La Diada de Sant Jordi

Today, April 23, is St. Jordi´s day in Catalonia. It is celebrated in the many autonomous regions of Spain like Valencia and Catalunya. Much like Valentine´s Day in America, this is a day to celebrate those whom you love with a gift. The typical and customary gift for a woman is a rose, for the men or boys, a book. Generally it started a long time ago in honor of Saint George, the patron saint of Aragon. this day is celebrated in many different countries, like England for example, but for different reasons.

In history, the holiday was just a matter of presenting a rose to your wife or girlfriend. but in recent years, since Barcelona is the publishing capital of Spain and to coincide with the death of notable authors William Shakespeare and Spanish novelist Miguel Cervantes, whom both died on this day 1616, the idea of giving books was adopted as a gift to the male of the relationship. This gift giving is not to be limited to a lover or spouse but is extended to children and to respected others.

My mother in law, Carmen, has a flower shop, so I know where i had to go to get my rose, even if I was sure she was not going to charge me. After some morning errands, i stopped by her shop and she made up 3 blue roses for me to give to the ladies of the office, Carme, Natalia and Kasia, along with the red rose i picked out for Carme. he streets were filled with men carrying roses that either came from their boyfriends (you know who is pitching and who is catching in that relationship) or were to be delivered at lunchtime to their waiting spouses, girlfriends, and/or mistresses. Luckily for them, one rose is more than enough and not a full dozen or two for some woman to proudly show off at her work place, smelling up the whole place. When I got to the office, the woen all adored me for my thoughtfulness, but I did not have the heart to tell them it was from my mother in law, not me! Still i reaped the benefits and got a kiss on both cheeks from them all, except for Carme of course. Maybe I will get a more private show of appreciation.

My sister in law had a gift waiting for me. She had bought me a book about my favorite soccer team in the world.Barcelona!!! It was written in Englich, Spanish and Catalan. It´s a fun way to compare and learn new words and practice my reading.

the magic reset button

If you play video games or have a computer, you would know about a reset button. It´s a magic button, with the power to restart the worst of situations, bring you back to a state of balance and harmony of a do-over. the beauty in this is that one rarely has the option, in real life, to start over when they are faced with a difficult situation when chosing the wrong path. This button adds magic and fantasy to one´s desires and aspirations as they explore deeper along paths unexplored.

Bbut i have found one such reset button which affects a small, yet important, part of my daily life and it rests on the buttocks of my son. you see, at the age of 6, his mission in life is to test and try my patience as a father, disciplinarian and unconditional lover of my son. he tries to push the limits of reality with me from not doing his minor chores each morning, to not picking up his socks from the floor, to anything else imaginable by a youngster. But with one swift and deliberate stroke to his rear side, magically, he is focused, reset and driven to accomplish the task laid before him as if we were resetting his very mindset. Mind you we do lose time but we gain focus which is immeasurable.

It´s almost uncanny how one swift swat can turn a raving and manic child into a sweet and compliant little man. It brings tears to my eyes. the sheer ease in using this magic button to rein in, of sorts, the tasmanian devil that has manifested itself within my child. you should try it!

Carme´s 21st bday

Like some, Carme is not one to age gracefully. not to say she is showing many of the normal signs of aging physically, but she will not go to the next age without kicking and screaming like a spoiled little brat. So for the 13th year in a row, she is exhibiting her inability to count or age past the year 21.

For her birthday, the whole family (Joaquin, Carmen, Johnnie, Natalia, Noelia, Carme, Alex and yours truly, packed in two cars and made a trip north to a horse farm. I would like to call it a dude ranch but since I didn´t see any "dudes" around, we will just call it a horse farm. The horse farm is nestled within the mountainous region situated more inland past Olot (where my Detroit born friend, Julie, lives with her hubby and new born child). The cool thing about driving on the backroads, and there are plenty of them, is you never get bored and never run out of beautiful terrain to gaze at. The good and bad part about the terrain is that everything is green. Bad in that, there are few fields of wild flowers or blooming trees in the spring that makes Virginia so beautiful this time of year. But it is good in the winter time when I am not subjected to the bare and sleeping trees along I-64.

We took our car and Natalia took hers and we flipped for who would ride with the kids or with her parents. I am not sure if we won or lost the bet when we decided to take the kids.

When we arrived at the farm, we were greeted by this mangy little dog. I named him Peter. I am not sure why but I have a talent for giving human names to animals and imitating what I think their voices were to sound like if this were a Disney movie. Peter just sat and watched us as we exited our cars and made our way to the horse drawn wagon. Peter then nodded as to say, "I´ll be here when you get back, punk" and despite being no bigger than one of my shoes, I felt a tension had started between us like I called his mother a bitch or something.

We saddled up and took off in our 2 horse powered covered wagon. Something just did not sit right with me when my mind wandered back to times of the Wild West, with my nerves on permanent standby as I expected Native Americans to come out and scalp the likes of all the pale faces in sight. I felt sorry for them as my Negro heritage and closely cropped hair were free passes from the tomahawk. Then my ears filled with words in Catalan and Spanish and it ruined my vision. Sigh.

Still since we were moving at the speed of nothing, I imagined how the early settlers must have been excited when paw rigged up four hours rather than two. Now we are cooking with heat! Still I was left with two horses, taking turns filling the air with smells of their rear while they walked and took care of what was left of breakfast. Good thing the width of the carriage was wide enough to keep the wheels from getting stuck in that horse made mud. Still at our slow pace, I got to take some beautiful pictures of the mountain range with its new fallen snow. Wait...it´s freaking April, it´s still snowing up here?

So we made it back to camp and I looked around for my new menace, Peter. He was nowhere to be found but then again, the little thing could have been jumping up and down behind another mound of freshly ground poop and I still would not be able to see him. Normally, you have to check under your shoes when you walk thru a land mine fiend such as these, but if you stepped in a pile (being if you were not already retarded to the point that you did not see, smell or feel it´s presence) you were going to be losing a shoe in it if not knee deep.

We made it to the hall to eat and sat down for a typical 2 hour lunch full of tasty plates and active kids. Why we have chairs for them will never understand. We let the kids roam thru the landscape of mud holes and horse droppings as we entertained ourselves with a widow view of Alex running thru the field like it was a slalom course in the Olympics.

Just then without warning, Peter approached the window, eyeballing me some kind of fierce. I was not sure if he had the ability to break the large window but I quickly acted like I did not see him. I swear I could feel his heated breath on my shoulder as he sat and watched me down my butifarra and navy beans. When I finished my meal, I slowly glanced over my shoulder to see if he was still there and he had left. Without incident. I felt safe again from Mighty Dog.

When stepped outside for some fresh air (just a saying because there was nothing fresh about the smells that filled my nostrils), the kids all begged for a chance to ride the donkeys and ponies. Again we dodged and leapt our way across fields of well fertilized grass to make our way to the fenced area. When we arrived, the donkeys were in no mood to deal with Noelia's smack of their ass. I was waiting for a swift kick in response to the impolite handling but it never came. Also the sky was threatening dark clouds so we had to work fast. 5 minutes into the ride, Alex’s donkey decided it was now or never and let go something fierce. I imagined a dump truck pulling up to haul off the remains of the morning hay. I could vividly hear the beeping of the large truck as it backed up to scoop up the droppings. Boy was I having fun. Then without warning, something fell from the sky and hit me in the back of my head. I had to fight to keep consciousness and my balance. No way was I to fall into a pile of depleted nourishment without a shower and a change of clothes. I struggled with the birds tweeting around my head. Then I realized what hit me...a dime size piece of hail!!!

As I ran to cover, leaving my child atop the beast of burden screaming and crying, I honed my ninja like skills with the hail falling and the mounds of almond joys to negotiate. Joaquin seemed to be making a sport of this as his new bionic knee replacement surgery was being put to full use. I would have made it back first but Joaquin cheated by hitting me with his walker.

Finally we had had enough of the pelting and decided to make it back to the cars and check for any windshield damage.

Happy birthday baby.

it just got harder...

For most of you, you may remember how enthusiastic I am for the sport of soccer. I was never much of a player, but mediocre players can make good coaches and I was passionate about teaching kids how to play. Part of my move to Spain was a chance and to accept the challenge of coaching in a country where from birth, soccer is a part of their existence!

Well it is both difficult and easy at the same time. The hard part is explaining what I want from my team during practices and games. It´s hard for me to explain exactly what I am trying to teach them but it´s easy at the same time since they are 5 steps ahead of kids I am accustomed to teaching. they are all physically and mentally fit to play. I dream of getting a few teams from America here to try their skills against the likes of the teams here in Spain.

In order to coach, one has to get a license to coach. Before I left America, I got my National D license (National "A" being the highest and fof those who coach for a living). Two weekends in the cold and wet soccer fields of Norfolk and I had hit my goal. But things just got harder here in Spain.

You see for the next 8 weeks, 3 days a week, I am enrolled, against my will, in coaching classes. I am not sure if this is mandatory or for a license of any sort, but it´s all in Spanish. Well truth be told, the material is in Spanish but the conversations in the class are in Catalan. in comparison, it´s like taking a class in some backwater Louisiana Creole classroom. for the most part I can pick it up but I am in no way able to conversate.

So far we are two weeks into this endeavor with a test coming up Monday. I am still goig forward with it. If i fail...I fail. but if you know me, I hate failing...

Unlikely competition....

This is a screamer here. Well part laughing and part ctying. the other Sunday, we had a game. Our ranks were pretty thin as Sergie went on a skiing trip, sebastian is recovering from knee surgery, Oscar had a motocross competition and I have no idea where Caletrio was. Luckily we had both keepers, David and Coris, as well as a player from Morocco, Naseem.

Naseem is the youger brother of Kader. I am not sure how it all works out but Naseem spends most of the year in Morocco attending school. I think Kader is out of school or either goes to a private school or works for his family. I only see Kader at practices or afterwards in the night riding his moped around the town. I never see him during the day or walking to school like I see most of my school age players during in the morning. Still stranger, Naseem started the season a little late, around when I started coaching, in September. It was not until later in the season when I found out that he wa sin fact Kader´s little brother. then naseem disappeared. At the time I did not know how to say it but I later found out that Naseem had returned to Morocco to finish school. Then around the Christmas, I started seeing Naseem aroufn town. I asked him about school and he talked a bit, with me understand every 3rd word, of course. Then he disappeared again for a few weeks. Here we are back in the Spring...and who do i see coming to practice: Naseem.

Naseem, for some reason has taken to me. He speaks to me in as much English as he knows and asks me questions all the time. I am not one who wonders why people are nice to me since I think I am a pretty interesting person to begin with. I have had a few of the younger kids take to me so it seemed all fine and dandy until around halftime. This was an away game despite being only two towns down, as usual we took a chartered bus and our usual driver drove us there. Our game was early in the morning and also the day we "leaped forward" to Daylight saving Time, and Carme was not losing an hor sleep. Her plan was to come to the game and pick me up from there and go have breakfast, mind you more like a brunch. When she arrived, Naseem went into overdrive. Since it was around 1130am and now halftime, I had enough time to get my brain working so I could speak Spanish and with ease, Naseem turned to me to tell me I had a very pretty wife.

Now my first reaction was embarrasment. I don´t care what culture you are in, no one is prepared to feild cat calls and comments from any one on the attractiveness of your spouse. I mean I don´t want to brag but my wife is pretty hot for a white girl.

the other boys choked on their water as they were waiting to see if first if I understood his rapid fire Spanish and then second to see how I would react. No one looked at me as they all tried to play it off like they were not paying attention in case I did knock his block off. But he is just this 16 year old kid, how could i be threatened or offended?

But the fun doesn´t stop there...After I told Carme over brunch, she blushed and turned rosy red. We laughed about it and made a few more comments and laughed all the way back to Tossa. As we drove down the main street of Tossa, i ran into a few of my players just making it back from the bus ride. Naseem was there and yelled out for me to stop. when he reached my window, he repeated again that my wife was very beatiful, but this time with my wife as a wtness. Of course she ate it up. she even joked about being old enough to be his mother but I think secretly it boosted her ego a bit. Despite my insistent adoration for her attributes and then some, it took a person with a frehly painted sign around his neck stating "almost done with puberty" to raise her stock within her own mind. sigh.

Now I have a string around her ankle in case her head gets too big and she floats away.

I am keeping my eyes on him and his pimples and crackling voice.