A Leap of Faith

David and I never discussed the topic of risk before we got married. I never even thought to ask David about his risk tolerance because I never thought that it would play such an important role in our lives. But nearly nine years after our first date, I can attest to the fact that how each of us handles risk has become a constantly recurring theme – and debate – in our marriage.

David tends to act impulsively. Taking risks doesn’t phase him. He’s constantly dreaming up new ideas, willing to try anything, ready to move forward even if he doesn’t know where forward will take him. Because he embraces risk, he left his apartment, his belongings and his family in Paris in 2001 and followed me to California. He was ready to risk everything for me even though, at that point, we had only been dating for two months.

I, on the other hand, tend to be more cautious. I’ll take risks, but only when I’ve deemed the risk worthy of taking. I need time to calculate it, analyze it and get used to it before I’m ready to take a leap of faith. Because I’m wary of uncalculated risk, I was scared when David arrived to California for a visit and informed me that he didn’t intend on going back, that he wanted to stay. The thought of taking our relationship to such a high level of commitment gripped me with fear. But the fear only lasted for an evening. After processing the information, I was ready to move forward. Consequently, life moved forward as well. Less than two days later, we found David a job at a super nice French restaurant in Newport Beach, and, two years later, we were saying our vows in front of 70 people in my grandmother’s backyard overlooking Big Bear Lake.

Separately, we lived our lives as we knew how, as we felt comfortable. Together, we’ve had to learn each other’s ways, respect each other’s needs, and figure out how to mesh the two without making David feel like he is being held back or making me feel like we are being too reckless or moving too fast.

We’ve done well for the most part. Once we understood our different approaches to risk, we started incorporating it in to our action plans so that we could move forward together. In 2005, when we decided to leave the West Coast for the East Coast, David went first to see if he could find a job as a private chef. We were lucky enough to have an amazing friend who let David crash on her couch while he interviewed for jobs. And even though David had never been to New York City, he tackled the challenge, learned his way around the city and landed a job as Revlon’s corporate chef less than two months after arriving. Because of David’s ability to face risk head-on, we were able to experience living in New York City. The three years we spent there enriched my life, but I don’t know if I would have had the guts to pull it off had I been on my own.

When David wanted to explore the possibility of opening a business in Spain in 2006, he went to Europe and I stayed behind. He didn’t find what he hoped to and returned after five months. Because of my tendency to be a bit more cautious, I had kept my job in the States and we were able to carry on with our lives in the US without too much difficulty.

And when David started talking about opening a tapas restaurant in New York, I talked him out of it. The thought of covering our living expenses as well as the expenses of a business while we got it going was too overwhelming for me. It was a risk that I just couldn’t take.

For eight years, it was a tug of war as David tried to get more slack and I tried to reign him in. It was also a give and take as David learned to act a little less hastily and I learned to throw caution to the wind a bit more. And I suppose that it all was an exercise to prepare us for the situation that we encountered last March when we both got laid off from our jobs and were forced to face an entirely new situation, a situation where risk lurked around every corner. Even staying in New York City was risky. Without an income, how would we be able to pay $1700/month for our 2 bedroom East Harlem apartment?

More importantly, my whole definition of security was instantly redefined as the full-time job that had been my security blanket for so long unraveled before my very eyes. And I finally started to understand David’s desire to start something for us, to work for us – in a business that was ours. Even though I had spent the previous six years talking to and writing about entrepreneurs, I never had had courage to live my life as they did – until that day that my world tipped upside down and everything that had been my reality shifted with the turbulence and I really had no choice but to throw caution to the wind and see where life took me.

Our move to Spain might have been a big move, but, in reality, it wasn’t a bigger risk than anything else. At that moment, the future was unpredictable no matter what decision we took, no matter where we went. And then we heard about David’s dad starting a restaurant in Torrevieja, Spain, going to help with the business was a risk that we just had to take. There was no reason not to. Actually, it seemed like the perfect solution. It would enable David to be part of a business venture, yet would provide the structure that I needed to still feel secure. But when the partnership didn’t work out and we were on our own in Spain, suddenly, the degree of risk altered. We were in a new country (new to both of us since David hadn’t lived in Spain since he was 12), looking for a business in a country where one could innocently mistake a prostitution house for a rundown home in the countryside, and I felt very vulnerable indeed.

And I could feel myself backing away. But just as my natural instinct to run for cover started kicking in, we went to Paris to meet our new niece, and, Chou Chou, my creperie friend, told me clearly and directly to stop holding David back. Chou Chou had talked to me about this before, but the difference was that, now, I was ready to listen.

Risk is a funny thing. It can freeze you in one spot or it can enable you to move on to bigger and better things – depending on how you react to it. Between the double layoffs and Chou Chou reiterating his message to trust David, we’ve arrived at a very significant point in our lives and our marriage. It’s a point that I can safely and confidently say that I never would have arrived at on my own.

We’re at the edge of a cliff, and what lies before us has the element of risk that David has been seeking. At the same time, we’ve been standing on the brink for a while now, and I’ve had the time to study the situation and determine how high off the ground we actually are. I’ve calculated the time to the bottom, the possible snags along the way, and what will happen if the parachute doesn’t open.

What awaits, I can’t be sure. All I know is that it’s time to jump.

On our wedding day in August 2003. We were surrounded by our friends and family and had the celebration in my grandmother’s backyard.

December 31, 2005. Our first New Year’s Eve together in New York City

Our arrival to Spain in 2009

Becoming Altean

On December 7th, David and I became Alteans. Officially becoming two of the 23,000 people who live here was as simple as filing a paper with the city hall. It was an almost instantaneous process. Oh, how I wished that becoming part of the Altean community could be as easy!

Up until that point, we hadn’t had the best of luck. We had barely moved in to our charming, village house before Paco had thrown us out, leaving us wondering whether all Alteans were as reserved as he, but, more importantly, instantly changing my whole vision of what life would be like in Altea. There would be no bundling up close to a cozy fire on a cold winter night. Instead, we would be pressing our knees up against the oil heater that David’s step mom brought us from Torrevieja in order to stay warm in our drafty apartment. No longer would we hear the quiet voices of pedestrians walking by. Rather, we would be subjected to the constant drone of cars on the major road just outside of our building. It was as if Altea’s cute village homes were reserved just for the locals and we had been rightfully placed where we belonged: just on the outskirts of the old town, close enough to gaze upon its beauty and even catch a glimpse of the church if we looked through the surrounding apartment buildings at just the right angle but too far removed to really be a part of things. Perhaps, Altea was just to look at but not to touch.

Nevertheless, I was determined to not let our experience with Paco cast a negative light over our new beginnings in Altea. And so, with my parents, we started exploring our new village. We bought ceramics at a local artisan and learned that the owner had had the store for 27 years. My father liked him and had tried to talk to him. But neither could speak the language of the other. Not much was communicated verbally, but the strong desire to connect was evident and left a good energy in the air. We visited a local painter’s shop. An ivy plant wrapped its way inside, rendering the artist’s little paintings of Altea all the more charming. And I remembered the first time that David and I had come to Altea. This was the artist that I had seen painting while an old woman leaned over her balcony above and talked to him below. The scene looked like it came out of a painting and I had captured it in a photo. The artist’s shop was tucked away just to the right of that scene.

And when my parents and David left for California, I continued to go out, hoping that, just by being outside, I might hasten the transition from tourist to local. And I sat on the stone wall set just slightly back from the major lookout point, and I quietly watched as tourists arrived – one after another – to admire the idyllic, panoramic view in front of them. They always took pictures and usually stayed a while, and I could tell that they were swept away by the magnificent spread of rooftops and water below. And then I switched places and sat in a patch of sun in the square for a while, and I looked at the pedestrian street below and caught sight of a couple kissing. And I realized that my heart-thumping, head-over-heels reaction to Altea might have been personally life changing, but the feelings that I had experienced were far from unique. Thousands had come before me, thousands would come after me, and each and every one of us would experience a connection with Altea so moving that it was often visible in some form or fashion.

But this realization only made me yearn for more. I wanted more than just the typical reaction that any tourist would have. I wanted to know the people who lived inside these beautiful homes, so well crafted and so well cared for. I wanted to walk through the streets and see people that I knew – just like the old lady I saw one day at the supermarket. In just the short time that I was behind her as we rode the escalator up, she had spotted three different people she knew who were on their way down. I wanted to be personally invited inside these homes from behind whose doors often escaped soft music and warm laughter.

As of that moment, though, I knew no one. But, as I passed through the square on my frequent trips to the library for wifi, I saw the painter who owned the little shop and who had been painting in the square the first day that David and I had visited Altea. After several crossings, blank looks turned to recognition and then a friendly wave and then, one day, he said hi and introduced himself. And that’s how, all on my own, I got to know Juan who, unknowingly, had made David’s and my first visit to Altea picture perfect and who seems to open his little shop when he feels like it by hanging his sign from a shingle and opening his doors for business.

And, because Altea is so small, you can’t help but start to see people you’ve seen before. They may not always be in the place that you originally saw them, so it becomes a game of Memory as you try to remember why they look so familiar. We saw the security guard from the immigration office getting drinks at one of our favorite bakeries; we crossed paths with the owner of Casa Vitale, the restaurant where we sought refuge when we came to visit Altea during a downpour; and I said hello to a waitress who served me a vegetarian sandwich at a cafe near the water as she hiked up to the top of the old town. And, every time such a thing happens, I experience a small jolt of happiness. These brief encounters may be insignificant for them, but, for me, it adds dimension and meaning to my life in Altea.

We’re even getting to know the cats who roam freely in the streets. On our first visit to Altea, we assumed that they were strays and were even tempted to take one home. It turns out that each one has a home. So, now, when we come across one in the street, we look a little closer and sometimes we can identify it as Paco’s or Juan’s.

But, without a doubt, it’s David who holds the true key to unlock the invisible door that separates the locals from the outsiders. He talks to the people and immediately blends in. And, thanks to him, we now know the owner of an antique store who we’ve sought advice from and who’s fixing our wine barrel that we brought from New York. David helped connect me with a friendly woman who has a store near our apartment and who’s interested in doing a language exchange. And we even exchanged numbers with a guy that we sat next to in a bar – and who turned out to be the son of the mayor of Altea.

Slowly, Altea is transforming. As we walk through its charming streets, we still stop dead in our tracks sometimes as we catch sight of a view that’s so picturesque that it takes our breath away, but now the streets hold a different kind of significance. That’s where Juan has his shop, that’s where Paco lives, that’s where our wine barrel is being fixed. And, after some trial and error, we’ve figured out the labyrinth of winding streets to determine the shortest path down to the center of town and the easiest way up – necessary knowledge for when I’m late for Spanish class or we’re trying to catch the tram that departs only once an hour or when we’re bringing our groceries home.

We still have much to learn about the way things are done in this little village. We still have plenty more people to meet. And we still have a long way to go before we’re real Alteans in the true sense of the word. But at least it’s a start and perhaps, one day, we’ll even be invited inside one of these charming homes so that we can add our own voices to the laughter.

This is the main street in the old town. Els Ceramistes is the ceramic shop where my dad “talked” to the shopowner.

Juan oustide of his shop

Juan’s Shop Inside

David’s dad, stepmom, aunt and uncle came to visit. Of course, we had to take a picture in front of the view (although this photo doesn’t do it justice).

When my family came to visit, we took a picture in front of the view, of course.

The houses in Altea are beautiful – each one more amazing than the next.

Views like this take our breath away.

At the Top of My Class

I woke up but dreaded getting out of bed. It wasn’t even light out but, more prohibitive even than the darkness that greeted me, was how cold it was! Temperatures have dropped here over the past month and, on top of that, we have discovered that our apartment becomes an ice box in the winter. But it was a big day and I had no choice but to get out of bed. Shivering, I grudgingly got up and took a shower. And then I waited for David to take his. He didn’t have to come with me, but, because he knew how nervous I was, he was accompanying me. I grabbed the notebook that David had found for me the day before, looked at the clock with dismay, and headed out the door. I was going to be late on my very first day.

As I quickly walked along the cobbled roads of the old town, David looked at me and laughed. He found it amusing that I was so worried about being late. For me, it was only natural. I didn’t want to make a bad first impression. And so I continued to scurry along, and, as we passed the church in the square at the top, the bells tolled 9:00. I should already be there, but, instead, I still had to reach the center of town at the very bottom of the hill. And so we raced along the streets that overall lead down but, at times, meander left and right. And then we were at the bottom and were soon arriving at the building. And then, much to my relief, we spotted a group of people in the lobby. Perhaps, I wasn’t late after all? Perhaps, things hadn’t yet begun?

It was my very first day of Spanish class, and, seemingly, I was right on time. The teacher was leading the group of students to the classroom, and David stopped him to tell him that I was new to the class. He looked at me and asked if I had studied Spanish before. “No, never,” David responded for me. I had enrolled in the basic course but apparently there weren’t enough totally beginner students to start a new class so they had put me in a higher level. The teacher looked doubtful. I chimed in (in Spanish) that I had lived in Spain for six months. That seemed to convince him and he waved me along. I could try out the class. Having safely delivered me to my new Spanish class, David left, and I went to join the 8 or so other students in the classroom.

Phase two of the test: oral examination in front of the class. The teacher asked me a series of questions. Where was I from, why had I come to Altea, how did I learn Spanish? And as I understood and answered each question in Spanish, my confidence grew and I elaborated, throwing in details about my in-laws and how they only speak Spanish and French. And, as I continued speaking, I noticed that my new Danish, Norwegian and Russia classmates were nodding in admiration and then they even started to say out loud how good my Spanish was. Really?! I was on Cloud 9 as I was showered with approval from my peers.

Since arriving in Spain, I hadn’t had a way of measuring my level of Spanish. But here, in a class that was already in session and, in fact, already halfway through the book, I could officially confirm that I was more advanced than basic. In fact, as I sat through the class, I understood more than most and assessed that I was one of the best in the group! And, as the hour drew to a close, the teacher looked at me and said that I could stay in the class. I had officially passed the test. I didn’t know what level this was, but it definitely wasn’t zero.

I left the room delighted with my progress and couldn’t wait to tell David about how well I had done. And, as I giddily told him everything, he smiled. He was proud of me. And when we arrived home, I spoke to him in Spanish to show him just how much I knew and I happily told him how I felt that the Spanish had started to click ever since we had returned from the US. And then I diligently sat down to do my homework, renewed with energy and motivation to learn this language once and for all and determined to remain one of the best in the class.

That was last Tuesday.

Then, over the weekend, we got invited to David’s aunt and uncle’s house for lunch. We went for lunch but ended up staying for two days. And, for two days, it was a conversation marathon and the Spanish words flowed and swirled around me until I couldn’t take it anymore. I had arrived, excited to show David’s family the progress that I had made, but I soon realized how little I really knew. It was the Vodafone experience when I couldn’t understand the lady and ended up getting disconnected from the internet all over again. I tried to concentrate on the sounds but, even when I could grasp several words, I couldn’t string them together to make sense of the sentence. I had to readjust to their accent and the speed at which they spoke and I got buried in new vocabulary as they excitedly made plans for one of my just-engaged cousin’s upcoming wedding – including who would come to the bachelorette party and what kind of strippers to hire – and the arrival of my other cousin’s baby and what she had bought so far in preparation and how the baby bump really starts to show at 7 months.

And, as David and I traveled on the 3 hour train and bus ride home, I plummeted from Cloud 9 and despairingly complained to David how hard it was to be with his family for such intense stretches of time. I was mentally exhausted.

And then I realized what a roller coaster learning a new language really is. It has ups and down and twists and turns. And all you can do is relish the up moments – those moments when you’re climbing high in the sky – so that you can survive those instances when it all comes crashing down.

In front of the Social Center where my Spanish class is

A Matter of Time

In New York City, life moves at lightning speed. Business is conducted every second of the day, subways empty and fill in endless waves of motion, and people barely stop long enough to eat. In New York City, time may still be measured in seconds, minutes, hours but these units of measurement take on new definitions when applied to the NYC lifestyle – so much so that “New York Minute” has become a term to indicate the fast, hectic pace of life in the Big Apple.

As a private chef, David became more than familiar with the term as he often found himself racing against the clock – to get 80 perfectly plated dishes in front of 80 elite guests, to stock the Manhattan apartment with fresh meals while delivering food to the Connecticut estate. However, we grew to dislike the term when David was looking for a job as a waiter (between private chef jobs) and the manager at one restaurant asked him in a condescending tone if he knew what a New York Minute was. Never mind that David had had extensive restaurant experience working in some of the nicest restaurants in Paris and Southern California. In a New York Minute, the manager had decided that David was not quite quick enough for the job.

The hurried pace of life in New York City was exhausting, at times; however, since arriving in Spain, I’ve found myself longing for just a bit more of that speed. It’s not that the days pass slowly here because they don’t. And even though it doesn’t help that siesta time distractingly breaks up the day and delays things from being accomplished, it’s not that that drives productivity to a grinding halt. Rather, it’s just that the overall pace of life is slower. There’s no sense of deadlines to meet or appointments to make. Life happens when it happens, and, try as you might, you can’t speed up the process. We’ve learned that – the hard way.

Upon returning to Spain, David spent days trying to restore our internet at home. Either the system was down or the clerk didn’t want to help or they were missing bank information, but, invariably, the end result was always the same: David would walk away empty-handed, and I’d head to the library for wifi. Now, we’re back to the same stage that we were at when David left for the U.S. We are expecting a call to arrange a time to set up the DSL. We’ve been waiting for that call for about a week now.

But a week or so is just a drop in the bucket when compared to months – three to be exact. Our scooter broke down in October and we haven’t seen it since. We’ve traveled to Paris, we’ve crossed the Atlantic to the U.S., the seasons have changed and still no scooter. And it’s not even close to being fixed. In fact, three months later and we are still just waiting to hear whether the warranty will cover a new engine (the engine went kaput). The guy at the shop tells us to call back tomorrow, but we’ve been waiting long enough. David has screamed, hollered and shouted – but to no avail. There’s not much we can do. And so we wait. And we walk. Or hike rather. Up steep, ever-climbing roads that lead us through Altea’s old town and beyond, lugging bags of groceries and occasionally a 5 kilogram bag of cat litter and a 6 kilogram bag of cat food to our apartment which has good views – for a reason.

With normal life moving at snail’s pace, it’s not surprising that all things bureaucratic nearly come to a dead halt. Since July, David and I have been trying to get my residency (getting my NIE which is the number for tax purposes was accomplished swiftly in the beginning but actually getting my papers to live and work here has proven more difficult) but when David, in exacerbation, complains that it’s been six months since we first applied, the immigration officer doesn’t even blink. “This is nothing!” she says. “Usually, people wait at least a year.” Somehow, that doesn’t make us feel any better.

Things in Spain move so slowly that, sometimes, life can’t wait and just moves on. Being Jamaican, my mom was only granted a visa for 16 days when she came to visit over Thanksgiving. She was supposed to leave by November 30th, but when we had to spend my family’s whole vacation looking for – and moving into – a new apartment, we went to the police station to file an application in order to get her visa extended until December 15th. She left on December 9th. To this day, we still have yet to hear from the police station.

Units of time may be systematically measured in seconds, minutes and hours, but there’s a whole other element that plays a very significant role in the passing of time. Just like youth makes summer vacation seem like a year and a broken heart makes the passing of each day seem like an eternity, culture sets the overall pace of life. New York City barrels along in high speed while Spain moseys along in low speed.

Six months in, David and I are stuck somewhere in the middle. We don’t expect things to happen in a New York minute, but, if we could get our scooter back some time this year, that would be nice.

I've been too exhausted to take a photo of us lugging our groceries, but here's a photo to illustrate just how steep the streets really are. Photo courtesy of Coral Wilson.

Kids, Kings and Presents

In the United States, December 25th is a magical day. Children get excited about Christmas and put out milk and cookies for Santa Claus, a jolly old man in a red suit who lives in the north pole, commands a team of reindeer and delivers presents by sliding down chimneys all over the world. In Spain, it’s January 6th that’s of utmost importance and Santa takes backseat to the true bearer of gifts: three kings – Gaspar, Melchior and Balthazar – who travel by horses and camels laden with presents for all the boys and girls. And, in anticipation of their arrival, kids lay out their slippers filled with hay or dried grass for the kings’ animals.

David had told me many times about Three Kings Day, but it had never really held much significance for me, for I had yet to experience it for myself – to understand its importance and witness the excitement – until this year. While I had missed Christmas in Spain, it turned out that I had returned in time for a day more revered even than the 25th of December.

The momentum started slowly. The supermarket started stocking piles of king cakes (“Roscon de Reyes”) – a circular brioche cake with a hole in the middle and filled with vanilla or chocolate creams. But the best part is that each and every one is sure to have a trinket hidden somewhere in the cake. The lucky one who finds the treasure is crowned king or queen and can proudly bear the gold, paper crown that comes with the cake. Then, on January 5th, I noticed a barricade on one of Altea’s main streets and wondered if something would be happening later. I found out the answer soon enough when David called me a couple of hours later, telling me to come downtown. Crowds were gathering and David had found out from a policeman that the kings were 20 minutes away! I grabbed my camera and made my way down Altea’s winding streets and found David in front of the city hall where hundreds were in attendance.

Kids lined both sides of the main street with plastic bags open and ready, and I guessed that they must be expecting to fill it with something and I waited to see what that would be. The adults seemed just as excited and I jumped up on a platform to join a group of them who had positioned themselves to see what I guessed must be a parade that would soon be coming down the street. And as the movement and energy swirled around me, I got caught up in the spirit of Three Kings Day even though I had never experienced it before and didn’t even know what to expect.

And then the parade started and groups of children dressed up as shepherds marched by, men on horses dazzled the crowd, floats with candy-bearing women and children threw treats and confetti into the crowds setting the kids with the plastic bags into action, and then the three kings arrived – one after the other – majestic and noble as they waved to the crowd. And, then the fireworks started, exploding in an array of colors right above a bridge, and soon David and I were standing on that bridge so that we could be directly underneath the fireworks as they went off. And I looked up and couldn’t believe how close they were! Surely, it would be illegal in the US to set off fireworks at such close range.

So, when David tells me that he used to set out his slippers and fill up at least half of his bag with candy thanks to the kings and when his mom shares how David once walked in the parade dressed as a shepherd, I can better picture David’s childhood because I have finally experienced Three Kings Day for myself.

Yesterday, as kids opened their presents and enjoyed their last day of vacation and all the stores remained closed in honor of the celebration day, David gave me a present of my own. It was the new Super Mario Bros. game for Wii. And for the first time since arriving in Spain, we plugged in our Wii and started playing. And, while I’m not crazy about video games – not like how I once was, anyhow, when I used to play with my brother well into the night and early into the morning – somehow it seemed like a very appropriate day to sit back, relax and just be a kid.

David found the trinket and was crowned king!

Hundreds came out to watch the parade.

Drinking hot chocolate and waiting for the kings to arrive!

Kids threw candy and confetti off this festive float.

The kings arrive!

All I Wanted for Christmas…

My dad looks just like Santa Claus. Besides his stubborn tendency to wear shorts and t-shirts even in the dead of winter, the resemblance is striking, actually. He has the same scraggly beard (except when my mom trims it), the same big belly (although abstaining from sweets has greatly reduced its size), the same jolly smile and the same twinkle in his eyes. And in true Santa fashion, he’s also extremely generous.

Year after year, he and my mom would work their magic and make our dreams come true. They’d pack us in the car and we’d head to my grandmother’s house in the mountains. And we’d hang our stockings from the chimney and examine the tree knowing that, by morning, it would be transformed. And we’d impatiently go to bed, willing the hours to go by ever faster so that Christmas could finally get started. And eventually dawn would break and we’d run from our beds to see what Santa had brought and we’d find the stockings so laden with gifts that they had become too heavy to hang and the tree so bulging with presents that they flowed like a mountain underneath.

And finally our chocolate calendars counting down the days until Christmas could be consumed once and for all because Christmas had finally arrived.

Over the years, the excitement and anticipation over the arrival of Christmas has become less defined by gifts but still is a prevalent feeling that makes December feel like a special time of the year. But something was missing this year. I couldn’t tell if it was because the commercials advertising the hottest new gadgets, the thinnest, lightest laptops, the latest cell phones that stir up a buying frenzy in the US were lacking in Spain. I didn’t know if it had to do with the fact that this was the first year in a long time that I didn’t have a full time job and therefore didn’t have staff parties and paid holidays to look forward to. Or maybe it was because I was home alone without internet or telephone and therefore forced to spend most of my days at the library – where holiday cheer was practically non-existent – as a result. Whatever it was, something just felt different.

And then on December 17th, I received a phone call. It was my mom. My grandmother – her mom – had passed away. We had just celebrated her 100th birthday in Toronto in June. The news came as a complete surprise. She had been in great physical condition then but a recent fall from a chair had broken her hip and required surgery. Her body couldn’t take it and, after a long, healthy life, she had passed away exactly six months after becoming a centenarian.

The funeral was being planned for the 23rd. Was there any way that I could make it? The time to arrange everything seemed too short and the distance too great, but then my sister provided the missing link. In such a situation, the airline that she works for would fly her family to the funeral. In less than 24 hours I made a plan. I was planning on going to Barcelona anyway to see Julie, my friend from college, so I would just fly out from Barcelona to Toronto. And because I would end up traveling on Christmas if I returned to Spain immediately after the funeral, I decided to continue on to California with my family to spend Christmas in the mountains with my dad’s mom. And if I left for Spain California on the 26th, that would give me just enough time to get back in time for my appointment at the immigration office on the 28th to turn in my papers for my residency in Spain. And suddenly, it didn’t matter that I had overstayed my visa and might not be let back in to the country. I would deal with the consequences if I had to. Attending my grandmother’s funeral and spending Christmas with my family and my other grandmother was my priority and I needed to get home.

After a 3 hour delay on the flight from Barcelona due to a series of mechanical problems, missing my connecting flight from NYC to Toronto, running to catch a cab between JFK and LaGuardia to standby on a later flight out of LaGaurdia, and having a run-in with the cabbie who gave me a warm New York City welcome by cursing at me because I wanted change from the $40 that I had handed over for the $32 cab fare, I got on the last flight of the day and was reunited with my family at midnight on the 22nd.

On the 23rd, I joined my aunts, uncle and cousins and we said goodbye to my grandmother and celebrated her long life. My cousin had made beautiful frames that illustrated a life well lived. There were photos of her as a gorgeous bride and a loving grandmother. Time had only changed her softly. Even at 100, she still had the same gentle smile and kind eyes.

That evening, my parents, sister and I headed to California. On the 24th, we drove up to Big Bear to be with my dad’s mom. And, as we all piled in her room, my dad read a passage that his dad used to read and that he now he reads from the Bible every year. And on Christmas day, I woke up early, filled with excitement, and jumped out of bed. But it wasn’t because I wanted to examine the presents that Santa had brought. I was just thrilled to be with my family.

I was the first one up but not the first one awake. I went to my grandmother’s room where she was waiting for her live-in caretaker to get her out of bed. She’s at the mercy of others to help her with everything. And, because of this, she suffers greatly, for, while her body has failed her, her mind has not. But, though she feels incredibly weak, she keeps the rest of us incredibly strong. She’s the perfect model of how one should live life. She’s has touched so many lives and is practically famous in her Big Bear community. Her generosity overflows and she’s faithful until the end. And she has an uncanny ability to remember birthdays, anniversaries and celebrations and keep track of the entire family’s happenings – a daunting task even for me. She’s at the heart of it all and, because of that, she keeps her ever-growing family of children, grandchildren and great grandchildren whole.

So, this Christmas, my mom’s mom reminded me of how important family is and gave me a reason to defy Spanish immigration and head home, my sister made sure that we all got to where we needed to be and enabled it all to happen, and my dad’s mom – with her beautiful spirit and her mountain home that contains so many childhood memories – made Christmas Christmas and finally brought back the feeling of anticipation that I had been missing.

And even though we’re all scattered once again – David and I are back in Spain, my brother’s in Massachusetts, my sister’s traveling in Cambodia and my parents are in California – we were all able to come together for a brief moment to celebrate life and family.

And that’s the best present that I could have ever received.

With my grandmother at her 100th birthday party in June

With Santa and my cousin in Toronto, Canada. My mom, sister and I didn’t quite obey the orders to make a funny face.

My dad with Santa. Although I personally think that my dad played a better Santa.

Home Alone

I had my first big real-life test in Spanish and I failed it… miserably. At the time, I didn’t realize that it was a test nor did I know what would happen if I didn’t pass. If I had known, I surely would have concentrated harder. I would have asked her to repeat the question again and again until I understood. I would have even swallowed my pride and asked her to speak in English. Most likely, though, I just never would have answered the phone. But I didn’t realize the consequences so, when the phone rang, I bravely and boldly answered, foolishly thinking that I was ready for such a big feat.

Ever since my arrival in Spain, the phone has scared me. I try to avoid answering it at all costs, leaving David to answer the “Spanish phone”. It scares me to the point that, for the first several months, if David was in the bathroom when the phone rang, I would let the answering machine pick up – up until the time when David, unable to understand what the big deal was over answering the phone, scolded me after missing an important phone call. After that, I started answering but would then immediately run the handset to the bathroom but usually to little avail. Time after time, it ended up being a wrong number. One time, the guy on the other end of the line was so adamant that it was the right number since he couldn’t understand why I had kept him waiting if it wasn’t that David had to explain that I don’t speak Spanish and had to nearly hang up on him just to get rid of him.

So normally I wouldn’t have answered the phone except that I was home alone and we were expecting a call from the phone and internet company. We were waiting for them to come to install DSL (in the meantime, we’ve been using a 3G card provided by the company that works but is, overall, slower), so even though I didn’t understand the lady as she rattled away in Spanish, I heard the word “internet” and assumed that she was calling about the DSL. I further assumed that she wanted to see when I would be home so that a technician could come and started to supply her with the information that I thought she wanted to know. But, in reality, she and I were having two separate conversations because what proceeded was a whole lot of confusion and then she put me on hold. Surely she was going to find someone who could speak English. But when she returned, it was still her. And it was only her. And, now she was trying to say goodbye, but nothing had been arranged, no appointment had been scheduled. So I frantically asked if someone was going to come and, now that my brain had had a bit more time to switch to Spanish mode, I was able to make out more of what she was saying. She was asking when my husband would return to which I responded, “Not until next week, but I’m here.” And then she thanked me and hung up.

I was still confused about what actually had been communicated during that incomprehensible phone call and remained that way for about 10 seconds until suddenly I heard a beep and noticed a new SMS message on the phone (apparently, they can send text messages through your landline). And what I read filled me with dread.

“Vodafone informa: A partir de este momento tienes desactivado el servicio.” What?! I had done no such thing. I had barely said a word to her! How could I have disconnected our service?! Was it true?? I urgently looked at the 3G card, but when I noticed, with horror, that the small blue light was blinking (David had told me that when it blinks, it means it’s disconnected), I knew that, at last – and unfortunately – I had understood correctly. I quickly tried to make sense of the situation. The phone was still working, and I desperately scrambled for the number to call back, but, before I could find it, the phone, too, went dead and, in big black letters, informed me that only emergency calls could be made. Well, this was an emergency for me, but most likely would not be considered one by the police department. I refrained from making a call.

The whole experience wouldn’t have been so traumatizing – after all, we had already survived a moment of internet outage in Torrevieja – except for the fact that, just two days before, my parents had returned to California. And David had gone with them. (He has to return once a year in order to keep his green card valid. I, meanwhile, had to stay put because, at the moment, I am still trying to get my residency card and, technically, have overstayed my 3 month tourist visa. I would have no problem re-entering the US, but could potentially have problems returning to Spain.) I was already reeling with sadness after having to say goodbye to all of them at once and, now, no longer even had a phone or internet to connect with them.

Furthermore, I had consoled myself that I would spend the time alone to work on my freelance writing and study Spanish, but, without internet at home, it suddenly made my freelance work ten times more difficult. Fortunately, the library has free WiFi but is barely open on the weekends and closes for siesta during the week, leaving me three hours in the afternoon to wait for it to reopen. Plus, the signal isn’t strong enough to make calls with my handy MagicJack in case I need to do interviews. As for my Spanish, the traumatizing phone call certainly motivated me to study, and I have increased my vocabulary to include the words for “stroller,” “mop,” and “mirror.”

I have since learned – after going to a Vodafone shop and getting the employee to call Vodafone for me – that the service has been disconnected permanently. Apparently, they were calling to confirm the change of address and when I couldn’t confirm because I didn’t understand, they went ahead and disconnected it. And now only David can set up a new account. Since I haven’t yet been able to get my residency card, I haven’t yet been able to put my name on our bank account and therefore am powerless to open an account of my own. Meanwhile, David has tried calling from the US, racking up more than $20 in charges, only to continuously get disconnected before being able to accomplish anything.

To make matters worse, our phone and internet are not the only things that stopped working when David left. The washing machine all of a sudden decided to stop draining and the day after David and my parents left, the electricity went out. It turned out to be a building-wide problem and fortunately came on again not too long after but not before I experienced a moment of pure panic as I realized that my whole existence, practically, was contingent on electricity. I couldn’t make coffee, I couldn’t take a warm shower, I would be in darkness after 6pm. And, then the sun – which has been shining brightly since we moved to Altea – went away and the winds picked up and a storm moved in, making a trip to the library an outright physically impossible task. (I tried twice and couldn’t even make it up the street before getting drenched from head to toe and abandoning the mission!) And then, just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, I discovered that we have a leak in our apartment. But there’s no way to report it to anyone because I don’t have a phone, and, even if I had a phone, there’s no way to talk to anyone because, as I was sadly reminded of just a few days ago, I don’t speak Spanish.

I bravely thought that I would be ok on my own in Spain. But I’m very clearly realizing that I’m not. What an ironic twist of fate for David to be in California meeting our new niece and seeing my grandmother and for me to be trapped in Spain.

We Find Closure… And Give Thanks

In the days that followed, we learned more about Paco and only became more confused about our mysterious landlord. The agent who had found us the place told us how she had discovered that he had put up a “For Rent” sign even after we had secured the apartment with a deposit. Apparently, he thought he could rent it out more than once. And we assumed that he must know very little about how things work, having never rented his place before.

He told us that he wanted to stay on good terms with us and reassured us that he would be fine reimbursing us for the fees that we would incur in moving again (the post office charges about $40 to forward mail to a new address for one month, the internet/phone company was charging us about $110 for a change of address), but we started doubting whether he really would honor his word when we heard that he wanted us to pay rent up until the end of the month even though it was only around the 22nd. I knew that once we signed a new lease and moved out, he would have no obligation to pay, so we asked for another meeting at the agency where we requested that he give the agent the first month’s rent that we had already paid. We wanted the agent to hold on to it until we moved out at which point we would all inspect the house a final time and if all looked good then we would get reimbursed partial rent for the days that we had not lived there as well as any costs associated with moving. It was a fair request but when Paco tried to refuse, saying that the telephone/internet fee was not his responsibility, it became clear that he had no intention of reimbursing our expenses. In return, we fought back with our most powerful weapon that we still possessed: a threat to not move out of his treasured home. He had no choice but to hand over the money to the agent.

He had been using his meek facade to win over sympathy, but now that we were making him show his true face, I quickly realized that he wasn’t as nice as he appeared and knew that, from here on out, we must tread carefully.

Meanwhile, the hunt for our new home was on and the agent showed us three places for rent. But none even came close to Paco’s. None opened out on to the charming, winding streets of Altea’s old town like Paco’s did. None came close to embodying the charm and character of Altea as Paco’s had. But, of the three, one – a duplex – felt like it could work. We visited it during the day and we were impressed by its large windows, nice views, three balconies. It was in a complex that we had heard about – the nice area where a lot of foreigners lived. It had a pool and tennis court – amenities that certainly didn’t exist at Paco’s. It was the type of place that would be considered, by most, to be an upgrade. Sure, it didn’t exit out onto cute streets, but if you walked up a hill and around a bend, you could arrive at Paco’s neighborhood in less than two minutes flat.

We were in a rush to find a new home, we knew that every day we stayed at Paco’s would be one more day of rent that we would have to pay him and one more day that this tiring saga would drag on. So, a couple of days later. after we had gotten Paco to hand over the money, we signed the new lease and went to the apartment with the agent to take photos for the inventory checklist to include with the contract.

It was nighttime when we arrived the second time. There was no light flooding the living room, no views to distract, and we were too far away to be able to hear the church bells chiming. And, as I went from room to room, I felt a sterile coldness fill my body. It didn’t feel like home. It felt like a hotel. The comparison between the two apartments was too stark, the transition too abrupt. It changed the whole image that I had had of our future in Altea. Instead of a small village home, we would be living in a standard, cookie-cutter apartment. We returned to Paco’s, to my family awaiting the news of whether the lease had been signed, and I went to the room to start packing and my eyes welled with tears. And, as the tears fell, I berated myself for crying over such a silly thing when I knew that others were suffering much more than me. But I couldn’t help it. We would be moving the next day, and I was already mourning the loss of Paco’s home.

We spent the rest of the evening packing everything that we had just unpacked only a week before – removing the books from the shelves, the clothes from the closets, our Puerto Rico casa from the wall – and putting them back in to the boxes that we had collected from the supermarket. And we spent Thanksgiving morning moving. And as David, my brother-in-law and I carried the boxes up the two floors to the new place, my mom and sister stayed at Paco’s to clean. And when Paco’s home was emptied of our stuff, I went through his house room by room to compare it to the photo inventory checklist that we had received when we had signed the lease. I wanted to leave it just as we had found it, for I had gotten to know Paco well enough and knew that he would be looking for the same. And then we called the agent and had her and Paco come for a final inspection.

As soon as Paco entered his sparkling home – cleaner even than how he had left it – he ran straight to the linen to count the sheets. I found his reaction to be bizarre considering that the sheets were probably the cheapest thing in the house, but I followed to make sure that the count was correct. And when he started complaining that a pillowcase was missing, David quickly removed it from the closet in the other bedroom and added it to the pile. Satisfied at last, we moved on to the mattresses. He lifted each one off the bed frame, examining all three closely, while I gasped in disbelief. We had only been sleeping on these beds for a week. How could we possibly have damaged any of them? We moved on to the kitchen and watched him frown at the vitro ceramic stove that he seemed to find not clean enough to his liking and then moved on to the utilities area and watched while he tested out the washing machine to see if it still worked. Nevermind that all of the stickers were still on it, and that he, himself, knew that we had never even turned it on (he had actually made a comment the previous day about how he hadn’t heard us use it). And while he checked the washing machine, I desperately hoped that he wouldn’t count the towels sitting on top, for my father had accidentally taken the one he was using to our next home and I had forgotten to bring it back. He failed to count the pile, but he did notice that his yellow ashtray, which my mom had accidentally packed with our belongings, was missing, and we promised to return it.

After a walk through of all the rooms, when he couldn’t find anything broken or damaged, we finally sat down to figure out the finances and sign the final papers. And almost everything went smoothly except for one hiccup where Paco was dismayed because the agent had calculated the rent incorrectly for the days that we had stayed there, and, while she punched away at her calculator to recalculate the sum, we scoffed at the ridiculousness of it all and returned the grand total of $3 without a further care as to who it rightly belong to just so that we could just be done with this lingering drama.

And I breathed a sigh of relief as Paco signed the final papers, releasing us from any further obligation. But even so, he continued his inspection and noticed that the roll of blue trash bags that he had left under the sink when we had moved in was no longer there. I had suspected that he might be looking for his trash bags and quickly told David to tell Paco to look behind the trash can. There he found a roll of black trash bags which he lifted up but then frowned upon when he noticed how few there were left in the roll. But he had signed the papers, and we reminded him that he had. We were free from Paco and his obsessive compulsive disorder.

We returned to our new apartment and started preparing Thanksgiving dinner and, at midnight (though still only 6 pm in New York, 3 pm in California), finally sat down to eat. And we gave a huge thanks to my family for spending their vacation helping us move, thanks for being together, thanks for a new beginning and thanks that the Paco chapter had officially come to a close.

Life threw us a huge curve ball. We certainly weren’t expecting that our beginnings in a place as perfect as Altea would turn out to be so turbulent, and we certainly never could have imagined that our first encounter with an Altean would be so unpleasant. But life is unpredictable. And even though it was a frustrating and upsetting experience, I recall a time many years ago when my mom lost her wallet. I remember how I instantly worried about the credit cards that needed to be canceled, the driver’s license that needed to be replaced, the money that might have been stolen. And I cried out, “How could this happen?” But my mom, in her Zen-like fashion, turned to me and smiled. “Don’t worry, Sara,” she said. “It’s things like this that make life interesting.” And her wise words return to me now. For, as stressful as it was, the Paco saga certainly added color to our life and made this chapter – our arrival to Altea – absolutely unforgettable.

David exhausted after moving our 22 boxes for the second time in just over a week

Working on a freelance article in our new living room amidst the chaos.

Mom, dad, David and me enjoying one of the balconies in the new apartement.

Our living room – after the boxes have been cleared

From the balcony off of the living room, we can see rooftops, the sea and the city of Benidorm

Spiral staircase leading down to the two bedrooms downstairs

The kitchen is spacious and also has nice views

Preparing the table for Thanksgiving

Though it was midnight when we finally sat down to eat, David didn’t let Paco ruin our Thanksgiving dinner!

Paco’s Home

The look on David’s face took away my own smile. He had only been outside for five minutes, but I knew that something had happened in that short time to make him look this way. I soon found out what it was. He had run into Paco, our landlord, who, coincidentally, had exited his house at just the same time that David had exited ours. He had spoken with David, but, this time, it wasn’t about his family or childhood memories. This time, it was about mine. It was about the visitors who had arrived just hours earlier – the four people who had piled out of the car and entered our home. To the same extent that I was exhilarated by my family’s arrival, he was bothered. He asked David how long they were planning on staying and when David told him a couple of weeks, he informed David that they could stay two or three days but then would have to find other accommodations. They had barely just arrived, and they were already being thrown out. And it suddenly added a new light to the endless visits that Paco had paid since we had moved in, it added truth to my own suspicions, and it added volume to the small voice in my head that was trying to tell me that something didn’t seem right.

David was furious and would have gone immediately to the agency if not for the fact that it was 10 pm and the office was already closed. He resolved to go the next morning, and we went to bed disturbed by this new revelation that somehow Paco thought that he had the right to say who stayed inside the house that we were renting.

Paco stopped by the next morning, putting his nose up to the special screen that allowed those on the inside to see out but prevented those on the outside from seeing in and soon spotted me in my pajamas, in front of my computer. He asked if David was there and when I told him that David was in the shower, he briefly considered talking to me but then must have decided it would be better to wait for David because he went away. He stopped by two times more but David had already left for the agency. By his third visit, he couldn’t keep silent any longer. This time, he bypassed the screen, knocked directly on the door and entered the house. Hoping that somehow he had had a change of his heart since his talk with David the night before, I happily introduced him to my parents. I was sure that once he saw my father who looks like Santa Claus and my mother who personifies sweetness, he would realize that he didn’t have anything to worry about. But my hopes were quickly dashed as he barely could contain himself long enough to say hi before curtly declaring that guests were fine to “visit but not to sleep”. Fortunately or unfortunately, my Spanish was good enough to get the message, and, without anything more being said, I also got the message that the two- to three-day grace period for my family to find other accommodations was actually non-existent. It was obvious that he wanted them out immediately and that, every second they spent there, it was one more second too long for him.

Our picture-perfect home was starting to crumble, our little castle beginning to feel like a dungeon. Being in a situation where the landlord lived just above us could be ideal if the guy was normal, but, now that we had stepped out of line, he wasn’t afraid to breathe fire. His meek, shy, lonely facade was starting to give way to a suspicious, watchful, reserved hermit who had been alone all his life and wasn’t about to share his home – and his invaluable treasures within – with a couple and their visiting family. And, suddenly, his chance encounter with David the night before seemed anything but coincidental. He must have been listening to us through the walls at the bottom of the staircase that led up to his home in order to be able to exit his door at the same exact time that David had. And I suddenly realized that he knew every time we came or went, every time that we had dinner or turned on the shower. He was keeping track of our every movement. And I knew that, even if we had every right to stay as tenants, he would do everything in his power to drive us out. Without meaning to, we had entered in to a battle and suddenly I wondered if everyone in Altea was as crazy as he.

David returned hours later and reported that the agent was going to talk to him. When we still hadn’t heard from her hours later, we decided to stop by the agency to see if there was any news. To our surprise, we found Paco seated at her desk. He was talking to her and we joined in for an impromptu meeting. The agent patiently explained to Paco that we were in our right to have guests, but it didn’t matter that we had that right nor did it seem to matter that the apartment was equipped with 3 beds – enough to sleep six people. What mattered was that Paco didn’t want more than two people in his house, and, having never rented his home before, he was shocked that renters could even have guests.

He didn’t know that, by having tenants, he was giving up his right to say what decorations stayed on the walls, what chairs were used, and how his space was used. He didn’t know a lot about how such things worked, but he did know that he had given it a try, he didn’t like how things were working out and he wanted us – and our visitors – out. And, even though he was kicking us out, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for this 44-year-old man who looked almost like a child as he sat before us with his clasped hands and downcast eyes. And, for a moment, I caught a glimpse of the situation from his perspective. He was simply protecting his childhood home that he had renovated and crafted with his own hands. He was imagining strangers using his 100-year-old chairs and sleeping on his beds and it must have felt like an invasion of his personal space. And I knew that him wanting us out was enough to make me want to leave. How could we stay knowing that our presence caused him such pain?

Before we left the agency that day, we made plans to visit apartments the next day. We were starting our search anew and I desperately hoped that we could find a home – just like Paco’s.

Sushi enjoys looking out the window while I fear that Paco will peer in.

Tired of waiting for David, Paco tells me that visitors are allowed to visit but not sleep

Our impromptu meeting with Paco at the agency

Of Mice And Men

Robert Burns once wrote, “The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry.” Oh, how very true that statement is. Life is unpredictable. You may try to create the blueprints, put the framework in place, and lay the groundwork to make it happen, but, at any moment, life can throw you a curve ball and, when that happens, all you can do is take a swing. It happened in New York. One of us getting laid off would have been a fast ball. But both of us getting laid off within a week of each other turned out to be a curve ball – one that sent us for a loop and dropped us off in Spain. And, after living through all of this, what we’ve learned is that life’s curve balls can happen at any time.

Leaving Torrevieja was a memorable event that happened in a rather uneventful fashion. We were fortunate to have the help of David’s cousin who brought his parents’ fruit and vegetable van and two dollies and helped pack the van with all of our stuff that, to my dismay, filled up the 22 boxes that had pretty much remained unpacked since they arrived in August and then proceeded to overflow into trash bags and fruit crates. Nevertheless, we got all our stuff in, we got our cats in their travel bags and we set off for Altea.

And while we drove, David’s cousin joked that we better not be moving again for a long while. And we confidently assured him that we wouldn’t be moving again anytime soon. We were enchanted by Altea and excited to be moving up the coast and starting a new life there. We were ready to settle into a home and be able to finally unpack our 22 boxes. And we were priding ourselves on getting the move done just days before my parents, sis and brother-in-law all arrived from the United States for a two week stay.

We arrived to Altea early – an hour before our scheduled appointment at the agency to sign the contract with the landlord and decided to stop by our new home to see if the landlord, who lives right above, could open the door so that we could at least unpack and send David’s cousin on his way. And we marveled at our luck that, just as we pulled up, the landlord arrived on his motorized-bicycle-looking-gadget and was able to open the door. It was perfect timing and seemed to be a good omen of even better things to come. We unloaded the van quickly, signed the lease and spent the next couple of days unpacking non-stop.

Oh, how good it felt good to be home. How great it felt to finally be able to empty and break down the boxes, unpack the suitcases, bring out the decorations and picture frames and photo albums that had been packed away for nearly six months. How nice it was to have big closets and lots of storage. And, as we filled our home with our belongings, we fell in love with our new place even more, for everything fit so perfectly. And I commented to David that that’s when you know that you’re home – when everything falls into place so well and fits like a glove. Our new home was like a castle with a fireplace and stone walls and tiny windows, but it was practical as well. And, when it couldn’t seem to get more perfect, we heard the church bells counting the hours, reminding us that we were in the very heart of Spain’s little paradise. And we happily threw away our 22 boxes because we felt sure that we would be staying a while.

And we were happy with our new landlord and pleased to learn that he had built all this by himself, that it was actually his father’s home and he had completely renovated it. He was proud of his work and rightfully so and told us the history of the home. He gave us detailed instructions of how to use the brand new stove, he showed us the nifty ice cube tray in the freezer that could be rotated to empty out the ice cubes in the tray below, he warned us to very careful when sitting on the century-old chairs leaning against the wall, he pointed out the antique drum that was proudly displayed on a shelf in the living room, he told us how he used an old record to make the clock hanging in the living room. Everything had significance in his beautiful home, and we felt lucky to live in such a meaningful place that was made with such love. And he introduced us to his sister that lived just at the corner and told us that his nephew lived right next door. And we felt lucky that we were being welcomed into this little community.

And the day after we moved in, he visited several times, staying an hour at a time, and he talked to David about how his dad used to have a bar just across the street, how his mom died when he was young and how his father passed away in 2000. And when he came by again and again, peering into our street-level windows to see if we were home, we felt that he must be lonely and happy to have us living just underneath and we were happy to be on such good terms with him so quickly.

Day two, he visited in the morning and commented on the changes we had made in his home, although, we actually hadn’t made too many besides putting our books on the bookshelves. His place was so nicely decorated as it was that we tried not to move too much. And he noticed that we had replaced the tiny sun decoration with our Puerto Rican casa, but that was only because he prohibited making new holes in the wall, so we were trying to find a balance between his decor and ours. He was still friendly but I found it a bit curious that he was so observant of our changes as if almost protective of the space. And when he continued stopping by and talking to David, I started wondering why. What had seemed like simple friendliness started feeling more like careful watchfulness, but David assured me that he was just making sure that we were good people and that we just had to earn his trust and then he would leave us alone.

I tried to refrain from making judgments and looked forward to my family’s arrival instead. I couldn’t wait to show them our new home. Not only was Altea stunning, but our little castle was coming together. Surely, we had found the most beautiful place in Altea, and, when they pulled up in their rental car from Madrid, we opened our doors wide and welcomed them in. And they loved everything about it. My sister and brother-in-law ran through the rooms, my mom admired the kitchen, my dad was happy. And laughter and joy filled the air. Our new house had become a home.

Later that night, when nearly everyone had gone to bed exhausted from their day-long voyage, David went outside to smoke. The night was quiet, our home cozy. But when David re-entered, his face was sullen and his eyes had lost their sparkle. And I immediately knew that something was terribly wrong…

Settling into our new home. Our Puerto Rican casa on the wall and our boxes finally unpacked.

Gizmo and Sushi like their new home too!

Gizmo and I enjoy some down time, in front of the fireplace and the precious antique drum.