Unto a land flowing with milk and money.*

Well, after a long absence, I am back. The New Year finds me back in Santa Fe, living with my parents in our cabin in the mountains. Why did I leave Barcelona? At the time, it all made sense, but now I am not so sure. Certainly I miss it.

amid hilarious applause from the girl hands.*

Fantastic news this past week: I am visiting my homeland! It has been a year and a half since I have been on the shores of America, home of the free and land of the brave. I will be in New York for one week and then Santa Fe for two. I am very eager to see how things have changed or have stayed the same, and how I have changed, or not! Will they make fun of me for my Spanish accent in Santa Fe? Will I melt into a puddle of anxiety and terror upon stepping onto the madcap streets of New York? Will my friends duct tape my hands and feet together and keep me in a closet until I miss my flight back to Barcelona? Or will Swiss immigration decide that my European adventure should end?

Oh…..all the possibilities.

Hoho begob *

Well, my cruel parents have upped the ante to get me home by carrying out a long threatened bribe. They finally went to the animal shelter and picked up a new puppy! Now, when I talk to them and request to see the adorable, furry, wiggling beast, they tell me that I just have to come home to see him. So evil!

I am not sure how they knew my special weakness for Bernese Mountain Dogs, but this puppy seems to be a mixture of that lovable, docile giant breed and random NM mutt. They have finally settled on a name of Obie or Ob, not sure how they are officially spelling it now (Mom, comment?).

Here are few pictures of my new pupther in action. My mother captioned this photo:
“Puppy follows Puppy Poppa around the house.”

This is the flagstone paved area behind the house. For many years, this was a gentle dirt slope, but after several floods, my dad decided to make more of a moat with sturdier reinforcement against the runoff from the mesa behind the house.

Contrary to appearances, the walls of the house are not made of the traditional New Mexican building material, adobe, used for hundreds of years by the Pueblo Indians, and coincidentally, in Spain as well. Most modern homes in NM are now built with stucco (often coating over a fieldstone, brick, log or wood frame), which requires less upkeep and labor.

Here we can see that the puppy is already being spoiled with a piece of chicken barbecued over our backyard firepit:


And it was delicious:

Yes, evening will find itself in me, without me. All days make their end.*

My grandmother passed away last night. My mother and family had been by her bedside for a week and she went peacefully and gently. I cannot be there in person (curses to the dubious legality of my living abroad), but I am doing my best to be there in spirit. When I left for Spain, I knew that something like this could happen, and that, given the limited resources of my family and myself, as well as the logistics of immigration controls, I may not be able to return to the United States if something of this nature occurred. I think this is the hardest part of living abroad, not being able to be with your family when struggling through grief. I will add this to my list of reasons to return to America eventually.

I wrote a poem for my mother, although I am not sure she will be able to read it through her tears. I would like to share it here, even though it is slightly off the tone and topic of this blog. It is an attempt to project my love further, and to feel closer.

One of the things I keep thinking about when remembering my grandmother is how she enriched my childhood by sending several large boxes of old library books to our little cabin in the woods each summer. Reading was my saving grace as a child, my education where the NM public schools failed me, my entertainment when I was lonely in the mountains, my comfort in the incredible darkness of New Mexico nights. My grandmother fed my passion for literature, literally, and I will be forever grateful.


Alma
– for my grandmother

Five in the morning, Barcelona, Spain,
my father’s voice crumbles warmth,
in trembles and pauses, you are gone.

My mother has lost her mother, and
she wails into the phone, a plastic
beacon to her far away daughter,
we are women alone in this moment,
and we have lost more than words.

All day, I stared across rooftops, sun
came and rain fell, dogs barked in the plaza,
people drank cans of beer on benches
below the balcony, laundry sagged,
clouds hid the sea, and I cradled my grief.

Now, I touch the mysterious fabric
of death, and watch my love fold
your life into words, spelled by heart.

Grandmother, mother, Alma, your name
is kind, nourishing, gentle. Your soul
is a word of worship where I am. Alma,
now you are pure soul, complete grace.

I knew you through my mother, your patience
mirrored in her, your strength filled her voice,
your honesty held her truths, your love lived
in her arms. You were never far from our lives.

Alma, you gave me words, boxes every summer,
heavy and full of dusty secrets. Pages of worlds,
stories that shaped me, lives that lived through me,
journeys taken into what it means to be human.

Alma, I give you these words, late and humble,
sent across the world, but meant with every
breath to bless, celebrate, and love you.

More bluggy drunkables?*

I have officially fallen in love with Colmado Quilez, a dangerous (to the wallet!) store I walk by almost everyday on Rambla Catalunya. Last week, I wandered in for the first time in months and came across a bottle of Loriñon, which has always been difficult for me to find. I first encountered this voluptuous wine while working at El Farol in Santa Fe, and was charmed by its name, there is something so woeful about it, forlorn…But as for a Rioja, it is one of my favorites as it has a fuller body and a bit more spice than most. The only other time I have found it was when I came to Barcelona years ago, and believe me, I searched New York high and low for it.

Today, I wandered into Colmado Quilez and tasted a high end beer produced by the Estrella Damm company. Called Inedit, they describe it as “a unique coupage of barley malt and wheat with hop, coriander, orange peel, liquorice, yeast and water. After bottling and capping, a secondary fermentation in the bottle occurs, leading to a more complex product.” Delicious, proving to me that Spain CAN make good beer.

I also discovered that they carry the La Guita label of Manzanilla, recommended to us in Carmona by an on-duty officer drinking his lunch at a local bar (yes, he was armed). The clerk was impressed by my choice and said he is a big fan. For those of you who have never tried Manzanilla, it is a type of dry sherry made in Andalusia. I think it tastes like a salty plum, and others have described flavors of chamomile (where the name originates).

Oh, and they also have every kind of delectable little tidbit of food, condiments, and accompaniments imaginable. I am intrigued and frightened by the saffron gin, you will be hearing more about that, I am sure.