my soccer team...

As I mentioned before, I got a chance to do some coaching here in Spain. If you know me well enough, you know how important coaching or the game of soccer is to me. So I got a little job being a coach for the local soccer club, Athleticia Esportiva Tossa (A.E. Tossa). Tossa, again, is a pretty small town. So there is only one club here. A club is a name describing one group of people, presided over by a president, coaching staff, and several level of teams and age groups, varying on the size of the club. Also, to support the club, you can pay to be a member or associate. Being an associate, you are able to enjoy some perks the club has to offer. Membership has privileges.



I am a member of my favorite soccer club, Futbol Club Barcelona. I am also a member of A.E Tossa. I paid almost 200€ to be a member of FCB...I paid 80€ to be a member of Tossa. I get to buy tickets before they go on sale for home homes...Tossa I get in for free. I get 5% off merchandise at the Team stores, 10% off with online orders...Tossa gives me stuff for free. I drive an hour or so to Barcelona, take 30 minutes to find parking and walk 2 miles to sit in the cold to enjoy a live game at Camp Nou (stadium of Barcelona). I can walk 10 minutes to the home field of Tossa. So far I feel like I wasted 200€.



Since Tossa is a small town, therefore a small club but still we have more than enough to support having several teams. The age level range from Alex´s age group (Pre Benjamin), to Bejamin I and II, to Cadet to Juvenil to the professional teams (which is more like AAA or AA baseball team levels rather than the major leagues). I coach the Juvenil which is composed ofr 16-18 year old players. Many of the kids have already finished high school and will be playing professionally next year and getting paid for it.

My job is to physically prepare the team and care for their health. If they get hurt in a game, I tend to them up until we take them to the hospital if needed. Thankfully we have not gotten to that point but the season is still young. We have played 2 official games for the league and our record is 1-1-0 (wins-loss-ties). Wednesday night we had a friendly game against neighboring Blanes and killed them 6-3. The first half we allowed 4 cadets to plays up with us, but in the second half we put in our starters and they went to work. My goal with the team is to take either the whole team or the senior players to America to tryout for colleges and such. Who knows what will happen.

trip to barcelona...

OK so it´s time to roll the dice and move onto bigger and better adventures. So what do I dream up? A train ride to Barcelona!!!

OK a little bit more to the story...Again I live in Costa Brava. Tossa de mar is about a little over an hour drive north from Barcelona. By train it takes about 90 minutes hitting all the resort towns along the coast. Now this may seems like nothing to the average reader but it is something to me. Usually hen we drive along the coast, I get to memorize the names of the cities so I know I am going the correct way. you see there is no North I-95...just an interstate and a major city along the way.

The nearest town with a train is Blanes. Blanes is two towns down. The station reminded me of Ashland´s train station. It is small and just how I like it. From there I can go north to Girona, the second largest city in Catalunya and largest in the subarea Girona in which Tossa is a part of. Once at the station, I do my best to communicate with the ticket lady and surprisingly, mostly because there are only 2 options, north or south, one way or round trip, I get ti right the first time. I read my ticket and realize, I don't understand it. So I pray and hope I am going the right direction.

I did not have to wait too long as the train pulled into the station rather quickly. reading the schedule, I had 30 minutes between trains so easy to miss one and jump the next one. I take my seat and we are on our way. At the stop in Santa Susana, a group of German kids all got on and the train quickly filled to capacity. They must be on holiday or something. They all seemed in their teens. I would imagine all of their parents were from East Germany due to the incredible wide shoulders of most of the girls. Still Hitler would be proud of all the blond hair and blue eyes that gleamed in my passenger car. It looked like an audition for the Micky Mouse Club or a Mandy Moore concert.

We arrived in Barcelona after a few million stops and no train changes. I got off at Placa de Catalunya. This is pretty much the center of he city. It's a huge square with the biggest round about you could imagine. In all directions are billboards and shopping centers and of course ATMs. As I ascend into the busy area, I am greeted by noise, tourists of all makes and a weird brightness from the overcast sky. A chill was settling in as the weather is beginning to change. Mornings are filled with a damp chill and by 11am there is a bright and full sunlight filling the entire area. Of course dressing i layers is a good idea if you plan on leaving he house fora while.

Part of this adventure was to make contact with a new friend, Jane. She is from California and recently moved here to Barcelona with her daughter for her daughter's last year of high school. We planned on meeting at Cafe Zurich to have some coffee and chat. She is an intelligent, adventurous and lovely lady who kept the conversation going. We laughed and traded our "moving to Spain" stories. She hipped me to some ins and outs which i greatly appreciated. Before long we were settle and comfortable and laughing and talking about the locals in English hoping to not be overheard by those passerbys we are talking about.

One of the unfortunate thing about siting in the plaza are the panhandlers. Of course, I thankfully appreciate not being homeless. But I did find some humor in the frequent interruptions from the beggars. So the first panhandler came by and it hit me in the soft spot...oh and in my heart, too. The soft spot is my wallet if you had not guessed. I pulled a few coins I had been collecting and handed them to an older lady with a baby in her arms. The second pan handler was a younger lady with very pretty purplish eyes that made me melt. The third was a man, maybe about 30 with no shoes. The fourth, and last one I could take, was and older man about 11o years of age with a picture of the "white Jesus"picture. One by one, I randomly grabbed a a few coins and filled their cup, holding purse or what other concoction they presented to me and Jane.

Since I seem to not do well with coins, I tend to collect them. I only seem to want to spend paper money. Most knew I failed Ninja school because I always seemed to have and fairly awkward amount of coins in my pocket at any given time. I avoided metal detectors in fear of having to dig thru my pockets to prevent from having to go thru the body cavity search. Surprisingly the lady guard with the hairy arms was pleasantly gentle. Here the money comes in many different sizes for the different denominations. There is a 5, 10 20, 50 100 euros...just like in all civilized nations, but they come in different sizes for the blind. If only Ray Charles were here today! Then he would not have to be paid in ones. Actually he would not want to be paid in ones...they are coins! Ray would have had some fat pockets. The 2 € also come in coins, slightly bigger than the 1€. So needless to say, I am weighed down in case of high beach winds.

So let´s get back to the beggars. Some say I have a photographic memory. The bad part of that is that I do not have Target to process my film within a few hours, it usually takes me a few days to get the prints and negatives back. When I did, I reprocessed my photos and I made some startling discoveries. Beggar one...what is this old lady doing with a baby. Yeah in Spain people tend to wait until their 30´s to have kids, hell they don´t even move out of their parents until they are in their late 20´s. But grandma was working the kid angle and had me hooked.

Beggar two...youth and beauty. Two thing most people tend to be drawn to in life. I was floored at this young girl who seemingly never learned humility because of a her need to pan handle to survive. How could I deny her my spare change?

Beggar 3...no shoes...I mean what better investment than hooking up someone with a pair of shoes. Funny thing is I can´t find a pair of shoes to fit me. See I wear a size 14...that translates to a size 49.5 in Spain. Sorry but that number, even though it´s equal in different measurements, still sounds like a bigger foot. But looking at the the prints in my mind, he looked like a size 13...and better manicures toes than I have!!! He might have been trying to get new acrylics for his pinkie toe. AUGH! As I look closer, amazed at how perfect his toenails were, I realize I see beggar two hailing a cab in the background. I have been duped!

Jane comes up with a lovely, and less expensive idea. So we ventured on foot down Las Ramblas. Las Ramblas is actually a collection of streets combining to form one long stretch a road and wde walking area stretching from Plaça Catalunya all the way down to the harbor and the statue of Christopher Columbus. We strolled down, making a quick stop in the Nike store to see if they had my shoe size...no such luck. Street performers are always come up with new and exciting ways to entertain. My favorite is the Michael Jackson impersonator. Every year he upgrades his act because, and let´s face it, something new is always happening with Wacko Jacko. This year he had a sign saying "kids eat free...". There are millions for side streets with many hidden treasures such as other performers who are honing their art. I guess you would consider them off-Broadway.

Time crept up on me and Jane and I returned back to our original meeting place. We said our goodbyes and parted ways. I prayed again I was catching the correct train and hopped aboard. Sitting back in my chair, I soaked up the sun and gazed at the passing beaches and the occasional topless sunbather. Unfortunately fat old men can be just as appealing when it comes to being topless as some women who feel they have a Right to take their tops off. Difference is that the men hover around a C cup while most women´s breasts hover around their bellies...gravity is a bitch.

Finally making it home after a 6 hour trek to and from, I smiled and patted myself on the back. I went to have a quick coffee at my favorite spot, Comics run by my favorite Dutchman, Eric. As I watched the sun dip past the hills to the west, a man strolled up to me and asked to use my lighter. I blindly grabbed for it and turned to the stranger, noticing his shoes first. Not often you see blue suede shoes since the 50s. The man thanked me as he lit his cig and strolled on. As he walked away, his silhouette was defined by the ever fading light. Still , I would put money on it, but that was beggar number 3!

Trip to Banyoles

So I decided to be a big boy and make some footprints of my own. so I planned two solo tips on my own. The first one was to Banyoles.

I had to find someone to translate my birth certificate and the nearest (and cheapest) was a lady named Marta Foix. Marta is a retired lady who has been translating English to Spanish or catalan since 1974. She lives in a city called Banyoles which is northwest of Tossa. It's an hour away so I thought, Carme would not mind going with me. Well low and behold Carme was busy and I was faced with making the journey alone. In anticipation of anything going wrong, I printed out a Mapquest to every major (and minor) road, packed a a gallon of water (well they don't use the English system so it might have been a gallon), some flares, my will, and my trust Spanish-English dictionary (which has such useful phrases as "where the hell am I?", "do you have a sister?" and my all time favorite "does fries come with that shake?".

Now some of you may know, I LOVE road trips. It is not odd for me to get in the car and drive to the end of the earth an back again. But driving here in Spain is a different beast all together. you see there are some weird things one has to get accustomed to. First, there are some roads that don't look like roads. Since Spain is as old as my 3rd grade teach, Mrs. Higgenbottom, Most of the roads are built with horse drawn carts, Roman soldiers in a file, or a gang of drunken Irishmen. They look more like walk ways with slightly ramped edges for you to drive up. Second, the street names are on the side o building, not those familiar green signs with white letters like in America. Long ago I could see the block number and street and if I were lucky, the direction (2400 W broad is very different than 2400 E Broad st, right). So with these street names hand painted on tiles embedded in the side of a building, driving the normal rate of speed can be difficult. Lastly, I get nervous around police. Maybe it's in my African American genes, somewhere deep in my DNA along side that gay gene they are looking for, but Police just make me wet my pants. So being pulled over by a rapid speaking cop is not my idea of fun. I do have my international drivers license but still...not even trying to test the waters. I remember when Carme got pulled at a DUI checkpoint in America and the cop asked her with the thickest Henrico county accent while looking at her international drivers license..."Wut iz dis, hearn?" ("what is this here" to most english speakers). So why would I think that back roads travelling cops of Spain would know much more? Wait did I just compare Spain´s cops to Henrico? My bad.

So I set off on my journey. You see there are only 3 ways out of Tossa de mar by car: north on GI-681 to Sant Feliu, south on GI-681 to Lloret and west on GI-682 towards Girona. No matter which way you go, there are a series of curves and elevation changes as you drive over a range of hills. Well actually there has to be a better description, somewhere between hills and mountains! The route north is a series of 365 curves along a one lane each way type roadway. To the east is the Mediterranean sea but don´t get comfortable and start taking in the scenery for there is always a motorbike screaming and weaving down this treacherous road. One slip and you are chiseling bikers off your muffler. Going south is more popular as it leads you to the remaining cities populating the Costa Brava area as you hit them one by one in rapid succession. But my journey to Banyoles is leading me west and north past Girona.

I start my way thru the hilly area and thru a tunnel thru a mountain. Along the way I pass bikers and I peek to see if one of them is Lance Armstrong (he has a home in Girona). As I drop the widows to get some fresh air before global warming spoils this natureside, I notice an umbrella is flapping and causing me some rouble seeing out the back widow so I pull over to correct this. As I do so, I notice a car approaching and the driver is flashing a thumbs-up signal to me. How considerate! He was asking if I was fine as the next sign of civilization is no were in sight. My mind flashes as thoughts of mountain lions or something will feast on my large buttocks. Now would you expect that kind of assistance in America. I flash back a thumbs up sign and he honks to acknowledge and he drives on.

I have no troubles navigating my way up C-35 past Can Carbonell and Vidreres to reach the highway AP-7. this highway will take me all the way to France if I wanted, but some of you know how I feel about the French. The exits off the highway are not numbered like in America. In America, the exits are numbered based on the mile marker of each highway running thru each state. If you had not figured that out, exit 20 and exit 40 on any interstate is roughly 20 miles apart. Here the difference between exits is just time and space. So I am looking for exit 6, figuring if i get past exit 1 I will be in France. Like in America, they tell you your exit is nearby about 50 times. After another series of Rotondas (round abouts with a certain rule of entry and exit, no pesky traffic lights here), I am headed to my destination. Now remember that thing about street signs, well I got burned looking for a certain street to turn left. U-turns are not so easy here, too. You have to wait until you come across another round about to come back around. And if the distances between roundabouts are as great as the distance with exits on the interstate, then pray for a gas station. The great things about gas stations is they monopolize both sides of the road. You you come along a Repsol on your right, there is one on your left! But 9 times out of tn there is no left turn, you have to wait for a roundabout. Just go to the one on your right! Or if you are too lazy, wait until you are heading in the opposite direction and you can hit it on your way back. Still there is the good ole gas station on one side of the road and you have to wait until you hit a round about to get some gas so plan accordingly.

So I make it to Banyoles. Since it´s a small town, you are more times than not greeted with a huge white sign with black letters saying the name of the city. When you leave, well it´s a red line thru a twin to the sign announcing the entrance.

As I patrol up the main road, my mind goes back to the small county in North Carolina I spent my summer in. You knew you were about to hit downtown as you hit the speed limit of 35 mph, then the real action was to begin. Usually, there is a Piggly Wiggly, a town hall then a drugstore and you are back on your way up rt 301 to some fat cop with a high school education and a super savers card to the local piggly wiggly.

As I follow my well detailed Mapquest plans, I realize, I am going deeper and deeper into this small town knowing eventually, I am going to be going OUT of this small town. I frantically look for the street which is to be my next right turn, and I can´t seem to find it. So I breathe deeply and pray for a miracle. I pass what seems to be the city center and use a bit of common sense. The road I am looking for is Plaça Major (Big Plaza basically), but no luck and I over shoot my road for quite some time. Spending 8 years in the military, I was good at a few things I never knew before. I am good at shooting rifles, good at marching in cadence (black people have rhythm) and map reading. So I put my map reading skills to work. Looking for moss on the side of trees, I noticed there was none. hmmm. I tried to go all Mac Gyver and user the penny, cup, swallow of water and a magnet to make a compass but I was missing a sewing needle. DAMN!

So I park the car, and decide to walk it out. I head back in the direction I came and feverishly looking for my right turn. After asking a few people, I somehow and magically find my way to my destination. I am greeted by Marta with gentle and motherly affection in a mixture of Spanish, Catalan and English. We chat for all of 30 seconds as I hand her my birth certificate. She looks up at me with a gracious smile and ask if I can come back tomorrow for the translation. Sure no sweat, I know my way now.

So lastly I decided to get a litte lunch since I was all out of energy. My canteen was dry and my camel had up and quit on me (what? I told you I packed well). So I stopped in at a local bar for a bite. There I met two nice ladies whom I told I would put their pictures on the internet. so here you are ladies....

catching up...

OK I had some issues with my last web hosting company and decided to part ways, as the relationship was not working out. After a long talk, some tears, and them returning some clothing, we parted ways. Of course, when they get drunk or visit a place we went together (the Internet)...they get emotional and call me. It's so hard to not go back to what was once so new and fresh and satisfying. I'll admit to still holding onto memories and missing the comfort of knowing my HTML files were being cared for like no other partner had ever before. But that trust has been broken. I am still unclear how it happened and how it could be corrected, but I can't go on like this. After trying, still the fidelity is broken and I needed to move on. Of course they asked for a reason but after a few enticing offers to rekindle our relationship, we both knew it was more than over. Goodbye "50megs.com". Our time was special.

So I am here, placing my words in the care of another. A relationship so new and exciting. A relationship so deep thatI want to go and shout it from the rooftops. I always say, "this is the one" but we will take it one day at a time. See where this relationship goes. Watch it grow. Pretty soon people will refer to us as one name, but right now I can't think of anything as cute as "Bennifer" or "Bradjolina" or "K-Brit-a-Fed". But, only time will tell....

The more things change...

October 7, 2007
So one of the things I am doing here is coaching. My father in law decided to find me work as a coach here with the local soccer club. Tossa de mar has a soccer club called U.E Tossa (Union Esportivo de Tossa). Before I could buy my ticket to Spain, I was offered a position coaching. Can you imagine these Europeans accepting an American coach. Before I left, most of my coaching friends laughed. Due to my insane insecurities, I never thought I was good enough to coach but for some reason, I did it for 8 years. So the new insecurities that festered after the laughter rang out about how American I am, well let's just say many obstacles were abound in my head.
So I land. Within a week I am meeting my soccer club officers and other coaches. I go one night and it's utter chaos. No one is speaking in Spanish...only CATALAN!!! For the love of God! A few questions in Catalan and a few dumb looks from them...well they got the picture. A few more in Spanish...they got a bigger picture. Silence fell on the room as everyone stared at one another and I stared at them. Tis is going to be quite the challenge.
So I show up for he first day of practice. I had passed this practice field a million times as it sits just south of Tossa on this windy mountainous road leading to Lloret, the next town down. Lovely green grass and fresh air... can you ask for more? I go to meet the head coach. I know who he is, his name is Jesus. (Ok let's take a moment. It's pronounced the Spanish way (hey sus) rather than the English biblical Jesus. The funny thing is after a few weeks of he and I working together, I still freak out when I see I have Jesus on speed dial. My mother would be so proud!). Jesus is a friend of my father in law (i keep chuckling when I say something like that). I met him the last night we were here last Xmas (more giggling...I saw Jesus for Xmas and we had dinner. AND there were 13 people there...no really only 11 but I had you going).
Anyhow, I show up at practice. My whole world was blown wide open. Jesus was sitting on the side line watching the practice from a plastic lawn chair. There was another guy, named Roach (no weird pronunciation...just Roach) who was running the practice. Far as I can tell, I supposedly am taking the place of this guy. You see, Roach's job was to physically prepare the team. I guess that's my role. The team had not shown up yet so we had time to bond in Spanish.
Back home I was coaching girls from ages 9 to 13. My former club said I had a disposition of being patient. Whatever does that mean. So for the past 8 years, I have been groomed as much as I groomed some of Short Pumps more upstanding blond haired pony-tailed young ladies. Now I am faced with these awesome, young and lean 16 year old boys. Ok this is the part where the record scratches. These boys are bigger than me I swear. They are like Roman Gladiators and I am scared. How can I prepare them physically when I have little ideal of their thresholds? I mean with 12 year old girls I run them until their cheeks turn red. Really screws you up when you have a black girl or two on the team :)
Anyhow, they are big, strong, fast and skilled. The run like machines and gracefully work the ball like no other youth team I had ever see. I almost cried. My eyes teared up, but not from sheer joy...Jesus was firing up a cigarette. He barked out orders with puffs of smoke billowing out of his mouth. Now we all know I smoke, but never in front of my team. Hell I won't smoke in front of my mother and I am 35 years old! So while Roach was warming up the motley crew, I decided, why not strike up a rally of us all smoking. Just then, Roach came over and asked me for a cigarette! The three of us sat there smoking while the boys did their stretching. OMFG...will the boys come over to smoke too?
Well to finish off this story, the team and I are doing well. there are 4 boys who speak English. 2 I use to translate when I have something immediate and important to the team, and the other two speak with me as best they can. I work with each kid individually in Spanish afterwards. We have had one friendly and two games so far. Unfortunately, Sebastian, has a bit of a temper and got red carded for drawing back to hit another player who fouled him hard. As an assistant coach I walked him to the dressing room and it's a good thing for me, he is one of the English speaking players. I guess being the only American in this place, I feel like I have a dark cloud over my head. I hear people whispering, "Hay, el Americano!". Now I know what Monica Lewinsky felt when she went out in public. Everyone thinking they know you, afraid to talk to you, but knowing your name or who they THINK you are. Let's face it people, I stick out like a sore thumb. I am Big Hoos 9000!. The point of this is that the boys have done all they can to make me feel welcome. They all greet me when they see me on the field. They greet me if they see me on the street. And they are excellent to Alex when Alex has practice (2 of the boys help with his team). So when I had a chance to help one of the boys, well that's what coaching and mentoring is all about. Sebastian and I had a conversation which led to him apologizing to me, Jesus (insert joke) and the whole team for letting us all down. It's hard to see a kid with such skill and disposition lose his adolescent mind in a flash. I can see Sebastian going far. The kid is immaculate at left forward.
Anyhow, I feel like, with this team I am hitting my stride and fitting right in. They accept me as one of their own even if there are some language-barriers. Still, this will work out just fine. But as soon as my comfort level was reached...Jesus gave me a new task: take a 4 hour class with the club on coaching...all in CATALAN!!!! Now, I have a national coaching license in America. Do you think that matters at all? How am I going to pass the test?
Wait...I'll have Jesus with me!

un poco mas (a little more)

October 5, 2007
Ok some smarty decided to comment on using spell check. If you knew me then you know I am too lazy to do so. So let's put up with my deficiency in details...shall we?
So more on the tales of Raphael. If you read before, he is the sensei of concrete work here in Tossa. Picture a drunken old man, stout, with an ill fitted baseball cap, drunkenly slurry his words and carrying the dust of 50 yards of dry cement in his clothes. That's my teacher.
Everything in this god forsaken town is made of concrete. Not steal or wood. Concrete! Wood is used for shutters and framing but not the structures. So Wednesday's job was a phase 2 of the remodeling of a bathroom. The walls covered in ceramic clay tiles are now bare and exposing an ugly grey concrete. Today we chiseled away the floor with a jack hammer to expose the bare structure of concrete held together by rebar. My job: make all the concrete.
So I head outside to make one of three different types of concrete requested by my concrete slave master. This time I am going for Portland. This is really no different that the other types we make but something was in the air and I was feeling confident I was going to get it right this time. This time I used the machine. Of course the machine was what looks like a one man auger (hole digger) and built for a man half my height. So none the less I was hunched over to get my mix-on. Just then, Raphael came outside and disapproved of my recipe. He said to me, "un poco mas arena (sand/dirt base mix)". I looked over at a bag of arena and added what I always though "un poco mas" would be...a little bit more", right? Without knowing what was exactly said by him next, I had the feeling I did not add enough. So I added a bit more....I heard him grumble under his breath as he snatched the bag of arena from me and dumped the whole bag in. Ok now I am confused. Un poco mas means a little bit more not the whole damn bag. I swear if I could read his mind, he wanted to smack me right there out of frustration.
So an hour later, he wanted more. This time I would not fail my sensei and achieve my brown belt of concrete mixing. I know I dumped a whole bag of area this time and came up with the grainiest of mixtures feasible. Raphael cam to check on my progress and without missing a beat he says, "un poco mas agua". I guess the still evident clumps of dry powder were a telling sign. So I grab a water bucket full to the brim and start pouring, remembering that un poco mas is a lot more than a teaspoon. Well I poured so much water, I had to go pee. That will show him! Well looking him in his eyes, I felt a cold chill. This time he wanted to pimp smack me!
When will I ever learn?

Ok it's been a while

October 2, 2007
So here what is going ...
Good news...well I guess it is good. I am working. I am working for my father in law in construction. Anyone who knows me, i am not an outside kind of work guy. I am so comfortable with my morning coffee and my monitor and keyboard, doing some kind of damage. Now I get up 7am, out the door by 8, onsite by 8:01(it's a small town). I am working with a man who is about 60 years old name Raphael. To my surprise, I understand 10% of what he says. Please let it be known that I am seriously overwhelmed here spending m whole day on various repair projects. I do not have Carme to rescue me...but despite my comfort zone, I am learning a lot.
It's only been two days but I am ready to quit. It's not that it's hard work. I do get a good work out. I have so far carried 1000X my body weight in debris and concrete. Yes, I am making concrete. I have never made anything solid before except my son and I needed assistance there. So I am learning how to mix concrete by sight. A little more of this and a little more of that...and then it all falls apart 10 years from now!
So my first job was to dig a trench for a drainage pipe for a new sink and toilet in what should be a changing room for their pool. Yummy! The trench was about 3 meters long thru concrete tile floors and 50 centimeters of deep (I just wanted to impress you with my metrics). My second job was to remove a rotted and termite infested door frame. Funny, the only wood in this god forsaken town is infested. Slim pickings around these parts. Everything is made of stone here. Stone and concrete and tiles made of clay (more on that later). So can you imagine the amount of work to be done? A lot of concrete to hold the door in place. The second day, we had three jobs. the first was to build a concrete retaining wall of sorts. Well I did not build it. Raphael did all the building and I did all the watching. Well I did all the concrete mixing and cleaning up. I feel like he is the wizard and I am the apprentice in the movie “Fantasia”. Then we moved onto another house.
This was a house owned by Germans who spoke really bad Spanish. Not that I speak it better but I could understand enough to know they were not conjugating some verbs. I won't bore you with the details, but I made a lot of concrete. The funny part of this story is the wife. Well the whole job she stayed in the house. Right when I was hauling all the debris around (the part I will put in BOLD in my resume), she came out and kept staring at me and smiling. It was noticeable to a point of uncomfortable ness. She just kept nodding and breathing hard. Sure I have had some stray thoughts that would run across some hot to trot bored housewife living the life on the coast of Spain. But this chick was old enough to be my granny. She said something to my father in law in German about "Americano" and just smiled and waved. she laughed and returned to her heavy breathing and staring. I am not sure if she was asthmatic and had cataracts or something. All I know is I am not in any way hoping to be some pool cleaning guy for some old lady.
My last jo of the day was a remodeling job for a bathroom. Every trip I made out to remove debris, I looked to my left and saw sail boats racing up and down the Mediterranean. Quickly reminded me of what I was looking in life. The job began with removing what seemed like a million clay ceramic tiles from the walls all held by cement. Who ever mixed that cement was a genius. With mallet and chisel in hand, Raphael and I went to work. After a stirring rendition of a medley of old Negro spirituals(thank goodness for Black History Month), Raphael politely told me to shut up and get back to work (part of the 10% of Spanish I do know). I think he got ticked off when I passed the fake microphone to him right after I did a split in a James Brown like fashion.
Still I take my sore, bloody (ceramic flies off in sharp edges people), bruised and numb mind to my home to sit and watch American TV (which I downloaded) so I can feel a bit at home. 3 more days and I can smile again. Now I truly work for the weekends.