27-hour layover.

Even in November, the Grand Place in Brussels is a fine place for a drink and a talk.

Although I was initially annoyed, it didn’t take me too long to see the silver lining. A bit of desktop research revealed that Brussels is a popular tourist town which might possibly offer the world’s best chocolate, beer, waffles and fries. It has a central area, called the Grand Place, which offers remarkable architecture and interesting tourist streets. As the capital of Europe, Brussels’ weekdays are filled with thousands of government bureaucrats who stay in nice hotels, but they go back to their home countries on weekends, and the prices of those nice hotel rooms come down under a hundred euros. Soon I was looking forward to my Brussels layover almost as much as I was to our trip to visit our Erik, his lovely wife Marga, and our two year-old granddaughter, Nora.

The architecture on all sides of the Grand Place was constantly pulling my gaze skyward.

Google told me the Brussels airport had luggage lockers which would hold our two suitcases, so we decided to pack Sunday’s clothes in our carry-on luggage, and leave our suitcases at the airport until we returned the following day. We found the lockers on floor zero, as advertised, and after stowing our bags, we proceeded down to floor minus one, which was where the train station was. Betsy paid about 8 euros for a ticket which would provide both of us with round-trip coverage, and we boarded the train after a 5 minute wait. Twenty minutes later we got off at the Bruxelles-Central Station, took the stairs up to daylight, and looked around. I was pretty sure from my Google Map street-view browsing which direction we needed to walk, and about how far to go before we made a turn. We saw a sign pointing in the direction of the Grand Place, and a few minutes later Betsy spotted our goal, the Royal Windsor Hotel. Located a block and a half from the Grand Place, it promised to offer a good place to sleep while still staying close to the action, and it delivered on that promise.

Nine-thirty in the morning was too early for check-in, so we left our carry-on bags there and walked unencumbered to the Grand Place. The architecture of the buildings surrounding the
square was even more remarkable than I had been led to believe, and I spent a lot of time looking up. The many street cafes were setting up their chairs and tables, and city workers were still picking up the trash from the night before. We found a small place which already had a few customers sitting outside, and we ordered a coffee and a croissant. When we finished, we meandered slowly back to the Royal Windsor where I was hoping to spend an hour lying down. Once again informed that our room was not ready, we decided to spend 90 minutes on a Brussels tour bus. That worked out nicely, although both Betsy and I nodded off several times between attractions.

What a beautiful name for a bakery!

Back at the Royal Windsor around 12:30, we found our room was ready. Betsy took a bath, and I collapsed on the bed for an hour. I didn’t want to sleep though, since I have found that I can recover fastest from six hours of east-bound jet-lag by not sleeping at all the night of the flight and the next day, and then trying to get a 10 hour sleep. Also, we had things to do in Brussels.

We started with the fries, with a topping of mayonnaise. You may know this as French fries, but the Belgian folks seem to think that France stole this from them, and that they make the best fries. I’m not a fan of mayo, but the fries were good.

Our next stop was a cafe on the Grand Place, where we watched the people passing by. Betsy had a glass of red wine, and I enjoyed a raspberry beer. Betsy was eager to practice her French, and when a woman sat next to her, she started a conversation with her. I was doubtful she would be able to pull it off, because it quickly became apparent the woman spoke no English, but she turned out to be a patient speaker and listener, and Betsy’s dormant French warmed up in the afternoon sun. Betsy’s new friend was waiting for her daughter, who was at a friend’s birthday party. In North Carolina parents might hold a child’s birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese, or maybe a go-cart track, but her daughter was being taught how to make chocolate at one of the many chocolate stores in town.

Belgian beer? Check. Fries with mayo? Check. Chocolate? Check. Belgian waffle? Check.

We decided to see the iconic statue of the pissing boy – Le Mannequin Pis – and I thought I knew at what angle to walk from the Grand Place, but after several abortive attempts to find it, we turned back for another quick hour-long rest in our hotel room. With very little energy left, we forged out on the street one last time, stopping for soup for me and a grilled cheese sandwich for Betsy, and also for some chocolate and beer to bring to Erik and Marga.

Soon though, we were back in the room, with no energy left. I took a bath, and we went to bed before 8:00. Sometime around 2:00 in the morning (8 pm in Morganton on a Saturday night) my iPhone went off, but we couldn’t find it in the dark in time to answer it, and no message was left.

We stayed in bed for 12 hours, sleeping for quite of bit of that time, and we both felt pretty good when we got up at 8:00 am on Sunday morning.

We stopped about a block away for a waffle and coffee. My Belgian waffle was very light and crispy, and heavily sprinkled with powdered sugar. My coffee was small, strong, and expensive, and included no refill. I asked our waiter before we left – in French, of course – which direction to go to find the little pisser, and he gave us enough instruction so that we were able to find the little guy within ten minutes. It was, of course, in exactly the opposite direction from where we had been looking under my direction the day before. The intersection displaying him was easy to see from a hundred meters away because of the fifty or so young Japanese tourists standing around taking pictures. Not to be outdone, we got pictures of the pisser, me and the pisser, the tourists surrounding the intersection, and even a larger version of the pisser who posed with Betsy outside a waffle shop.

Short story: Father loses child, swears to make a statue of him doing whatever he is doing.

We were planning on walking to the train station, but another couple was checking out of the Royal Windsor at the same time we were, and when the nice uniformed gentleman in the lobby asked us if we were going to the train station and would like to share a cab, we were happy to oblige. It may have been only four short blocks away, but it was partly uphill, and I had four bottles of beer in my carry-on. The driver seemed surprised when I told him we were going to the Bruxelles-Central station, but he dutifully drove us the four blocks there. We spoke with the other couple along the way. They were actually going to a different train station in Brussels where they would take a train to London. English wasn’t their primary language, so I didn’t bother explaining to them about how heavy four bottles of beer could be when walking uphill.

We caught the right train, picked up our luggage on level zero, and proceeded to level 2, departures. Our flight to Bilbao was uneventful, and as soon as we entered the luggage collection area of the airport we saw our son looking down on us from the level above. The 45 minute drive along the coast from Bilbao to Colindres is always a pleasure for me, and this time was no exception.

Nora enjoyed walking through Colindres every day with her American grandparents.

Being There

It was great to see Marga and Nora. Marga is always welcoming, but Nora can be a bit cautious with people, and I wasn’t surprised when she didn’t dive into our arms. It took Nora a little less than a minute to warm up to her Grandma and pick right back up where they had left off, sitting on the floor and playing with their imaginations. To my great pleasure, Nora warmed up to me after ten minutes. For the next six days we had a lot of fun together.

The most incredible thing is her language. I knew that two year-old children were remarkably adept at acquiring language, but that knowledge didn’t keep my mind from being blown. My granddaughter spoke fluent English with us, seemingly understanding everything we said. Marga works from 7:00 until 3:00, and leaves the house before anybody else gets up. All morning long, and until we took her to her daycare at 1:30, Nora spoke nothing but English with us. When we are not there, she does the same with Erik, except during their 11:00 to 12:30 stroll through town, when they speak nothing but Spanish with the barkeepers (among whom she is well-known), storekeepers, and friends they encounter. At daycare (where nobody speaks English) and when picked up by Mommy at 5:30, Nora speaks exclusively Spanish, supposedly with perfect diction, and using proper tenses. Back home in the evening, she speaks primarily Spanish when talking with her Mommy and primarily English when talking with her “Poppy”. During the week we were there she spoke nothing but English at home until Saturday when her Spanish grandparents, and great-grandfather, who speak zero English, and Aunt (who speaks some) came to visit for the day. Then she spoke Spanish fluently back and forth with them, and switched at the drop of a hat to English when talking with us. She spoke practically nothing a year ago, and I found myself saying over and over again – sometimes aloud – “But she is not even 3!” What an amazing thing the brain is.

Spending a day in Brussels meant that I was a day ahead of my normal schedule when it came to adjusting to the Spanish time zone and to the Spanish lifestyle. The high-quality blinds keep the morning light out of the bedroom, and while I have trouble sleeping past 6:00 am in North Carolina, I have little difficulty sleeping past 8:00 every morning in Spain. Since Betsy is an excellent sleeper under almost all circumstances, I am fairly accomplished at dressing in the dark and slipping out of a bedroom. Except for poor Marga who must rise early and walk to her work as Quality Assurance Manager at a local anchovy packaging plant, I am often the first person up. It is never long though before I hear a sleepy and sometimes whiny Nora coming down the stairs with her father. She sits on the floor in the kitchen while he squeezes oranges, and becomes her normal happy self after her first sip.

We usually play together while Poppy sneaks in a shower and gets dressed. If her grandmother is up, there is never any problem, but if Poppy is taking a shower before Grandma has come downstairs, she will sometimes whine and call to him through the bathroom door. He tells her to be patient, however, and she seems to accept that.

Shortly after 9:00 each morning, Betsy and I take the elevator down to the street and walk to the bakery. There we buy three chocolate Neapolitans and two loaves of fresh bread. The walk home from the bakery only takes 3 minutes, but if the bread is very warm I find it impossible to keep from tearing a small chunk off the end.

Erik has the coffee made by the time we arrive home, with the french press only needing to be plunged to the bottom. The freshly-squeezed orange juice I get in Spain is the only time I ever have freshly-squeezed orange juice, and with every glass I wonder why.

Here Nora is showing me a spreadsheet she developed tracking her parents’ sleep behavior.

While we eat breakfast, Nora wanders around, plays by herself, or sits at the table with us. When we are done, she uses my iPad to entertain me while Betsy washes the breakfast dishes, and then Nora gets dressed for the day. After some more crawling around on the floor playing with Grandma, we put on our coats and head “to the street”, as she says.

When there are no errands to run, and if the weather is mild, the daily walk might be along the waterfront. When the tide is out, the bay is filled with birds mucking around the acres normally covered with water. When the tide is in, the water comes almost to the walkway, and we frequently pass a fisherman or two. The walkway ends at the far side of the town, and we go back to the street and walk past all the bars and shops. Erik knows which bars serve the best free tapas, and at what time of day. He knows who charges 0.70 euro for a glass of red wine, and who charges 0.90 euro. He knows which place can be counted on for a plate of olives, and where you are likely to get a bite of tortilla. He also knows which bars have waiters and waitresses who know and like Nora, and offer her treats. So when we stop here or there on the way back through town on this day or that, we are not stopping and resting along the way in a haphazard fashion.

Eventually, every day, we end up at Susinos, the family grocery store one short block from their front door. There, Ana, who runs the checkout counter, greets us as we enter the door. We usually encounter the manager, Andrés, as we walk to the back, if he is not carrying home some patron’s groceries. Nora always heads to the back to see her friend Tona, who runs the produce department. Tona stops whatever she is doing, even if she has a line of customers waiting for her, and uses some handy bit of fruit to entice Nora to come give her a kiss on the cheek. As a proud grandparent watching this, my thoughts at this point always to turn to the poor folks waiting in line to be served and what they must be thinking as they watch Tona carry Nora in her arms around the store, cooing at the bananas and the strawberries. While I have seen this happen many times over the years, I have yet to notice any annoyance in the eyes of those left waiting. Mind you, only half the time do I see eyes that light up in recognition of Nora’s earthshattering cuteness, but the eyes of the other half remain stoically non-accusing. While Tona helps Nora choose another piece of fruit, I wander over to the butcher area, where I say “HOLA BRUNO!” Bruno, who along with his family lives in the same building and on the same floor as Erik, replies with a big smile and a loud “HELLO PAUL”. This is all acted out as part of our long- standing joke about how when people don’t speak the same language they raise their volume.

I was quite honored when Nora asked to climb on my lap at Saturday’s family dinner out.

Around 12:30, Erik feeds Nora her lunch. This is usually soup, and may include meat or macaroni. Nora likes milk, water, and yogurt smoothies, and will often include olives, bread and cheese in her lunch. When she is done, her teeth are brushed and she gets a spit-shine, and then she gets walked to her daycare program, along with her stroller. At this point, the stroller is used more as a nap location when at daycare, although napping at daycare doesn’t seem to be occurring much anymore. As we enter daycare, Nora gets somber and teary-eyed, but she understands inevitability (somewhat), and she gives each of us a hug and a goodbye kiss before sadly going into the room which is now, shortly after 1:30, filled with a dozen crawling, sitting, walking and trike-riding 1 – 3 year-olds.

It may be my imagination, but it seems to me that Nora has a really good sense of humor.

When we spend weekdays in Colindres, the time between 1:30 and 3:30 is always fun. Nothing beats time with my granddaughter, but after spending all morning with her, it is nice to walk and talk just a little faster. The walk we take at 1:30 is similar to the walk we take at 10:30 or 11:00. Except for the bars we stop in, the walks may be almost identical. There are many fine bars in Colindres (50?), and the competition between them is fairly stiff. I applaud and support, with my voice and my money, as many of them as I can, and as often as I can. We never spend more than 20 minutes in any bar, and we never have more than one drink in any bar. Weather permitting, we sit at an outside table, watching the people of Colindres.

Marga gets off work at 3:00, and dinner is usually served at 3:10. Sometimes it is something Marga has made earlier and left in the refrigerator. Often it is something that Erik has made. It is always good to see Marga, and she is always glad to be home and to have work over with for the day. In past years, she had two hours off for lunch, and then had to return and work for 3 more hours after that, but by sacrificing her early mornings and going in at 7:00, she has been able to avoid that schedule. Generally before 3:30, Marga punches Erik and tells him he needs to go to work. Erik dutifully complies, and walks the 30 feet to his office where he puts on his headset and closes his office door.

When lunch (which always, when we are there, includes some more wine) is done, so am I. Either on the couch in the living room, or upstairs on a bed, I lie down to rest my eyes for a few minutes, and get up an hour later. At 5:30, it is time to go and get Nora. Marga usually performs this task, taking Nora for a walk, and playing at one of the many playgrounds in Colindres before returning home. When Betsy and I are visiting, Marga lets us do this. Nora runs into Betsy’s arms as soon as we enter the room, and she is glad to take our hand and head to the street.

We know Colindres pretty well by now, and we don’t always take the same route, but we generally wind up at Nora’s favorite playground. At this time of day it is usually dark, but the playground is lit, and full of children. Sometimes, it is a little too full of rowdy older kids, and Nora prefers staying outside the fence and just watching. When it is not too full, she likes climbing up the slide, and sliding down. Her father lets her climb up the ladder too, and slide (with assistance) down the pole, but her Grandma and Grandpa don’t sponsor those activities.

Nora has been going to this playground for years now, and has mastered much of it.

Betsy and I like to stop at a bar on our walk home from daycare, and Nora is always amenable. While walking home one day, I asked Nora if she knew where the Tablón bar was. She said she did, and sure enough, when we turned the corner her arm flew up and she yelled “Grandpa, the Tablón!” It was still over 100 meters away, but her eyes are sharp, and it does have a sign. We like the Tablón, because they give you a big basket of peanuts and let you drop your shells on the floor. Nora doesn’t have enough finger strength to open some of the tougher nuts, but she is very independent, and she has developed a pretty effective table smash move which worked well for her. Betsy and I each have small glass of red wine, and Nora gets a glass of water. When our wine and nuts are gone, we walk the final 50 meters to their front door and take the elevator to the 6th floor. There Nora opens the door and runs to Poppy’s office to interrupt his work and hug his neck.

For me, a normal Thanksgiving means turkey and stuffing at my mother’s house. This year we did not have a normal Thanksgiving. The Spanish celebrate many holidays throughout the year, but the annual giving of thanks for when the Indians taught the Settlers how to live off the land is not one of them. Erik, however, works for an American firm, and he had the day off. At Marga’s suggestion, the American citizens (Nora has two citizenships) piled in the car after breakfast and Erik drove us for 20 minutes to Castro Urdiales, a small coastal town to the East of Colindres.

Thursday was a beautiful day in Castro. We walked to the church seen on the far left.

The town was lovely, and the walk along the waterfront to the church/fort in the distance was enticing. We took a few pictures along the way. After visiting the church, we walked down into the old section of the town, where the streets were filled with small old bars. Some of them were putting out gorgeous arrays of tapas on their counter. Several times we succumbed.

We stopped for lunch at a nice restaurant. We didn’t select the menu-of-the-day option, since we had already been snacking at each of our last 4 or 5 stops. I chose artichoke hearts.

That evening Erik made a turkey pizza, and Betsy made some stuffing from a mix she had brought along in her suitcase. Wine, bread, and several kinds of cheese rounded out the meal. Our Thanksgiving was not traditional, but it was fun. I felt thankful for many things.

Friday night Erik and Marga went out for dinner and dancing with their friends. Betsy and I stayed home with Nora. We decided to keep our dinner preparations simple, and selected a cheese omelet and sausage. The eggs were from the chickens kept by Marga’s father. I had bought the five links of sausage from Bruno earlier that day. Nora pulled a stool over to the counter and helped with the meal preparation, which proved to be more interesting to her than did actually eating the food later. When we were done eating, Nora helped Betsy wash the dishes, and then we sat on the living room floor playing. Nora did not notice when her parents left a little before 9. We played until 10, and then, after numerous trips to the bathroom because she really had to go this time, Nora settled down in her bed and fell asleep. Not once had Nora cried, whined, raised her voice, or told us “No”. We felt pretty good about that. About 45 minutes later, however, she began crying. She had fallen out of her bed (a drop of just a few inches), and needed to be consoled and tucked back in.

This lovely medieval church provides a good example of the local gothic architecture.

Did I mention Nora was independent? The most common phrase I heard this trip was “NO! I want to do it!” This was said anytime you tried to do anything for Nora, such as put on her socks, or put on her shoes, or help her unbutton her coat, or turn the page, or bring up an iPad app, or take a picture, or clean up a crumb, or – well, you get the picture. There proved to be many activities which, with Nora’s help, took more than twice as long to do.

Did I mention Nora did a lot of talking? Some phrases seem to occur over and over again. I suppose we all have our favorites. Mine are “Poppy, I said BE PATIENT!” This was uttered many times, always when her Dad was putting pressure on her to finish up some activity. Best use: when she has been in the bathroom by herself for a while and her Dad asks her if she needs any help. Also, “OK, one more time, and then – no more.” This was said repeatedly whenever it was time to move from one enjoyable activity to the next. As you might imagine, promising “no more” did nothing to decrease the likelihood that she would say it again as soon as the “one more time” had occurred. Vying for most frequent: “Grandma (or Grandpa), what are you doing?” which was consistently followed by “Why?”. Finally, “Yes, or no?” This was always delivered with a one arm and then the other arm hand gesture. Best use: “Which is it Poppy? Yes (left shrug), or no (right shrug)?”

Fried calamari smothered with super-thin onion rings. Wonderful! Note my new old man hat.

Somewhere along the way Nora picked up my digital camera, and I didn’t tell her to put it down. Instead, I showed her how to take her finger off the lens, how to turn it on and off, where the shutter button was, and how to hold it in front of you so you can use the display to see what your picture will look like. Betsy saw what was happening, and taught her how to put her wrist through the strap “like a bracelet”. Before long, Nora was shooting pictures. Many of the pictures she took were simply no good. An embarrassingly large number of them, actually. But, minute after minute, as she gained first-hand photography experience, her work improved.

I liked her style. She asked no permission, and wasted no time. Quite often she caught people off guard, before they realized there was a camera in the room. When she was detected, her quick responses captured people who, instead of putting on their photography face, were accidentally showing their real authentic smile of delight as they glanced down at this two year-old foolishly brandishing a camera. When I reviewed her pictures, I came to appreciate some of the advantages of shooting from a position only two feet above the floor.

Nora developed a new hobby during our trip, and she seemed to be pretty good at it.

On Saturday, some of Marga’s family – her mother, father, sister, and grandfather – came to visit from Mondragon. Nora is a big favorite with all of them, and they delighted in hugging and kissing her when they arrived. Only Marga’s sister understands and speaks English, so beyond the asking how they are, and the saying that I am fine, I cannot talk to them very much. Nora, however, has no such problem. They spoke rapid Spanish to her, and she to them. It was clear from their laughter that Nora was saying some cute things, and occasionally Erik or Marga would translate for us so we could laugh too. As the group settled into the room for a bit before heading to the street, Nora worked the crowd like a politician, sometimes coming over to the American side of the room and speaking with us, and constantly moving around.

Betsy and I had been looking forward to seeing the gang from Mondragon again. We like them very much. We really appreciate how they have welcomed Erik into their family and learned to love him like we do. We were especially looking forward on this trip to seeing Ramón, Marga’s only living grandfather. At 91, he is the family patriarch. Normally as strong as an ox, he has had health problems recently, and his usual ebullient mood was missing. We were all glad that he had gotten out of the hospital a week earlier, and had felt strong enough to make the trip to Colindres on this day. When we kissed our greeting, I asked him how he was. “Muy mal, muy mal” he said.

Nora snapped this picture of her great-grandfather, her mother, and her grandfather.

Marga’s father, Juan, drove her mother, Marce, and her grandfather to the restaurant that Erik and Marga selected, while the rest of us walked there. When we met them near the restaurant, we walked a short distance to a different bar and had a drink there, and then we went back to the restaurant, where they had prepared a table for the nine of us in the back. Like she is at many of the finer eating and drinking establishments in Colindres, Nora is a favorite of several of the workers there, who greet her by name. Offerings of special treats are common.

I chose to have a large green salad for my first course, although the chorizo and potato soup looked good. The breaded chicken I had for my second course was also excellent, and more than I could finish. I selected flan with chocolate sauce for my third course, as did almost everyone else at the table. Our meal came with coffee, and also with unlimited amounts of fresh bread, red wine, and bottled water.

As we loitered at the table towards the end of our meal, Nora came down and sat on my lap so she could speak with her American relatives. After a bit, she went back to the Spanish side. Her brain switched between languages just as effectively as her lithe little body squeezed between the chairs. As our meal was ending, she asked for my camera and took a few more pictures.

This portrait of Betsy was taken by Nora. I like the perspective from close to the ground.

After our meal, Belén drove Ramón and Marce back to Erik and Marga’s apartment while the rest of us walked back. When we reached their home, however, we kept going. Erik went up to get Belén and his camera, and then Juan, Belén, Erik, Betsy, Nora and I went for a long walk. We went down to the waterfront and looked at the boats, then along the waterfront to the very end, and finally back through town and home (again).

About an hour later it was time for the Mondragon contingent to leave. We were all especially careful to say goodbye to Ramón since it was apparent that he was experiencing dangerously low levels of will-to-live.

We knew we had to get up early Sunday morning in order to get to Bilbao in time to catch our 6:50 am flight to Frankfurt, but this was our last night in Colindres, and playing on the floor with Nora was so much fun. Eventually we all got to bed and to sleep, but not before getting one last beautifully warm hug and sweet butterfly kiss from Nora.


Nora enjoyed assembling and decorating the Christmas tree the day before we left.

Getting Home

We have done this many times, and feel like old pros. I take my Dramamine as soon as I wake up. Betsy and I leave our heavy luggage at the top of the stairs, letting our strong son do the heavy lifting. We wheel our bags into the elevator and down to the street. Erik loads them in the trunk, and drives us expertly through the dark to the Bilbao airport. We quickly hug and say our goodbyes, and Betsy and I head inside. We go immediately to the Lufthansa kiosk and print out our boarding passes. At the counter, we head for the preferred customer line where our bags are checked through to Charlotte. The security gate is never busy at that time of the morning, and we are through in only a minute (belt off, but shoes stay on). We head for the place we can sit down and split a croissant, with a coffee for Betsy and chocolate milk for me. In a few minutes we walk down the ramp to the gate and wait the last few minutes there. The plane boards early, and takes off on time. We leave Bilbao in the dark and an hour later watch the sun rise over France from 40,000 feet.

Everything at the Frankfurt airport goes smoothly and efficiently. When the time comes, we are among the first to board flight 750 to Charlotte, so there is always ample room in the overhead compartment for our carry-on bags. Unfortunately, the sound system in my seat wasn’t working, so I couldn’t listen to the movies that I could view on the screen in front of me. Fortunately, Erik had placed a few movies on my iPad in case of just such as emergency, so I found myself enjoying an even better movie-viewing experience than I would have if my airline seat’s normally sound sound system had been working.

Our normal 15 minute trip through the passport-checking security line in Charlotte took 30 minutes this time, as several international flights had apparently arrived simultaneously. Nevertheless, we got through the airport, found our car in the long term lot #2, and began the hour-long drive home with no wasted time. We had watched the sun rise over France long ago, and as we drove the final miles home, we watched it set over Morganton.